She reaches across the table. “Oh, God. Calder, I’m so sorry.”
“She and her parents died. I couldn’t get past the front door. I tried climbing a tree and jumping to the roof. I tried getting a ladder and breaking windows, but it was too late. We lived in old houses and thatwood is just like paper, it flashes and it’s too late before you even realize what’s happening.”
“So that’s why you became a hotshot?”
“That’s why I became a hotshot. My regrets run deep, and that’s my baggage.”
“That had to have been so hard.”
“I dedicate every fire I knock down to their memories. I remember something Fiona said…” I feel my throat get tight. “Love isn’t something you find, it’s something that finds you. It found me once, but it just hasn’t happened again. Now, that’s not saying I haven’t tried, but… no one ever felt right.”
She squeezes my hand. “You’ll know.”
I think I do.
“Let’s eat. Tell me more about your photography…”
Dinner is exactly what we need— hearty and warm.
She moans with every bite and it sounds like erotic music to my ears. I’ve never been jealous of food before, but I am now and I hope to make her as happy as the chili and cinnamonrolls do.
“My sister taught me how to make the cinnamon rolls.”
“She must be a great baker.”
I lift a forkful and slip it in between my lips. “She works at a bakery called Spice Spice Baby down in Valentine.”
“Valentine, Montana?”
I nod.
“Cool name for a place.” I continue, “And a bakery.”
“The town has a Valentine’s Day Heart-to-Heart Festival. I’d… I’d love to take you.”
She stares into her empty bowl like it’s some sort of crystal ball and when she raises her head, she bites her lip. “Calder, you’re amazing. I mean, really sweet, but I was just dumped this morning by a man who now I’m seeing in a different light. I’m not sure I can trust myself right now. I’m?—”
I grab her hand and squeeze. “No worries. I understand.”
And I do.
Love is fragile.
5
KENDRY
Eating at a rough-hewn table by the windows, Bear sprawled at our feet, we talked about everything except Derek and broken-down cars from that point on.
Calder told me about growing up in Big Sky, about how he’d left for college in Missoula but couldn’t stay away from the mountains. About the first time he’d fought a wildfire and knew, with absolute certainty, that was what he was meant to do.
I told him about my childhood in Portland, about how I fell in love with photography at fifteen when my dad gave me his old Nikon. About the teacher who encouraged me to pursue it professionally, and the series of practical decisions that led to coffee shop shifts instead of gallery shows.
“Why Seattle?” Calder asks, refilling my water glass.
“Derek got a job there, and I followed.” I say it matter-of-factly but can’t quite hide the bitterness. “Story of our relationship, honestly. He led. I followed. He decided when we’d move in together, when we’d get a dog, when he was done.”
“That’s not a partnership.”
