I'm very much aware of how much I hurt. Thank you. "I know."
"Where are you going?"
"To see a friend."
She gives me the look. I give her the smile. I kiss her cheek and walk out the door into the warm evening and my legs are sore and my body is wrecked and I'm walking toward Anthem because I told Teague I'd come back tonight and I meant it.
I'm bringing chicken.
Chapter Eighteen
Teague
She shows up at 9:30 with a Tupperware container and bruised knees.
"My mom's chicken," she says, setting the container on the bar. She slides onto her stool. Her stool. It became hers somewhere in the last three weeks and I stopped fighting it. "Moscow mule, please. I earned it."
"Long day?"
"Twenty-four-hour shift. My first. I crawled through a training room, held a charged hose, and now I'm exhausted but so damn happy." She puts her elbows on the bar and her chin in her hands and she looks like she hasn't slept in days, which she probably hasn't. "It was the best day of my life."
I make her drink. She opens the container. The smell fills the bar immediately, warm and rich, seasoned in a way that speaks to hours of attention and decades of practice. There's chicken, collard greens, rice, and a piece of cornbread wrapped in foil.
"Your mom sent all this?"
"My mom always makes enough for ten people. It's a Kimball thing. You cook for the people who might show up, not the people who are there." She pushes the container toward me. "Eat."
"I'm working."
"You have four customers and Seth is busing tables. Eat."
“Tell me more about your first day.” I grab a fork.
She tells me everything. The early arrival, Hayes and her newspaper, the drills, the tower climb, the hose work. She talks with her hands and her mule sloshes and her face does the thing where it broadcasts every emotion at full volume. She tells me about Torres eating cookies during the equipment quiz and Walsh’s dry humor and the nod Hayes gave her at the top of the tower.
“A nod,” I say.
“A nod. From Hayes. That’s equivalent to a standing ovation from anyone else.”
“You’re calibrating your emotional responses to firefighter body language.”
“I’m learning a new system.” She grins. “I learned punk in a week. I can learn Hayes.”
The bar closes at two. Seth leaves at midnight. The regulars filter out. By 1:45 it’s me and Zoe and the neon, and I pour myself a drink because the evening has been long and warm and I want something in my hands that isn’t a rag.
“What are you drinking?” she asks.
“Bourbon. Neat.”
“Can I try?”
I pour her a taste. She sips it and her whole face contracts.
“That tastes like a decision I’m not ready for.”
“Most bourbon does.” I take the glass back. “Go home, Zoe.”
“Come with me.”
