Page 9 of When the Smoke Clears

Nothing.

I’m not a neat freak, but a certain level of tidiness among roommates is just common decency. A little dust on the bay window shades? No biggie. Is my living room slightly overpacked with old brown leather furniture and a repurposed tree trunk coffee table on casters? Perhaps. The beige carpet is old and worn. There’s a buck’s head on the wall. It’s clear that a man lives here. But it’s not squalor.

I pivot and head straight to the red she shed, knocking on the door.

Nothing.

I turn the knob, surprised to find it unlocked.

“No.” I cringe. “No. No. Hell no.” I stab my fingers into my hair while inspecting the inside of the shed. There’s a bed, but I can’t see it beneath the pile of bags overflowing with clothes. Tags strewn all over the navy-painted floor, along with shoes, some in and some out of their boxes. Stacks of books cover the dresser, and the plant that’s been on the windowsill for years has wilted. Who am I kidding? It’s dead.

Maren will be dead before long too.

Of course, when I try to call her, she doesn’t answer. Granted, she’s a tanker pilot, and it’s wildfire season, so I text her: Our friendship is over

Next, I try Jamie because I know Fitz is working fires too. Jamie doesn’t answer, but she gets a text from me as well.

Will: Never mind. If Fitz dies you’re on your own

Jamie: ???

Will: Pick up Your Phone

Jamie: Can’t I’m at an appointment

Will: My house is a fucking mess! So is the shed. And I can’t pull into my garage!!!

Jamie: Have you talked to your roommate

Will: I just got home. She’s not here

Jamie: Talk with her then we’ll talk

I frown at my phone, slam the shed door shut, and then take my bag to my room to unpack and shower. After an unsuccessful attempt at washing off the anger, I throw on a pair of jeans and a gray T-shirt. One beer doesn’t take the edge off, so I open another and clean the mess in the kitchen. Just as I’m putting away the last dish and considering a third beer, the back door opens.

A hazel-eyed gaze locks with mine; red lips part into a soft O.

“What are you doing?” I squint at Everleigh Reichart.

She swallows and slowly shrugs; her mouth pulls into a nervous smile. “I’m just . . . home from work. How’s your dad?”

It takes longer than it should to do the math because I don’t want to hate my asshole friends, but I do. I hate every single one of them.

“No.” I shake my head. “This isn’t going to work.” I march toward her and shove my feet into my black boots.

“What’s not going to work?” Everleigh jogs behind me to the shed, feet swooshing through the grass that needs to be mowed, the smell of barbecue in the air from the neighbor’s grill.

“If you were going to stay here, I’d tell you to lock this damn door.” I open said door. “But you’re leaving, so it doesn’t matter.” I collect the stray clothes and shoes and stuff them into whatever bags have extra room.

“I signed a lease and paid the first and last month’s rent. You can’t kick me out. You let my house burn down with Marie Curie.” She rips a bag from one of my hands and a shoe from the other.

I freeze and glance up at her. She sets the bag and shoe on the bed, then slides her hands into the back pockets of her high-waisted, plaid-gray dress pants. Her wide belt has a shiny silver buckle, and her black sleeveless blouse accentuates her toned arms and perky breasts.

Fuck!

No. I will never think about her toned arms or perky breasts again. Maybe my mom is right. I need a steady relationship. Sex with one person. Then I can think of that one person all the time, and noticing things like toned arms and perky breasts will be a distant memory.

“I’m sorry that I’m merely a mortal firefighter. I couldn’t save your house or your bird. But that’s life. You left your curling iron plugged in. I don’t owe you anything. It’s an insult to both of our intelligences to think for one second we can be roommates. I left California, running as fast as I could just to get away from you. And then I practically became a monk for the next three years as I waited for the fucking statute of limitations to run out. I waited for the call or knock on my door. Do you have any idea what that did to my psyche? You should. You’re a goddamn psychiatrist!”