Page 91 of The Long Way Home
I grab my phone and lean against the bench. My fingers tap out a message without much thought.
Me:
You around tonight? Thinking burgers and beer after shift. Come out.
I set the phone down beside me and grab a towel from my locker. I wipe the back of my neck, dragging the cloth across the sweat-slick skin. The air back here is cooler than outside, but I still feel the heat clinging to me. Even after scrubbing my hands twice already, I swear I can still smell the smoke on my skin.
Connor grabs a towel and wipes off his neck, then adds, “Wes is in town, by the way. Staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Is he in town for a while or?” I ask, looking up.
“Yeah. He just wrapped up a contract in Seattle. I think he’s headed back here for good. I’ll shoot him a text. I probably should pull him out of the apartment and remind him what actual human interaction looks like.”
“You want me to tell Anderson he’s coming?”
“Works for me.”
Connor crosses to the sink, fills one of the plastic cups, and chugs it fast. He refills and drains it again.
“You think we’re done for the day?” he asks. His voice bounces off the tile walls.
I toss the towel into the laundry bin. “Hope so. That house had me cooked. One more like that and I’m not getting off the couch all weekend.”
He stretches his arms overhead and groans. “No complaints here.”
My phone buzzes on the bench.
I pick it up.
Anderson:
I’m in. Just say when and where.
Me:
Gritty’s. Seven. Wes and Connor are coming too. Bring your appetite.
Connor sees me typing and jerks his chin up. “He in?”
“Yeah. I told him we’ll meet him at seven.”
He nods, satisfied. “Cool. I’m hitting the showers. If we get called out again, I want to go in clean at least once today.”
I toss my gear into my locker and stretch out my arms, feeling the pull of tight muscles and the weight of the shift settle in my spine.
“Hot shower and cold beer. It’s the simple things, really,” I say.
Connor nods. “That’s church.”
I let out a low laugh as he grabs a towel and heads toward the back.
I open my locker again, pull out a clean t-shirt and my sneakers. Everything smells like the bay—sweat, smoke, engine oil—but it’s familiar. The smell typically stays in our clothes long after we’ve left. Some people hate it. I think I’d miss it if it ever went away.
When Connor’s out of sight, I let myself exhale and lean against the locker door, arms folded across my chest. My body’s tired but restless. This job takes a lot out of you, and I’m in desperate need of a guy’s night filled with wings, beer, and no women. And after the last few days, I could use that.
It has been a week since I saw her. Since she sat next to me in the dark, unraveling and brave, saying things I don’t think she has ever said out loud or let herself admit. A week since she drank my tea, slept in my bed, wore my clothes, and I haven’t been able to stop envisioning her.
I reach toward the top shelf of my locker, where I keep a worn-out baseball cap. I’ve brought this silly thing to every station I’ve worked at. It’s hers, or at least it used to be. She left it in my truck after that last summer we had together at the lake. I can still picture her in it, hair still wet from the water, laughing. I wish I could remember what she was laughing at, but I can’t. I told myself I’d return the hat, but I never did.
