Page 52 of The Fire Captain's Unexpected Baby
Levi watches him toddle around the picnic tables on the lawn. He giggles and smiles at everyone who looks down at him, the very picture of a well-adjusted, happy, healthy child.
The silence stretches between us like a piece of saltwater taffy.
Levi would always give me his undivided loyalty, especially after everything that happened after our father died. But he also has some loyalty to his new captain.
“He seems to be doing okay to me,” he offers after a while.
“Maybe because I did what no one else wanted to admit was the right thing.” Even as I say it, a tiny voice in the back of my mind nags me with the question:Was it the right thing?
“I’m just saying that it’s okay for you to be happy. Noah, too.” Levi stands from the picnic table to grab dessert. He places a warm, heavy hand on my shoulder as he stands. “You deserve it.”
Noah finds his way back to me, as if he knows that I’m ready to leave this shindig early.
Ordinarily, I would hang out for a little while and enjoy the company.
Ordinarily, Summer would be here, too. We would spend the night gossiping with the firefighters. We would spend tonight talking about Aaron. I have no doubts about that.
I miss my best friend, but she’ll be home soon enough.
Until then, Noah and I pack up our things. We pick up empty containers of the store-bought pasta salad I brought. I always put it in new Tupperware so that it looks like I made it from scratch.
We get into the car, buckle up, and drive home with only gentle music playing on the stereo. When we arrive, my heart leaps into my throat at the sight of a shadow on the porch.
I hope against all reason that it is Aaron.
Disappointment floods me when I realize it’s nothing more than the shadow of the rocking chair. What does it say about me that I’m still hoping for him to show up, to prove me wrong?
I choose not to think about it.
* * *
Aaron
I’ve devised a thousand plans to convince Paige that I am serious boyfriend material. Some are elaborate: late nights in the rain with a boombox and a song that I wrote just for her. Some are simple: showing up every day with her favorite flowers until she agrees to a date.
My instincts tell me that none of them is right.
This isn’t about proving that I could be someone new for her. I feel it deep in my gut that this is about whatever hang-up she has. The one that makes her remind me that this iscasualover and over again.
Even when it’s clear this is anything but.
I stand in the middle of the florist, holding a small bouquet of purple and blue wildflowers. The kind of flowers that grow wild in the field after the worst has happened. They grow out of scorched earth, fire, and pain.
Just like Paige.
“Would you like me to bundle those up for you?” the sweet old lady at the counter asks with a gummy smile. She’s already reaching for the bouquet when I turn and place it back in the cooler.
“No, I think I need more than flowers.” A sigh escapes me. It feels like it perpetually lives on my lips these days.
“You know, flowers are beautiful,” she muses. “I’m probably biased, but there’s nothing like a gift that speaks to you.”
I don’t say anything, but I don’t move either.
“But my husband never bought flowers when we had a fight, no siree. He knew that flowers had their own language, but he bought other things. Meaningful things.”
“What did he get you?” I ask, my curiosity growing. I turn toward her just in time to see a wistful smile spread slowly across her face.
“Depended on why we were fighting,” she laughs. “At first, it was the usual jewelry and nights out. But he got better the older we got. He once gave me a scrapbook of photos he took of us together.”
