Page 16 of Faking the Heat

Kayla is behind the counter, arms folded, piercings gleaming in the harsh white light as she glares at a macaron pyramid. Half the tables are occupied by laptop refugees or college students, but my usual table, the one by the window with the wobbly leg, is free. I slide into my seat and let my bag drop to the floor, waiting for Kayla to acknowledge me like a queen bestowing an audience on a particularly needy peasant.

She doesn’t make me wait long. She grabs a mug and sets the kettle to boil. No words. No menu. We’ve done this so many times the ritual is locked in, muscle memory and contempt in perfect sync.

I pull out my sketchbook and flip to a blank page, though I don’t draw. I just run the edge of my thumbnail along the spiral binding, round and round, until the sound drills a hole in my head.

“Drink this. You look like shit,” Kayla says, dropping a heavy ceramic mug onto the scarred wood of my table. She slides into the velvet armchair opposite me, her short black bob sharp against her pale skin. She's wearing a t-shirt that says Not Today, Satan and enough eyeliner to make a racoon jealous.

I glance up. “Is it the hair or is the permanent psychological damage that obvious?”

She shrugs, neither confirming nor denying. “Spill it, Amanda. And I don't mean the herbal tea.” She motions to the cup in front of me. “What is going on? You are extra twitchy today.”

“Nothing is going on. It's a logistics situation. I was homeless, he has a guest room. It's basically a municipal service, like the library or a public park. I'm just another resident in need of temporary housing.”

Kayla leans forward, her dark eyes narrowing. She has a way of looking at me that makes me feel like an unfinished sketch with all the messy construction lines still visible. She's my best friend, but she's also a human lie detector with a specific focus on my romantic failures.

“Right. A municipal service with broad shoulders and a hero complex. Try again. You haven't looked me in the eye once since you walked in, and you've been shredding that napkin since I sat down.”

I look down. The napkin is indeed a pile of white confetti, scattered across the table like snow. I can still see it…the way the water beaded on his skin, the line of the scar on his forearm that looked like a jagged silver river, the terrifyingly casual way that towel just... gave up. I can't stop thinking about the topography of him. The sheer, unyielding reality of a man built for rescue. My throat feels like it's been lined with sandpaper, and my heart starts that same frantic, rhythmic thumping against my ribs. I grab the mug in front of me with both hands and take a sip.

“I walked in on him,” I whisper, the admission feeling like a confession of a high-profile crime. “Yesterday morning. In his bedroom. He was... fresh from the shower and now my brain is permanently mis-wired.”

Kayla blinks. “Was he…?”

“Oh, yeah.” I do not hesitate. “Completely unsupervised. There was a towel situation. Gravity did what gravity does.” I wave my hand for emphasis before covering my face.

Kayla's eyebrows shoot toward her hairline. A slow, predatory grin spread across her face, the kind that usually precedes a very loud, very inappropriate comment. She leans in until I can smell the peppermint on her breath.

“Oh? And how was the view? On a scale of one to 'I need a cold shower and a priest,' where are we at? Give me the specifics, Mandy. I'm an artist. I need details. Lighting, muscle definition, the works.”

“Kayla, stop. It was an accident. I needed pants. I didn't have any pants, and I thought he was still at the gym, and it was just... a lot of Sterling. All at once. In high definition. It was like seeing a statue come to life, but with more water and less… marble.” I hide my face in my hands, my ears burning hot enough to steam. “I'm a walking disaster. I should have knocked. I've lived alone for three years; I've forgotten how to coexist with a person who has... anatomy. Real, functional, terrifyingly… athletic anatomy.”

Kayla lets out a cackle that is loud enough to make a girl at the next table jump and spill her chai. Several heads turn toward our corner, but Kayla doesn't care. She thrives on the disruption. She reaches across the table and swats my arm, her rings clicking against the wood. “Mands, he's a firefighter. They're basically made of granite and good intentions. Please tell me you at least got a good look at the architecture before you bolted. Give me something to work with here. Was there a six-pack? A four-pack? An entire case of beer?”

“It wasn't a case of beer,” I mumble into my palms, the image of his torso flashing behind my eyelids like a strobe light. “It was... efficient. Everything was very... structurally sound.” I can feel the heat creeping up my face.

“Structurally sound,” Kayla repeats, her voice dripping with dry amusement. “Only you would describe a naked man in terms of his load-bearing capabilities. You're hopeless. But you're also lying to yourself. You're not just rattled because you saw some peen. You're rattled because you liked it. Because for the first time in forever, you're looking at a man who isn't a project or a puzzle to be solved. He's just... there. And he's good at being there.”

I drop my hands, finally meeting her gaze. The humor in her eyes has softened into something sharper, something more observant. “It's not that. It's just... trauma-bonding. My apartment blew up, Kayla. I watched my life turn into ash and flame. My system is just misfiring because he's the person who gave me a place to sleep and llama socks. It's biology, a primitive response to safety, not... anything real. My brain is just searching for an anchor, and he happens to be the one standing there with the rope.”

“Is it?” Kayla asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. She traces the rim of her mug with a sharp, black-painted fingernail. “Or are you just so used to Derek's brand of manipulative 'love', that conditional, 'be-better' bullshit, that you don't know what to do with a man who treats you like you're actually worth the space you take up even when you're in mismatched pajamas? Sterling's been your friend for years, Mands. You've had six years to 'trauma-bond' with him over bad dates and work stress. But he's not just a friend right now. He's the guy who remembers what you wore to a gallery opening a year ago. He's the guy who buys you a green sweater because he thinks it matches your soul, not just your eyes. He's responding to you, Mandy. Not to the fire. To you.”

“I can't deal with this right now.” I reach for my laptop bag, hoping movement alone will end the conversation.

Kayla snorts.

“Nice try. Sit down.”

I hesitate.

“Amanda.”

I sigh dramatically and sink back into the chair.

She leans in, eyes sparkling. “So? Was it worth the trauma?”

I make a face. “You’re the worst.”

“Not an answer.”