Page 5 of Faking the Heat

We both laugh, and for a few minutes everything seemed normal, right. That is, until the cat launched himself and his carrier off the bench for lack of attention.

Mandy scoops up the carrier and coos at the furball inside, whispering sweet words. I close my locker a litter harder than necessary and can’t figure out why.

We finish the tour of the station when we hit the end of the bay and double back. Jake, still on the bumper, calls after us. “Hey, Saint, you know we got a spare bunk up there if you two want to make it official!”

I don’t turn around and I don’t look at Mandy.

I punch out, lead Mandy out to the side lot, through the steel door with the keypad that never got updated after the last chief retired. Once we’re in the relative privacy of the lot, Mandy exhales. It’s the kind of sigh that says she’s spent all her available energy on not making things weird in front of strangers.

“You don’t have to babysit me,” she says, finally.

I look at her. Really look, for the first time since this morning. She’s holding it together, but barely. The edges are fraying, and her right hand is trembling just enough to vibrate against her pants.

I shrug. “I got nothing better to do. You’re the only person I know whose day was actually worse than mine, so…”

She snorts, genuine, and the tension cracks again for a second. “This is your worst day? What, did you run out of navy t-shirt s or something?”

I almost smile. “I still have three in my locker. I’ll survive.”

She sets the carrier down on the tailgate of my truck and leans back, letting the August heat hit her full in the face. The city beyond the lot is already shimmering, the kind of morning that promises a day you’ll want to survive in an air conditioned room.

“I’ll get you set up at my place,” I say. “It’s not fancy, but the shower works, and there’s a nice size bed in the guest room. I’ll grab some groceries later too. No new allergies right?”

She shakes her head. “Nope. But if you bring home tofu I will literally set it on fire.”

“Noted. Did you already call your parents? Or…?”

She grimaces. “I’ll text them when we get there. Less chance of getting guilt tripped into moving back home.”

This is the Mandy I know. The one who once faked laryngitis to get out of a family reunion. The one who, in college, learned how to cry on command just so she’d have an exit strategy at boring parties.

I almost tell her this, but the back door creaks open and Sam leans out the door and calls, “Aye, Captain Save, a, hoe, you forgot your keys!”

He tosses the keys to me and I catch them with my free hand. “Thanks, Slammy.” I wave before the door closes.

Mandy laughs, weak but real. “Do you always adopt strays, or is this just a special occasion?”

I glance at her, then at the firehouse, then back at her.

“Only the ones worth saving,” I say with a cheeky wink, and before she can process it, I scoop up the carrier, adjust my grip on the laptop and start walking to the trucks cab.

The sound of Bowie’s yowl ricochets off the inside of my truck cab like a warning siren tuned to the exact frequency of “I want to scratch your eyes out.” I wedge the carrier on the bench seat between Mandy and me, engine idling, A/C turned up just enough to counteract the August haze.

I drive one-handed, elbow on the window, doing my best impression of someone who has a plan.

I do not have a plan. What I have is a spacious converted warehouse with furniture rated for bachelor living and a fridge that contains, as of this morning, one carton of oat milk, half a lemon, and something in tupperware that is either chili or an archaeological experiment in botulism.

The block where my building sits has always been a contradiction, sandwiched between a Pilates studio and a motorcycle repair shop, graffitied, gentrified, never quite letting you forget you’re in a city built to burn itself down and start over. I guide the truck into my reserved spot, an actual, painted number on the curb, one of my proudest non-accomplishments, and kill the engine.

“We’re here,” I say. It’s stupid, but she stirs anyway, looking up at the windows five stories above, the ones that belong to me, as if she expected them to announce themselves with a fanfare and confetti.

Mandy tucks her laptop under one arm, grabs the carrier, and climbs out. She’s still wearing fuzzy socks despite the heat. I don’t know what ever possessed me to give her those stupid things in the dead end of summer, but my mind just equates fuzzy things with comfort, and that’s what I wanted to give her.

The elevator is out. Has been for three weeks, according to the paper sign taped across the doors, written in the polite, loopy script of the HOA president. I nod toward the stairs.

“Five flights okay?”

“Only if you don’t make small talk the whole way,” she deadpans.