Page 9 of How To Not Need You

I cross the empty car park behind the fire station, weaving through faded white lines and cracks that have been patched so many times the surface looks like a bad jigsaw puzzle. The bay doors are closed, but the sound of early morning TV leaks from the break room. There’s a pair of boots outside the side entrance, dusted with sand and last week’s paint. I unlock the door with the code, shake the sleep from my arms, and step into the warmth.

The shift calendar’s on the whiteboard. My name is printed twice in the next forty-eight hours, thanks to a scheduling error that I’m eighty percent sure was Ben’s fault. Speak of the devil, he’s already in the common room, leaning in the doorway that connects the kitchen to the apparatus bay, one boot braced against the wall like he’s posing for a recruitment poster. He’s holding a mug that says “World’s Sexiest Firefighter” and scrolling his phone with the other hand.

“There he is,” Ben says, not looking up. “Thought you were gonna be late and make me do the run-through alone.”

“It’s nine-oh-two.” I say. “And I know for a fact you haven’t even touched the gear yet.”

He shrugs, a slow roll of shoulders that makes the navy t-shirt ride up his arms. “I like to start the day with disappointment and work my way up. It builds character.”

I open my locker, swap the jacket for the station hoodie, and grab my own mug from the shelf. The coffee here tastes like someone tried to brew it with actual burnt toast, but it’s better than nothing.

“How was the drop-off?” Ben asks, phone finally stowed in his pocket.

“Unremarkable. Tilly’s started beating me to the crossing, as though adult supervision is just ‘a suggestion.’”

He grins, showing the chip in his canine from last year’s Christmas party. Not that either of us can remember how it happened. The joy of fireball, and forgetting that after you hit a certain age, your hangovers last for days. “She’s growing up.”

“Apparently. Next week she’ll be taller than me.”

“She’ll still have better hair.”

“True.”

We both sip our coffee for a minute.

He breaks the silence first. “So. Hot bridesmaid.”

I groan. “We’re doing this?”

He gives me a look like I’ve offended him. “You sent me a text at midnight. I’m practically obligated to ask.”

I slide into the chair nearest the window, stretch my legs, and brace for it. “I said I met someone, not…”

Ben’s already scrolling his phone, triumphant. “Verbatim: ‘Met the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. Bridesmaid too because apparently my life’s a cliché. Didn’t make a complete idiot of myself though so that’s a win.’” He looks up, eyebrows arched. “You wanna walk that back, or…?”

“I didn’t write that.”

“You absolutely did. I can show you the time stamp.”

I close my eyes. “Delete it.”

“Never.”

I fish for a comeback, but he’s got me dead to rights. Instead, I focus on putting my pie into the kitchen fridge for my lunch break. “Drop it, man. She’s not interested.”

“Did she say that?”

“No,” I admit. “It’s just the feeling I have.”

He snorts. “You get one conversation with a woman who actually laughs at your jokes and you run away.”

“She didn’t laugh at my jokes. She laughed at Tilly’s.” I try not to look as self-conscious as I feel and pretend to fiddle with the temperature setting on the fridge. “It’s fine. I don’t have time for anything anyway.”

“That’s the biggest lie I’ve ever heard,” Ben says, pushing off the wall. “You make time for everything else.”

I ignore him and head for the apparatus bay, where the two engines and the rescue truck wait like bored horses at a starting gate. I move to the nearest compartment, unlatch it, and start checking the med kits. There’s comfort in this: everything has its place, nothing expects more from me than a count and a tick on a checklist.

Ben’s voice follows me, echoing off the concrete and cinderblock. “You gonna see her again?”