Me:Yeah, just got in. Thank god for that
Fireboy:Need me to beat someone up for you?
Me:Yeah? Would you?
Fireboy:Absolutely. I got connections.
Fireboy:Name, location, description of offense.
Me:Guy named Dean. Tried to guess my bra size and called me a “spicy little grinch.”
Fireboy:He dies at dawn.
I laugh and curl deeper into the couch, legs tucked under me as I type.
Me:So what areyouup to? Still at work? Still in uniform?
Fireboy:Nah. Day shift, finished at 7pm. Hazel is glaring at me because I ran out of her fancy kibble.
Me:Hazel?
Fireboy:My cat. She only eats one brand I have to import from Australia. She likes jazz, hates joy, and I think she’s plotting my death.
Me:I respect a dramatic queen.
Fireboy:Don’t. She might get ideas
I grin into my blanket, warmth blooming in my chest. These chats with him—these little glimpses into part of who he is—are quickly becoming my favorite part of the day.
Me:Well, I don’t own a pet, but I do own a fluffy blanket that’s covered in cartoon cats.
Fireboy:God I love a woman with priorities.
Me:You jealous of my cats?
Fireboy:Getting to be wrapped around you right now? Maybe a little
Fireboy:Maybe a lot
It’s stupid, the way my heart thuds. But it’s been a long day, and I’m tired, and it’s easier to blame the cold or the quiet or the wine Ana made me drink.
Me:What would you do if you were here instead of the blanket, then?
I expect a filthy answer, but I don’t get one.
Fireboy:Talk, just like this. Sit on the couch with you and make you forget about shitty days.
I stare at the screen, my pulse slowly rising to my throat. And before I talk myself out of it, I type out the most real thing I’ve ever told him.
Me:You always make me forget the shitty days, Fireboy
He doesn’t answer right away, but just when I start to wonder if I said too much, my phone pings.
Fireboy:So do you, Red.
A smile spreads across my face before I can stop it, and I snuggle into my blanket and close my eyes.
It’s not real.
