“Your dinner?” The woman pulled her helmet off. She wore her dark hair short, shaved on one side, and her glittering brown eyes scowled at him.
“It got away from me.” Heat crept up the back of his neck as he met her eyes.
“Can we see it?”
“What?”
She took a step forward. “Can we come inside to make sure everything is okay?”
Oh no. “Sure.”
Apart from his aunt and uncle, no one had been to his apartment yet. He hadn’t imagined welcoming guests this way, but now this firefighter, along with another one, followed him back through the door.
“It’s my dinner,” he said again. “This is a lot of fuss for an overcooked sweet potato. It’s really not necessary for you to come in, but—” He stopped so he could cough. His eyes stung, but he led them into the hazy space of his kitchen.
“Is it in the microwave?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. The internet said five-to-eight minutes. I poked holes in it—the recipe said I should do that, but maybe I didn’t—”
“Could you open the microwave?” She was giving him his personal space, but for something so simple, this lady was really determined.
“Oh, sure.” When he punched the button to open the door, smoke rolled out like too much dry ice in a high school production ofMacbeth, making Avery cough some more. As it dissipated, he saw the tiniest flicker of orange.
“Holy shit!” He reached into the microwave, only realizing at the last moment that grabbing an actual flaming sweet potato with his bare hand was probably a bad idea.
“Maybe you want to use a spoon?” the firefighter said.
“Right.” Avery reached for the plastic soup ladle his aunt had bought for him.
“A metal one. So it doesn’t melt.”
The smoke was still pretty dense, which was lucky; it hid Avery’s blush. He leapt for the cutlery drawer and pulled out the gravy scoop that he’d thought would be fun to own but didn’t think he’d actually ever use. Definitely not in the first week.
He dragged the remains of his sweet potato out of the microwave, letting it settle into the spoon. The smoking thing was—oh, man, he could barely tell what it was. Maybe a root vegetable once, but now it looked like the kind of thing his uncle had used to start barbecues. Briquets. That’s what he’d called them, right? Briquets.
The firefighter coughed. Avery realized he was holding the evidence of his incompetence right under her nose.
“Sorry.” He dropped the whole mess in the sink and turned on the water. The charcoal potato hissed and steamed.
The woman peered into the microwave, like there might be more inside to worry about. Satisfied the danger had passed, she scanned his kitchen. “I’d open some windows if I were you. And you might want to go sit outside for a bit, until this all clears out.”
“Thanks.” In dismay, he followed her line of sight, surveying his half-unpacked apartment.
The other firefighter, who had followed his colleague in but so far hadn’t said anything, was standing in the living room area, his back to them. He faced theWinterlandsposter Avery had framed last summer after his trip to Raleigh MegaCon. As if he knew Avery’s attention was on him, the firefighter turned. He jerked a thumb at the poster. “This is really cool.”
“Oh, thanks.”
“Do you play?”
Was it nerdy to say yes? Did it matter? “Yeah, I...It’s signed by Colton McCluskey.”
The firefighter’s eyes widened. “The game designer? That’s awesome.”
“Okay. We’re done here.” The female firefighter came to stand next to him, but her intent gaze was still on Avery. “Be more careful next time, all right?”
His budding enthusiasm for his second-favorite topic fizzled as quickly as the sweet potato in his sink. “Yeah. I will. Thanks for coming.”
Thanks for coming?Like he’d invited them over for dinner? Blackened sweet potato with a side of ash? If they weren’t still standing there, he’d pull the neck of his shirt up and bury his face inside it like a turtle.
