She unfastens her seatbelt, slinging her backpack over her shoulder as she hops out of my pickup.
I follow but let her stay a pace ahead, trailing behind her down the walkway.
“Well.” I stop at the path where I have to go left, and she has to keep walking. “See you tomorrow?”
Lily turns to me with her stern nurse face. Scary, but also, weirdly, a turn-on. “Where are you going?”
I frown, confused. “To my apartment?”
I point to my door with my thumbs, in case she forgot where I live.
“You still need to change your bandage.” She pouts in that way I’m becoming obsessed with. “Especially after spending all day on a dirt trail.”
Oh. Right.
“I should shower first,” I suggest, gesturing down at my smudged clothes. Her face takes on this suffering expression, like the thought of me naked under a jet of water is troubling. Or maybe I’m projecting what I want her to feel. So I deflect. “Don’t want to ruin your work with my trail dust. Is it okay if I stop by your place later?”
“Yeah, sure, I’m gonna shower too, but don’t take too long or I’m going to pass out.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I salute with my good arm. “Thirty minutes?”
“Perfect.” She nods and turns.
Only when she disappears past the bend in her stairway, I move.
I let myself into my apartment, toss my keys onto the counter, and stand in the middle of my semi-empty living room.
I strip off my sweaty T-shirt and head straight for the shower. For a few seconds, I stand under the spray and let the scalding water work its magic, pounding the tension out of my neck and back. Normally I’d be nothing but satisfied. I’ve had an amazing time today hiking, laughing, eating tacos as the sun set over the ocean with a beautiful woman. It was perfect and so damn miserable. No way am I going to be okay being only Lily’s friend.
The wild thought of quitting my job crosses my mind. Me being a lieutenant at the same station where her husband served is a constant reminder of why she can’t let herself get close to me.
But being a firefighter has always been my dream. I’ve waited so long for the promotion to lieutenant and the challenge of doing my job in California, at one of the most dangerous stations in the country. And I finally got it. But that danger is also why Lily wants nothing romantic with me.
I turn the jet harder, hoping it’ll clear my head and dial down the static running through me. I scrub off the dust and sweat, but it doesn’t help wash the memory of Lily’s laugh, the shape of her mouth around a straw, or how she felt pressed against my side as we took that selfie.
With my eyes closed, all of it is branded behind my eyelids in 4K, Dolby surround sound, “please torture yourself some more, Josh” special edition.
I tell myself to think about something else, but nothing works. It’s all Lily, with no commercial breaks.
I give up fighting it and let myself sink into the heat and the want, chasing relief that I know won’t last past the steam fading from the mirror. I imagine her here with me. The fantasy is so vivid I can almost feel her breath against my neck, hear her whisper my name.
I groan in response, letting out all my frustration. The water pounds over me as I lean against the tiles, breathless and spent, wishing the heat could burn away everything I’m feeling. Shame creeps in. I’m fantasizing about a woman who wants to be only my friend, who’s been through hell and is rebuilding her life. I should walk away. I’m her worst nightmare. And instead, I’m about to double-dip in disaster.
I shut off the water and towel off. I’m still so keyed up I could run another ten miles. Or punch a wall. Or, more realistically, knock on Lily’s door and beg her to let me kiss her once, just to get it out of my system.
I avoid my gaze in the mirror. I don’t want to know what a guy who wants what he shouldn’t looks like. In my bedroom, I throw on a pair of gray sweatpants and a clean T-shirt, then run a hand through my damp hair, not bothering to style it. I’ve been twenty-five minutes already. I grab my phone and head out, ready for a fresh round of the most bittersweet suffering.
Lily answers on the first knock. She comes to her door in black leggings and an oversized sweatshirt, the hem hitting her mid-thigh. Her hair is loose on her shoulders, honey-blonde waves framing her face. I’ve never seen it down before. It’s longer than I thought, softer, curling at the tips. And it’s not helping my celibate cause one bit.
“Hey,” she greets me, a little breathless, and steps aside to let me in.
“Err… hey.” Someone lodged sandpaper down my throat.
Her living room is dim except for a side lamp and the TV paused on the start of a movie.
“Sit,” she instructs, pointing to the couch.
I sink into the cushions, doing my best to blank out the pictures of her past life, focusing instead on a stack of medical journals.
