I tell myself I need time to think. To figure out what to say.
Really, I’m terrified. Because talking about it makes it real.
Hours later, I’m back at the station working in the office—preparing a menu, timeline, and taking stock of dry goods needed for the grand opening. My desk is a disaster. Paperwork, mail, and various documents stack up. I second-guess my second job. The bakery is a side hustle. The rest of the guys are in on it, too, each with their own roles. But do I delegate? Captain Kendrick would remind me that a real leader identifies people’s strengths and helps develop them, so they can be the best in their role.
I think of Winnie and me eating burgers at my house. My minimalist space is like a sudden craving … or is it her I so desperately want? I organize the contents on the top of my desk as my thoughts zip around like rogue pinballs.
Once more, I think about her in my house and how she warmed up the place just by being in it.
How empty it felt after she left.
How I feel right now.
But I have work to do. Can’t get distracted. Can’t be drawn into something that will only fall apart. I pull out my phone and scroll through the photos I took at the bakery. Candid shots of the crew working, testing recipes, arguing over paint colors.
But my focus zeroes in on Winnie in the background with her long hair drifting down her back, the swell of her curves, and her beauty mark above her bright smile.
Huffing a breath, I get to my feet and dig into the boxes filled with photos. My mother is a professional photographer, so my parents had photos everywhere. I remember my mom’s favorite—her and Dad on their wedding day, both of them grinning like they couldn’t believe their luck.
They were so in love.
After he died, she put them all away. Said it hurt too much to look at them. I was twelve, but I understood that loving someone meant risking that kind of pain. I’ve built my entire life around avoiding it.
So what does it mean that I want to fill an entire wall with old photos of Huckleberry Hill over the years, including—especially—of our heroes in uniform? That I want to gaze at the ones containing Winnie?
A single word spills into my thoughts like water putting out a nasty fire.
Healing.
When I close my eyes, I see her face. Feel her in my arms. Hear her voice saying that being brave means running toward danger to save others.
Am I brave enough for this? For love?
The question sits like a granite boulder on my chest.
I check the time. After eight. Winnie usually works late, especially with all the Fireman’s Ball prep.
Maybe I should go talk to her. Figure this out like adults. The decision feels monumental and terrifying, but I’m a firefighter. I can do this.
I lock up the old firehouse, soon-to-be bakery and head down the street to the municipal complex.
The hallway is quiet, fluorescent lights humming. Through the glass walls, I can see into the Parks & Rec department.
Winnie’s office is dark.
Empty.
I stand there like an idiot, staring at her vacant desk with its explosion of sticky notes. The plant on the windowsill. The silly squirrel plushie.
She’s not here.
For the first time since I’ve known her, Winnie isn’t working late.
And while I should be glad she’s keeping normal hours, the fear of losing her consumes me.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to call her. It rings once. Twice.
Goes to voicemail.
