“Nope,” I agree.
“And I’d never ask unprofessional questions,” she goes on.
I laugh.
“Good,” I say.
“But you could do alotworse than a cute firefighter with a nice butt,” she finishes.
I blush, even though I’m still laughing.
“Thanks,” I say.“Turkeys?”
“Right,” she says.“This guy is really freaking out that all his turkeys are gonna thaw, and he wants to know if there will be freezing facilities if he gets evacuated...”
We sort out theguy with the turkey problem.I update the road closures.I keep all the other ranger stations abreast of what’s happening, and thenfinally, ninety minutes later, I get to leave work and head home.
I take the world’s fastest shower, because I haven’t bathed in three days, and then I frown at myself in the mirror.I feel like some kind of bedraggled rodent, because I’ve got circles under my eyes, my hair is wet, and I justlookstressed.
I’m worried about Hunter fighting a dangerous fire, but of course I’m worried about that.Ishouldbe worried about that.If I weren’t a little worried I’d be some kind of monster.
But beneath that, I can feel a familiar cold, raw sensation gnawing at me, and I hate it.It’s the tiny voice that whispershe likes doing things that take him away from you, the voice that whispershe’s only here until he figures out you’re not very exciting.
I try not to listen to it, but it won’tfuckingshut up.
Still, it used to be much, much louder.It used to shout at me when he was in the Marines, and thank God, it’s not nearly that loud now.I wish it would shut up entirely, but no matter how wrong I know it is, it won’t.
I take a deep breath, then point at myself in the mirror.
“Quit it,” I say to my reflection.Then I swipe on some mascara so I don’t look so tired, get dressed, and head next door.
After three daysin the woods eating granola bars, oatmeal, and freeze-dried spaghetti, I eat two servings of lasagna, chicken cacciatore, meatballs, and then have cannoli for dessert.It’s delicious, and all the guys are in high spirits, laughing and shouting and eating anincredibleamount of pasta.
After dinner, a bunch of us sit around the couches in the living room and bullshit for a while.Hunter puts his arm around me, and no one blinks an eye, so I lean against him a little and listen to the guys talk about which dive bars in the western states have the strongest, cheapest drinks.
“What was that place in Deadwood called?”one guy is saying.He’s slouched on a love seat, his feet on the coffee table.“Something saloon, probably.”
“The Scarlet Lady Saloon?”someone else suggests.
“Nah, that’s in Idaho.Outside Moscow, maybe?”
“Maybe it was just the Deadwood Saloon,” the first guy says.“I just remember I got tanked there off of Jack and Coke.That cute redhead bartender practically had to pull me back to that shitty motel that put us up.”
Silas, the guy I played baggo with last Saturday, laughs.
“She wasn’t that cute,” he says.
“She wasn’t that redheaded,” Hunter says.
The guy who was talking about the saloon just grins and shrugs.
“She did drag my sorry ass home,” he says.“That’s what counts, right?”
“Yeah, that’s true love,” Silas says, leaning back in an easy chair.
“For my money it’s the Wildcat’s Lair,” says Daniel, the only other guy whose name I can remember.They keep introducing themselves, and I keep forgetting.“In beautiful Elko, Nevada.”
At least three of the guys, Hunter included, just groan.
