“So, that’s it? Will I ever see you again?”
“Of course,” she says, picking up a smooth stone and skipping it across the river. It bounces two times. “I’m only ever one DMV away.”
I stand up, heading towards her and repeating the gesture. My rock skips three times before it sinks.
“You know,” I say. “You surprised the hell out of me today.”
Her brows lift. “Because I nearly mooned half the neighborhood?”
A grin tugs at my mouth. “That, too. But I meant the hockey thing. Growing up with brothers, pushing yourself to keep up. That takes grit.”
Her scarlet lips curve, then falter. “Or stupidity. They always said I didn’t know when to quit. That I was stubborn enough to break myself just to prove a point.”
I shake my head, heat flickering low in my chest. “That’s not weakness. That’s strength. You kept standing. Even when it hurt.”
She studies me like she’s not sure if I mean it. Hell, half the time I’m not sure anyone believes me. But I do mean it. I see her. Every ounce of that stubborn fire.
“My crew thinks I’m a joke,” I admit, voice low. “Hollywood. Pretty boy. Like I’m playing at being a firefighter instead of earning it.” I glance at her, waiting for the flinch, the smirk, theI knew it.
But she doesn’t. She just nods, slow and deliberate. “Then I guess we’ve both been underestimated.”
The words hit like a clean shot of air after smoke. Recognition. Respect. More than that. Something steady and dangerous all at once.
Her hand brushes mine, light as a whisper. And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to prove a damn thing.
Until she turns back towards the river, sending her rock skittering four times across its surface.
“Damn, Sparky, I’m not sure if I can repeat that.” I try, but I only get two measly hops out of mine.
She chuckles, shrugging. “Growing up in this small town, I’ve had plenty of time to perfect the art. It’s all in the wrist.”
I question, “Who taught you this? Your parents?”
“My dad was out of the picture when I was pretty young. I don’t remember much about him. And my mom? She had to work two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us financially treading water. She didn’t have much time for me.”
“Who raised you, then?”
“Gran and Grandpa.”
“In other words, you learned young not to count on men, thanks to your dad, and to make your identity and your life work, thanks to your mom.”
She smiles sadly. “Maybe you should be a psychiatrist, not a firefighter.”
“But your grandpa was a good guy, right? Always there for you.” I feel like I’m grasping at straws now.
“Until he died last year. After that, Gran’s life and mine were upended. We have yet to settle back into a routine. On top of that, she’s starting to show the early signs of dementia.”
“How so?”
Catalina sighs heavily. “The biggest thing is she keeps forgetting Grandpa’s dead. It’s so hard some days. As much as they represented couple goals for me, I could never become that dependent on someone … To the point where I literally can’t live without them … Or remember when they’re gone. How scary.”
“It is scary, but I can’t think of anything more gratifying, either.”
She shrugs.
“Wasn’t the love and happiness you witnessed between your Grandma and Grandpa worth the risk? I mean, you wouldn’t technically be here without it.”
“Yes, but the thought of not being enough for myself. Of needing something only someone else can give.” She shivers.
