We showered.
Finn started to make dinner—ignoring the questions I tried to pepper him with.
Then his phone rang. A co-worker. Wanting to talk.
He gave methatlook. Not anI’m going to take this in private and could you waitlook. Nope, he delivered thehad fun, maybe again or never, there’s the door don’t let it hit your ass on the way outlook.
Never let it be said that I overstayed my welcome.
Still, as I drove home, I was a little miffed.He promised answers. Yet he wouldn’t even let me ask the questions. Is this payback? His way of putting us back on even ground? So…where does that leave us?
As I returned to downtown Mission City, I contemplated the answer to that question. I nabbed takeout from A&W, and I chewedvarious scenarios over in my mind. As I drove into the parking garage of my condo, I had the vague notion I’d been had.
I locked my car, checked my bike under the tarp, and headed toward the elevator. Finnegan O’Sullivan was making me crazy. Somehow I’d avoided him for almost three months and now I’d seen him multiple times in a week. That need—that lust—was still unsated. I would’ve happily stayed the night if it meant we could go at it repeatedly. I needed to get him out of my system. Whether I meant once and for all or just for the time being was a question I wasn’t willing to contemplate.
In my condo, I locked the door, tossed my keys on the counter, toed off my shoes, shucked my coat, and headed into the living room. I’d left the blinds open when I’d taken off this morning. Now, as dusk encroached, I spotted nothing but gray clouds hanging low. I couldn’t see the bridge to Abbotsford—let alone the Sumas mountains or Mount Baker in the distance. On sunny days, I had a clear view of the dormant volcano in Washington State. So different than the cityscape view from my condo in Vancouver.
I put my soda on the side table and plopped onto the couch. Ater glancing at the wall clock—and seeing six o’clock neared, I turned on the television and selected the national news. Then I dug into the aromatic bag of hot food and removed the onion rings.No worrying about onion breath tonight. Asshole.
Whether I was referring to myself or Finn was entirely up for debate. I could’ve done better three months ago, and he could’ve done better tonight. If he’d gone into his room to take the call—or asked me to make myself scarce—I totally would’ve respected his privacy. Hell, I could’ve cooked dinner while he talked to his coworker.
I stopped, an onion ring suspended in midair as a thought hit. What if Finn had set up that call ahead of time? What if he’d asked a coworker to call about the time we’d be getting ready for dinner and—
What? He could’ve asked me to leave at any moment. He must’ve known I’d never overstay my welcome. I might’ve argued, at least a bit, but I would’ve left.
That left the call being genuine. So what did that mean? I eyed my phone. I hadn’t gone back to the fire scene. Unlikely that Constable Seth was still there, but how much information I could’ve gotten at this point was debatable.
You could’ve tried to take pictures. Rainy, mucky pictures.
I wasn’t averse to tough weather. God knew, I’d endured some pretty shitty conditions to meet sources or to, on occasion, take photographs.
After a moment, I shoved the onion ring into my mouth.
The newscast began.
I couldn’t pay attention, though. My mind kept circling around to the fire. So I shoveled the mozza burger down with less grace than I would have if I’d had company, and then yanked out my laptop from my messenger bag. Within a moment, I was online.
First, the Mission City fire department.
No advisories or mentions of the fire. Not surprising—but worth checking
Next the Mission City detachment of the RCMP. Nothing.
Finally, I checked the town website. It rarely got updated, but—
Bingo.
Road-closure notice. Bridge Street was closed until further notice.
No cause given and no ETA for reopening.
I pulled up a map of the industrial part of Mission City, since I wasn’t overly familiar with it. Bridge Street was small and not an artery. So this would be an annoyance for the businesses on that street, but was unlikely to have a broader impact on the town.
What does this mean? Is the fire out? Tire fires last for a long time…right?
I hadn’t spotted smoke when I’d looked out the window when I came home, and I hadn’t smelled smoke when I’d pulled up to the drive-through. But I hadn’t been focused on those things. Just miffed at Finn and looking to appease my empty stomach after a bout of mind-blowing sex.
My phone rang.
