Page 56 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“Released a few hours early,” Beck says. “We left before they had a chance to change their minds.”

“He wanted to surprise you,” Reid adds.

“It worked,” I say, still holding onto Beck's hand, unable to let go of any part of him now that I've got him back.

“He wouldn't let me stop anywhere the whole drive,” Reid says, clearly delighted to have a story ready. “Scenic overlook. Roadside attraction. Didn't matter. No.”

“You wanted to sightsee,” Beck says.

“We were three hours early. What was the rush?”

I know what the rush was. There's no need for him to explain it out loud. I squeeze his hand a little tighter. He knew I'd still be working. That he wouldn't even see me when he arrived. He wanted to get here anyway, wanted to be waiting instead of driving when I got back to the house.

The crew's still talking about pizza in Timber Creek, the plan that was in motion before Reid and Beck showed up early. Tessa asks if Beck and Reid want to come.

Reid's already nodding.

Beck looks at me. I look at him.

We're staying.

Nobody's surprised. Tessa offers to bring pizza back for us, which solves dinner without either of us needing to think about it. Everyone piles into vehicles and heads out, the noise of engines and doors fading down the road until it's just us.

The house is quiet in a way it hasn't been in weeks. No crew filling every room, no constant background noise, just the two of us standing in a kitchen that suddenly feels enormous.

It isn't awkward. It's wonderful.

I grab us both something to drink, and we end up back on the porch, squeezed onto the porch swing that's really only built for one and a half people, but suits us fine. Tonight there's no storm. Just a warm, quiet July evening, the sky still holding onto light, crickets starting up somewhere in the grass.

“Tell me everything,” I say. “The parts that didn't fit into texts.”

He does. Slowly, easily, not like a briefing. Like a man who hasn't had anyone to really talk to in almost two weeks and isn't in any hurry to stop now that he does. How exhausted he got by the end of most days. Sleeping wherever they could, whenever the schedule allowed it. The grim humor of fire camp food. The sudden relocation, the moment he realized service was about to disappear.

“I sent you that warning with one bar left,” he says. “Didn't even get to watch it send before they called us to load up. I hated that you didn’t receive it.” He says it plainly, no drama attached. “Not because I thought you couldn't handle it. I know you can. But that didn’t make me feel any better about leaving you without a word.”

I tell him my side, honestly, the way I haven't quite let myself say it to anyone but Tessa. Working through it. Trying to enjoy myself at Silver Creek anyway. Checking my phone far more than logic ever justified.

“Knowing why someone probably isn't calling doesn't make you stop wanting them to call,” I say.

“No,” he agrees. “It doesn't.”

I tell him all about Silver Creek, Nolan's ridiculous food tour, the lefse, Cassidy's terrifying pie-eating dominance, the band butchering half its set list. I tell him I kept seeing things all day I wanted to show him, kept reaching for my phone before I even thought about it.

“I liked getting those messages,” he says. “It felt like getting a piece of what I was missing.”

“How about Sunday?” I ask. “You got hijacked by an entire kitchen.”

He laughs. “I did. Didn't mind though.” A pause, his voice dropping a little, losing some of the easy humor. He says the next part slower, like he's still working out how much of it he wants to admit. “I didn't realize how much I missed Sunday dinner until I could hear it happening without me.”

“The Grangers'?”

“All of it,” he says. “Annie. Russ. You. Everybody arguing about pie. The whole house.”

I don't say anything because I know what it means, coming from a man who's spent his whole life being good at leaving, good at not needing a permanent home. I don't assume it means more than it does, but I hear it.

Mabel appears sometime during all of this, hopping onto Beck's lap like she's been waiting for the opportunity. He strokes behind her ears without breaking the conversation, and within a few minutes she's asleep, a small warm weight across his legs.

“She missed you too,” I say.