Page 68 of Stuck With the Smokejumper

“You've gotten more use out of it than I have.”

“I'll treasure it.”

“Use it responsibly.”

“Obviously,” he says, in a tone that suggests the opposite is more likely.

Cleanup happens with people drifting off gradually, someone showering, someone disappearing to their room, the noise of the house slowly thinning out. Reid and I have an early start, so most people say their goodbyes now, a few quick hugs, a couple of good luck out there’s that don't need to be bigger than they are.

Eventually it's just Ivy and me. We end up outside, the porch quiet, the house settling into sleep behind us. The air's warm and dry, the way it's been for a few weeks now. Far off toward the ridgeline something flickers, silent.

“Dry lightning,” I say, mostly to myself.

Ivy follows my gaze. “Guess that explains some of it.”

We sit for a while without talking, her leaning into my side, my arm around her, watching the horizon flicker every few minutes. This is different from Elk Ridge, and we both know it. Last time, half my things stayed here. I had a return date, even if it was uncertain. Now, there's no predetermined day I'll walk back through the door.

“So what happens to us?” Ivy asks, quiet.

I don't hesitate. I've already answered this for myself, somewhere between the drive-in and tonight, even if I haven't said it yet.

“We try.”

She looks at me.

“I'm not pretending it'll be easy,” I say. “We'll text. Call when I've got service and the schedule allows it. See each other when we can. I don't know how often that'll be.”

“I don't know where I'll be in October,” she says. “You don't know where you'll be after fire season. That's a lot of not knowing.”

“I don't need to know where we'll be in October to know I don't want us to end.”

She goes still. “So, we try,” she says finally, like she's testing the words, deciding she likes them.

“We try.”

Relief moves through me. I hadn't realized how much I needed her to choose the same thing I have. We don't talk logistics past that. No discussion of ski patrol locations or thesis defenses or which state either of us might end up in six months from now. Tonight we only needed to answer one question, and we have.

The lightning keeps flickering out past the ridge, silent, distant, the same weather that's pulling me back to my smokejumper crew tomorrow. Ivy leans harder into my shoulder, and I hold her. For a while neither of us says anything at all.

“I'm going to miss you,” she says eventually.

“I'm going to miss you too.”

Another quiet stretch. Then: “Beck?”

I look at her. “What?”

She opens her mouth like she's about to say something, hesitates, and I watch whatever it was change into something else before it reaches her mouth.

“Come back safe,” she says.

I know better than to promise her that outright. Wildfire doesn't make guarantees, and I'm not going to pretend it does just to make tonight easier.

“That's the plan,” I say.

Then I kiss her. It's not desperate, but we don't know when we'll get to do this again, and something about that uncertainty makes neither of us inclined to end the kiss. Eventually we go back inside. The house is dark and quiet, everyone else in their rooms for the night.

We don’t head toward our rooms. Instead, Ivy follows me into the common room. We've got maybe seven hours before Reid and I need to be on the road, and neither of us wants to spend any of them apart, not tonight.