Page 15 of The Firefighter's Fate

Truth is, I haven’t been listening to Paisley because my head is still spinning from that meeting with Waylen, and what the hell he’s asking me to do. I’m still trying to process it, even with a mouthful of stir-fried soy sauce noodles.

And, in the processing, I have completely blanked whatever story one of my closest friends is saying.

“I’m sorry,” I apologize to her earnestly. “I’m really sorry. Won’t happen again. I’m back in the room, I swear. Please continue.”

“Want to talk about it?” Paisley asks. “Whatever it is that’s on your mind...”

“It’s stupid work stuff,” I reply. “There’s no point in annoying you about it. You say what you’re meaning to say, and I promise I’ll listen this time.”

Paisley waves it away casually.

“It was just about the date I went on last night,” she mutters.

“Then you’ve got to tell me,” I say, reaching for her hand. “I want to hear all about this date.”

I’ve known Paisley since college. She’s short, with black hair and perfectly smooth skin that I’m publicly jealous of. She works as a lawyer in some big firm opposite the Penmayne building, so we are lucky enough to have the opportunity of regular lunch meetups. She’s a trailblazing high achiever who will probably one day end up running the country or the United Nations, but she is still a girl who loves to gossip about the dates she goes on with what passes as the hopeless pool of single men in the city. I love our chats.

“Okay, so this guy is new,” she tells me, back to being excited about her story and no longer irritated at me for not listening. “First date and all that. You know how I like to over-prepare things, right?”

“Yeah,” I remark, “you prepare for your dates like it’s one of your court cases. And the poor guys are made to feel like cross-examined perps.”

“Well, last night was no different. I met him at the bar and, oh, Ember... he was better than I thought he would be. It was like he stepped off the front cover of a male model magazine. I just had to look at him and my panties dropped.”

“Very nice. Continue.”

“But, despite those looks, he was the most awkward guy I have ever met,” she says. “In my entire life. Ever.”

“Awkward?”

“Yep.”

“Good looking and awkward?”

“There’s always a catch...”

“What happened?” I ask.

Paisley looks around the restaurant as if this guy might be within embarrassing earshot before she launches into the second half of her tale.

“He got a glass of water and spilled it on his lap.”

I smile.

“I mean, that’s a bit awkward, sure, but shit happens. You can’t blame the guy...”

“No, Ember. He didn’t spill it once. Not even twice. He did it six times.”

My mouth hangs open.

“He spilled water on himself six times?” I ask. “All at once? Like bam, bam, bam?”

“No, over the course of the hour we were together,” Paisley replies. “Every five minutes or so. Like clockwork.”

“Was he really that clumsy?” I question, confounded.

Paisley shrugs.

“I don’t know. It was so confusing. Look, he was a little apologetic about it, but he acted like it was totally normal. Just splash... five minutes... splash...”

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