Page 22 of Fight

“They don’t make ’em like me anymore,” he says with a cocky smile, then gestures to the prepackaged spread before us. “You wanna get in on this?”

I move from the jump seat across from him to the bench, keeping the snacks between us.

“Okay, ground rules. Everything is up for grabs, but”—he snatches up the bags of caramel corn—“these are mine.”

“You can have them.”

“You don’t like caramel corn?”

“I do, but I only know how to make it in huge batches. After a dozen helpings, I’m happy to share.”

He drops his head down, opening the bag. “Let’s see how you did.” He chews thoughtfully, savoring it, and smiles. “That’s heavenly.”

“Thanks. I’ll give you the recipe.”

“Yeah, but if you make it, it gives me an excuse to see you.”

A grin grows on my lips. “Why do you need an excuse?”

“I guess I don’t… Does this mean I get a second date?”

“Is this a first date?” I ask with raised brows.

“Obviously!” He scans our surroundings. “Can’t you tell by the half-empty Pringles can and the charming ambulance?”

I laugh. “Setting the bar pretty high for yourself. How will you ever top this?”

“I won’t,” he says, chuckling. “It’s all downhill from here. You’ll be looking at a future of riding go-karts and dinners with drinks. Maybe even stargazing. Poor thing.” He opens a bag of cheese balls, and a couple roll onto the floor.

“Normally, I’d say five-second rule, but I don’t even want to think of all the bodily fluids you have in a place like this. I don’t want to catch hepatitis or something.”

My hand presses to my chest. “I’m offended! My rig is totally sanitized and clean. This ambulance is spotless.”

Nudging his shoulder toward the stray cheese ball on the floor. “You eat it, then.” He cracks open a can of soda and takes a sip.

“Hell no. It’s still an ambulance.” Laughter comes easy with him, and I enjoy the effortless dynamic between us.

“Okay, see if you can catch one,” he says, setting his drink to the side.

I back up on the bench, and he lobs a cheese ball in the air, but I squint and miss. “Oh no!”

“Don’t close your eyes!” He laughs. “You’re wasting food.”

I lean forward and steal the bag from him. “It’s hard! Okay, your turn.” I toss one up, and he lines up his mouth with the trajectory of its fall, biting it out of the air.

He reaches for the bag, and I hand it over. “Okay, you got this, Scottie. Ready? This time, don’t close your eyes.”

In my second attempt, I successfully catch the flying cheese ball. My arms shoot up in victory, and I accidentally smash my knuckles on the overhead cabinet.

“Shit, are you okay?” He chuckles.

I nod, laughing harder, and tuck my throbbing hand to my chest. “Nailed it.”

We go back and forth catching orange projectiles with our mouths and making small talk. We share more than a physical attraction, with a playfulness and ease that feel so… familiar. Even though I’ve never experienced it until now.

“So, why are you a hotshot?”

He pauses, then clears his throat. “The adventure, the camaraderie, the work we do… It’s addicting. On the other hand, there’s isolation from real world skills that leave us somewhat trapped. Once you’re a wildland firefighter, you can’t simply walk away. It’s a love-hate relationship with fire. But what other job will pay you to fly into Yosemite National Park, cut hundred-year-old trees, and then light the place on fire?

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