Page 50 of Clean Out of Luck

We walk to the parking garage together, and she climbs into my car without hesitation.

“Are you going to be okay?” I ask her as I start up the car.

“As long as you don’t ruin my date,” she replies sweetly as she leans forward to turn the music on. She finds some early 2000s classics and starts singing loudly. “Remember my mom blasting this in the house on Saturdays when she would clean?”

I laugh at that. “I was always scared to come over on cleaning day because I knew she would make me dust something.”

Scarlett laughs and seems to focus on that rather than my driving. “I always loved getting to mop the kitchen.”

“Yeah, I remember how much water you used. It was practically pool depth,” I say as I turn onto the main street. “Where are we going?”

“Oh, we’re having dinner at Lucky Springs Brewery.”

“Please don’t tell me you were going to bike all the way over there,” I grind out.

She ignores me and leans forward to turn the music up.

I sigh. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you nervous with my driving.”

She snickers. “Well, this time, I was turning it up to ignore you so I wouldn’t have to answer.” She smiles impishly at me, and I have the urge to reach over and tousle her hair.

Lucky for me, I value my life enough not to mess up pre-date hair.

“Will you ever decide to drive again?” I ask her. It’s a big ask, especially since we’re driving down a busy road right now. I purposefully drive under the speed limit so she’ll feel safe.

Scarlett shrugs. “I’ve kept my license active. And I feel like I’m getting better. I’ve managed a few short drives. I’ve been talking with my therapist about it, and she thinks I’m getting to the point where I could try again without a problem. She’s got a lot more faith in me than I do in myself,” she says with a laugh.

She adjusts the volume down and turns to me. “How were you able to do it?”

“Do what?” I ask, not sure where she’s going with this.

“Be okay with fires?”

I swallow the lump in my throat. She’s talking about the fact that I’m a firefighter—and the reason I became one.

When I was eleven years old, our family home burned down. I will never forget waking up in the middle of the night in my upstairs bedroom, knowing something was wrong. It was that gut-feeling thing.

I got out of bed and woke my brother, and we wentdownstairs to wake our parents. The living room was on fire, but we were able to wake them up and get safely outside. The house was a total loss.

“You act like it didn’t bother you, even though I know it did. But you’re still able to be a firefighter. Why can’t I be like that? Maybe I should become a NASCAR driver,” she mutters to herself.

“You are different,” I say.

“Geez, thanks.”

“No, let me finish. Youaredifferent from most people. You take the time to understand things. And learn them. You’ll research everything there is to know about a bike helmet before you buy one.”

“I don’t know if this is making me sound?—”

I reach out and touch her lips with my index finger, silencing her protest. A rookie mistake—because she bites it.

“Ouch. Not the first time you’ve bit me.”

“Probably not the last.” She chuckles, and I risk a glance at her to see her twinkling eyes.

“What I was trying to say before you so rudely interrupted me,” I say as I hold my finger in the air, “is that you take time to understand things. Whether it’s things that excite you or things you’re afraid of—and your fear is justified. But something about you is that you take time to understand situations—and people. And that is exactly what makes you so special. You make everyone you know feel seen and understood. I don’t know how you do it. Because there is no one else I feel this comfortable with.”

As I say it, I realize it’s the truth. It’s what makes me feel so special with her. She seesme.

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