Page 89 of Hot Shot

But Wilder? I know with certainty drawn from my marrow that he would never do that. I don’t think he could, even if for some reason he tried. It would betray everything he is.

The thought pushes the wheel around again, wondering when to tell him. Can I wait until tonight? When we’re home and alone after Remy’s birthday party at The Horseshoe?

It feels like an eternity, and I’vealready waitedan eternity.

The words are going to eat me up from the inside before I get there, I swear.

On this endless day, we’ve watched the boys compete in a variety of events. They completed several races—first to the top of the ladder truck’s extended ladder, then rolling up an unfurled hose. There was a tug-of-war game over a massive puddle that had some of the guys looking like mud wrestlers. Another had them competing to see who could connect the hoses fastest, and is called—wait for it…the hose lay.

At the moment, all five teams are pretending to be asleep at one end of the field. At the other end are stalls set up with their bunker gear and a big tank of water. And back at the starting line are five small houses with gutters and a stack of buckets. The goal—get your gear on and set up a line to pass buckets of water from the tank to the house, toss the water onto the roof, and fill the container collecting the runoff before the other teams.

We’re currently tied with Carterville, which means this one is for the whole enchilada.

Anticipation is thick in the air as the commissioner raises his starter pistol. Counts down. Fires.

And we explode into a sea of noise as twenty-five firefighters sprint across the field to their gear. I don’t exactly know what about it that’s so alluring, but watching them race to put on their equipment is so hot, maybe hotter than them taking it off. My eyes are on Wilder as his muscular legs disappear into the boots, then his pants, which he’s pulled up by the suspenders at an alarming speed. One corded arm slides into his jacket as he swings it around his back and punches the other through. The only skin I can see is his thick neck as he looks down to secure his coat. Then it’s gone too, lost in the shadow of his helmet.

I can’t even see the shape of his body beneath all the Kevlar—I can barely even see his face, for God’s sake—and somehow he’s never been more fuckable. Maybe it’s that he’s dressed toliterally run into a burning building. Maybe it’s that he’s so good at everything, an ace start to finish, and loves to prove that competence is perhaps the sluttiest thing a man can possess. Could be that he finished first and immediately jumped in to lead, taking charge without ego, just a desire to help.

Just like he always does.

He gives and gives of himself, wanting nothing more than to show the people he loves how much they mean to him. He puts everyone first, Cricket and I most of all. He would do anything for us, raze the earth, move the mountains.

There’s nothing in the world that could stop him.

As I watch him filling and passing buckets of water down the line, a feeling dawns on me slowly, spreading from the kernel of truth that lives in my heart. It’s a sudden rightness, a slow, aching certainty, a deep and overwhelmingyes, sighing through me like a prayer.

I love him.

It’s not as if I didn’t know—Jessa and Shelby even said as much last night. I don’t think I understood what they meant, not really. I’veneverdenied it, not once, but it was alwaysI loved him, so of course I love him.It was I love him in my memory but not now. It wasI’ll always love him.

But the truth is that right here and now, I am in love with Wilder. I always have been.

I always will be, come what may.

Thiswas what they meant, what they saw that I couldn’t.

I fucking love him, and I’m exhausted from fighting it. Even now, I’ve been fighting the urge to tell him since last night. Why? Why do I keep making it harder than it has to be, throwing obstacle after obstacle between us?

Thoughts break away like shale as I scramble through them.

I don’t deserve him.

The knowledge shocks me, its honesty painful. Has it all been some penance I’ve demanded of myself? Payment for mistakes made with Davis? Have I always felt like what happened with him was my fault?

Yes, I realize. I should have known. I should have seen it. I should have wanted more for myself, respected myself enough to see what was happening. I let myself be caged and cut off. So now I don’t get to have nice things.

But the truth of that thought is dubious at best, despite its honesty.

I might not feel like I deserve him, but he loves me anyway.

And I trust him more than I trust myself.

All he’s done is everything I’ve asked, just like always. For the past two weeks, he’s left me alone. At first, I was smug, waiting to catch him slipping. When he didn’t, I slid into a permanent pout. And lately, I’ve lived for the moments we had to pretend and despised the all the time he spent giving me the space I asked for.

He gave me time to miss him. And now here I am, in love.

Fuck waiting. I’ve waited long enough.

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