Page 18 of Befriending the Bear
He sighed. “I did too much yesterday. Tried that path along the river you mentioned, but of course, I didn’t stop when I should have. A stubborn old fool, that’s what I am.” He set a mug in front of me along with the sugar bowl, then eased himself into the opposite chair with a barely suppressed grimace.
“I g-get it,” I said, stirring sugar into my tea. “Sometimes the r-reminders that we’ve ch-ch-changed are worse than the p-pain.”
He took a sip of tea. “I’ve been thinking about what you said. About finding who we are underneath the roles. Made me realize I’ve been so focused on no longer being a firefighter that I forgot to ask who else I might be.”
“And?”
“Still figuring it out. But talking with you helps.” He smiled. “Turns out I like telling stories. Never thought of myself as a storyteller before.”
“You’re g-good at it. You make people want to l-listen.”
“You make me want to tell them,” he said simply, and something warm unfurled in my chest.
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the only sound the tick of a clock somewhere in the house. This was dangerous territory, this easy domesticity, this sharing of space and quiet truth. But I couldn’t make myself leave.
“The photo. It was from m-my birthday p-p-party. Eight years ago. We looked so…” I couldn’t finish.
“Happy?”
“Unaware. L-like we had all the t-time in the w-world.”
“Maybe that’s the gift. That you didn’t know. That you got to live those moments fully instead of bracing for loss.”
I’d never thought of it that way. “D-do you have photos? From b-before?”
“Boxes of them. Can’t look at most of them yet. Too many ghosts in uniform.” He traced the rim of his mug with one finger. “Sometimes I think about throwing them out. Clean slate. But then I remember the good days too, and I can’t.”
“The g-good days matter. Even when they hurt to r-remember.”
“Speaking of good days…” Fraser shifted, reaching for the book I’d brought. “This was really thoughtful. Thank you.”
“I m-meant what I said. Your stories matter.”
“Maybe we could read it together. Compare notes on memoir writing. Seems like we’re both stuck on the same chapter.”
The idea of regular meetings, of having a reason to see him, was too tempting to resist. “I’d l-like that.”
His smile was worth every stutter. “Good. Fair warning, though, I’m a terrible student. Always asking too many questions.”
“I’m a l-librarian. Questions are my f-favorite.”
We moved to the living room as our tea cooled, conversation flowing more easily now. Fraser showed me the painting, done by a fellow firefighter who’d taken up art after retirement. I told him about Marcus’s failed attempts at painting, how he’d discovered he was better at appreciating art than creating it. He picked up the guitar at one point, playing a simple melody that he hummed along to, voice rough but pleasant.
I leaned back in my chair, the easy domesticity both a comfort and a threat. Marcus had been an extrovert, and he’d always brought excitement with him. I’d loved the laughter and loudness, but sometimes, I’d missed the silence and solitude.
As Fraser kept playing, his repertoire moving from John Denver to Leonard Cohen and Joni Mitchell, I got up and browsed his bookshelves. He had an eclectic collection, ranging from travel nonfiction to thrillers, literary fiction, and a handful of poetry books, including the Mary Oliver one he’d mentioned.
I pulled out Gary Snyder’sMountains and Rivers Without End. Considering the epic work was all about nature, I wasn’t surprised it spoke to Fraser. I opened a random page, and before I knew it, I was sitting on the floor, letting Fraser’s gentle music wash over me as I breathed in the peaceful rhythm of Snyder’s words.
When I finally looked up again, I had no idea how much time had passed, but considering dusk was falling, it had to be at least an hour. “I c-completely lost t-track of time,” I said. “S-s-sorry.”
But when I met Fraser’s eyes, he smiled. I’d been cataloging his smiles: the polite one he gave strangers, the amused one when he told stories, and this one, soft and pleased, like I’d given him something instead of the other way around.
“Nothing to apologize for. I love playing, and you love reading, so what better way to spend an hour than sharing that?”
“F-Fraser?” The question emerged before I could stop it. “Why are you being so p-patient with me?”
He tilted his head, considering. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
