Page 73 of Befriending the Bear
“Some days, yeah,” I admitted. “Not the jump weights or the back pain, but the part where I felt like I mattered. Like my hands knew what to do and my body could follow.”
“We sure as fuck miss you,” Gordon, our swamper, said. “It’s not the same without you yelling at me to get my ass in gear.”
I grinned as I scratched my beard. “Well, you do need a lot of yelling at. Hope my replacement does it just as well.”
“Jesus fuck, that dude is something else,” Martinez said, rolling his eyes. “Pratt snores so loud that you can hear him over the roar of the fire. But the rookie, this kid named Devon, is even worse. I thought he was gonna get all of us killed.”
Chase barked a laugh, his whole upper body rocking with it. “Didn’t he fall asleep with his rain gear on backward that one night?”
“Yup,” Gordon chimed in from across the booth, swirling the ice in his whiskey glass. “We were halfway through mop-up before he realized he was wearing his pants as a jacket. I asked him why he had a drawstring around his neck—thought he’d invented some new safety gear.”
Martinez leaned in with a grin, rubbing the stubble on his chin. “But hey, kid can read fire like it’s a language. Remember the Crown Ridge burn? He called the wind shift ten minutes ahead of everyone else.”
“Sure,” Chase agreed, draining the last of his beer, “but then he immediately dropped his hose line and tried to use his gloves to dig a line by hand. Like we were on the fuckin’ Oregon Trail.”
They all laughed again, and I joined them, but something in my chest shifted. I recognized the cadence of these stories, the way legend and memory blurred, how the absurd always sat one chair over from the miraculous. But these stories didn’t have me in them. Not anymore.
“And that lightning strike…” Martinez shook his head, a little more serious now. “Early July, remember that? Hit just north of the Ponderosa line, started a new head while we were still chasing slop fire from the main front.”
Gordon whistled low. “That was a hell of a night. Lost two line-cutters to dehydration. Would’ve lost the whole southern flank if Pratt hadn’t gotten up on higher ground and called it in.”
“And you know what Chief Morrison said after?” Chase raised his eyebrows. “Said Pratt had learn to channel his ‘inner Fraser.’ Like, how would Fraser manage this clusterfuck of a situation?”
Everyone chuckled, and I smiled. But the truth was, I hadn’t been there. I hadn’t fought next to them on that ridge or smelled the ozone before the lightning struck. I didn’t feel the weight of that fire the way they did. I heard the story, like an outsider.
Martinez elbowed me gently. “You see what you left us with? We ended up nearly getting roasted.”
“Sounds like you’re training them well though,” I said, keeping my tone light.
“We try,” Gordon said, offering his glass in a halfhearted toast. “But it ain’t the same without you. Just sayin’.”
I’d known I was missed—Morrison had made that clear—but hearing it from the crew, in their easy, ribbing way, was something else entirely. Yet even letting those words sink in, something hit me.
They had moved on. Yes, they missed me, and that part was genuine. And I knew that if I was able to return, they’d welcome me back with open arms. But they were doing their job without me. I wasn’t irreplaceable…and that was a good thing because god knew I’d never be healed enough to return to active duty.
And I was okay with that.
This sharing of stories and knowing I’d been a part of something bigger, that I had mattered, was enough for me now. What I’d come to understand over the past two months was that I didn’t only want to matter when I was holding a fire rake or barking line instructions. I wanted to matter in the quiet too. In the making of tea and choosing a Christmas tree and the soft hush of pages turning beside me.
And as the night wound down and the table cleared, I listened to them share stories from the past summer season—blazes I hadn’t been part of, crews I didn’t know—and I didn’t feel left out. Not because I wasn’t a part of them anymore, but because they’d moved forward, and so had I.
I said my goodbyes just after ten, resisting Martinez’s attempt to wrangle me into yet another round.
“Tell that guy of yours”—he winked—“that next time he’s coming too.”
I didn’t bother hiding my smile. “I will.”
The drive back to our rental house passed in quiet snowfall. The roads were slick, but the flakes were soft and unhurried, catching in the headlights like fireflies. I pulled into the driveway, turned off the ignition, and sat there for a moment, staring at the light glowing from the front window.
Inside, Calloway was probably on the couch, feet tucked under a blanket, reading and pretending not to watch the clock. He’d told me to enjoy myself, said he didn’t need an invitation to that part of my life. But I’d seen the flicker of something in his eyes—a complicated mix of hope and caution. He had nothing to worry about.
I carefully got out of the car, but my foot still slipped from under me, my knee turning at an angle it didn’t want to go. I muttered a curse, barely catching myself before faceplanting. By the time I limped into the rental house, everything ached. My cane thudded against the threshold as I stepped inside.
Calloway proved how well he could read me now by immediately getting up. He crossed the space between us and pressed a warm hand to my cheek. “You okay?”
“Now I am.”
He smiled, brushing a kiss against my lips. “And now the truth, p-please?”
