Page 9 of Bonfire with Beckett
“This,” she counters, “is non-negotiable.”
So ten minutes later, I’m walking through the festival beside her.
The smell of cinnamon, woodsmoke, and fried dough fills the air. Booths line the sidewalks, strung with orange lights and garlands of paper leaves. Music floats from the square—fiddles, banjos, voices raised in a song everyone but me seems to know.
Kids dart past with caramel apples in hand, their parents chasing behind with harried laughter.
I should feel twitchy, out of place without my badge clipped to my belt and my eyes scanning for fire hazards. Instead, I feel… lighter.
Like maybe this night isn’t a risk so much as a reprieve.
Willa presses a frosty cup into my hand.”What’s this?”
“Sip. Smile. Repeat.”
I arch a brow. “Bossy.”
She beams, eyes sparkling under the string lights. “You like it.”
Maybe I do. I take a sip—cold, sweet, sharper than expected—and nearly groan. She catches the sound and grins like she’s won something.
“See?” she says. “Not all rules are bad. Rule number one of the festival: you have to let yourself like something.”
I huff out a laugh, surprised by how easily it comes. “What’s rule number two?”
“Don’t make fun of how long it takes me to get through the maze. It’s harder than it looks.”
“Noted.”
We wander past rows of booths, pausing to sample pumpkin fudge at a sweets stand. She smears chocolate on her knuckle, and before I think better of it, I catch her wrist and swipe it away with my thumb. Her breath hitches. My chest tightens.
She shakes it off fast, tugging me toward the game stalls. “I bet you were terrible at ring toss.”
“Wrong.” I pick up three rings, flick them smooth and controlled. All three land, dead center.
She gapes. “Show-off.”
“You started it.”
She tries, misses two, lands one, and squeals like she’s just taken first prize at the county fair. The sound hits me in the gut. I can’t stop myself from smiling. Big. Real. Unguarded. And I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that.
A group of kids swarm me then, wide-eyed. One boy tugs my sleeve. “Mr. Firefighter?”
Surprised to be recognized out of my uniform I nod and lower on my haunches. “You okay, son?”
He nods. “You showed us how to stop, drop, and roll last month. My sister still practices in the yard.”
“Is that so?” My ears heat under Willa’s appraising stare. “How about the rest of you?”
His friends join in, firing off questions about firetrucks, hoses, sirens. I answer what I can, cheeks burning hotter than any flame. When they finally scatter, sticky-handed and chattering, Willa steps close.
“You’re kind of a hero around here.”
I shake my head. “I’m just the guy who makes sure their marshmallows don’t ignite.”
“Uh-huh.” Her eyes twinkle, soft and mischievous all at once. “I like this side of you.”
Something in me loosens at that. She doesn’t say it like it’s a surprise or a joke. She says it like it’s a truth. And I realize I like this side of me too, when she’s looking at me like that.
