Page 12 of Fools in Love

I watched as she moved her fingers across the screen before handing it back to me. “Start typing.”

April’s name was at the top of a new text message thread.

“I don’t see your fingers moving.” Sheila tsked at me before looking around the firehouse, like a snake searching for a field mouse. Her mouth twisted into a slight grin for only a split second before she slithered toward the fire truck and reached for the hose, unwinding it slowly.

“Darling,” her voice practically purred.

My captain popped his head out from around the corner. “Yeah, babe?”

“This works, doesn’t it?” she asked.

His eyes roved between the two of us, finally settling back on her. “It works.”

“Great.” Sheila held it between her hands. Her long, manicured nails looked ridiculous against the dirty, mangled material. “Are you texting her, or do I need to give you a bath?”

It was official; this lady was insane.

My fingers started moving of their own accord, firing off a text before I snapped a picture of Sheila and sent that next. April responded right away, and I held my phone in Sheila’s direction, so she could see.

“We’re talking, okay? Look, she responded.”

“Of course she did.” Sheila grinned before setting the hose down gently on the ground and pulling her phone out of her purse, reading something. “I don’t know how to put that back. Sorry.” She waved toward the floor.

“I got it,” I said because I knew that Captain would tell me to handle it the moment she left the premises.

“Such a sweet boy. Make sure you schedule that date. If the committee doesn’t hear from you by end of day tomorrow, I’ll be taking matters into my own hands.”

It was a subtle warning, but a warning nonetheless. I had no idea what it all meant, but I did know that I didn’t want Sheila McHenry taking anything of mine into her own hands.

With a nod toward Sheila, I finished texting April, letting her know that I’d call her later even though I wasn’t sure that I would. Most likely, I’d forget. Not on purpose, but life at the firehouse was two things—either rambunctious or kind of boring.

In order to make sure I didn’t unintentionally blow her off, I sent her one last text.

Me: Meet me at the firehouse after you get off work?

I expected her to respond and be agreeable, not question me. So, when she replied with one single word and three question marks—Why???—I found myself grinning despite my irritation.

Me: So we can plan this stupid date. Just come here. It will be easier.

April: Easier for who?

Me: Me.

April: Selfish.

Me: Not selfish. Just honest. Will it help if I say please?

April: It wouldn’t hurt.

Me: Please.

April:…

April:…

April:…

Whoever had invented those stupid dancing dots should be hurt. All they seemed to do was add more anxiety and stress to a situation, not ease it. I hated them. Knowing that someone was typing made my entire body tense up as I waited for whatever was about to be said in response. And when the dots disappeared and never returned, it was like sticking a knife in the side of my head.

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