chapter eighteen
THE DUMBBELL HITS the rubber mat at my feet with a louder-than-intended thud. Patty, the chronic complainer, clasps her chest as if I’ve stolen her virtue. She’s perched on the bench nearby like a queen, dabbing her perfectly dry forehead with a royal-blue gym towel.
Scott treats me to a discreet eye roll, gently placing his own dumbbells next to mine. We’re cooling down with a few strength-training sets after a deadly Girl Power Anthem–themed spin class. Unsurprisingly, Scott was the only dude in the class. I assumed he’d be too macho for it, but with much pleasure, he basked in the not-so-subtle attention from ladies.
“You okay?” he asks. “You’re doing that thing with your jaw. The thing you do when you’re pissed.”
I make a point to soften my frosty expression, while refraining from grinding my teeth to stubs. “Yeah. People are dicks.”
“What’s going on?” He sits on the mat and pats the space beside him.
I sit next to him, blowing a stray hair out of my face. “I did a guest video on Mel’s Instagram Live feed yesterday. Some of the comments got a bit out of hand.”
“What do you mean by out of hand?”
I pull up the saved video. Our fingers brush ever so slightly as I hand my phone over, sending a tiny spark of electricity sizzling through me.
Scott doom-scrolls for a couple seconds, shaking his head before tossing the phone back into my lap. He stares into the void for half the Excalibur Fitness ad before meeting my gaze. His expression isn’t one of pity. It’s soft and sincere, as though he really cares. “Crystal, I’m so sorry you have to deal with this. You know these people—”
I raise my hand to stop him. “I know. It’s been this way ever since I started my account. Honestly, it’s fine.” I pause, realizing how that sounded. “I mean, it’s not fine, obviously. But I’ve learned to deal with it. I don’t care what asshole strangers from the bowels of the internet have to say about my body.”
He holds eye contact. “I know. And it’s amazing. But isn’t there a way to block them?”
I shrug, momentarily admiring the female bodybuilder’s impeccable biceps as she passes behind Scott. “Not really. I used to try, but it’s impossible to block so many accounts. Honestly, I’m more concerned for my followers than myself.” And it’s the truth. I know what I can handle. But I live in constant fear of my followers reading those hateful comments.
A vein flexes in his forearm as he reaches to touch his toes. “I know. You worry about everyone. I know you’re strong, but I guess I just . . . I can’t help but worry about you too. I know you say the comments don’t bother you, but they must get to you sometimes, don’t they?”
My lips press together, as if blocking the words that are so desperate to escape. Admitting that fact means I’m not living up to my body-positive message, and that’s a tough pill to swallow. “Sometimes, yeah.” The admission feels like a forty-five-pound plate has been lifted from my chest.
“Did I ever tell you about that asshole kid in middle school?”
“No.”
Scott gives the dumbbell a small, mindless push to the side. “I started at a new school halfway through sixth grade. I was late on the first day because my sister Kat had a meltdown before we left the house. Anyway, I showed up during gym class. They were doing basketball drills, shooting layups and stuff. I was up against this kid named Alex. He was massive for a twelve-year-old. Was basically the size of a teenager.” Scott’s eyes grow darker as he continues. “I scored before he did and he got pissed. Tossed the basketball at my face and broke my nose.”
“Jesus. What a psychopath.”
“Oh yeah. He bullied the shit out of me after that.”
I hang my head. “I’m so sorry. Why did he pick on you?”
“I was the new kid, I guess? Scrawny. An easy target. He terrorized me every recess. Held me down and made me eat sand. Basically used me as a punching bag.” Scott’s easy smile is replaced with a severe scowl as he focuses on a ripped spot on the mat.
I recall our sorbet date, when I discovered he wasn’t always the picture of confidence. It’s jarring and heartbreaking to imagine a devastated and humiliated adolescent Scott, compared to the (overly) confident man he is today. No one would dare challenge his cocksure, alpha presence now. While I’m amazed at the transformation, my gut twists. Kids can be serious assholes.
He lifts his ball cap and rakes a rough hand through his mane. “Anyway, sorry I’m so worked up about it. I guess I just know how you feel—” He backpedals, cringing. “I know it’s not the same thing . . . getting bullied by a jackass twelve-year-old compared to what you’re going through—”
“No, I get it. I appreciate you sharing that,” I cut in, taking in the residual pain in his eyes. I place a gentle hand on his forearm and his muscles flex under my touch.
“Do you ever feel like you’d be happier if you . . .” The words trail off when he realizes the weight of what he’s about to say. He looks away, as if he’s afraid of my reaction.
“Do I ever want to delete my account?” I finish for him.
He meets my gaze. “I’d never suggest that. I know how important it is to you. But I can’t imagine dealing with that day in and day out. It’s cyberbullying, Crys.”
I sit up straighter. “I’m fine.” My tone is harsher than I intend it to be, which doesn’t seem to bother him. “And I fully understand your concern. But I’m an adult, not a kid. I have off days, true. But I believe in my message. If that means I have to deal with assholes, I’ll take it if I can help one person feel better about themselves.”
He places his hand on my shoulder and I lean into it. Again, it doesn’t feel like pity. It’s support. It’s comfort. “Alright. Well, I’m always here for you. If you ever have an off day.”
Warmth blooms in my chest at his touch. For years, I haven’t relied on anyone but myself to feel confident and worthy. I’ve never needed a shoulder to cry on when the trolls unleash their fury, and I don’t intend on changing that. But just knowing he’s here to help lighten what’s been a solo burden for seven years makes all the difference.
• • •
I’M CREEPING OUTSIDE the Boston Fire Department, Engine 10, Tower 3 (whatever that means) with a stack of glass Tupperware in my arms.
It’s the last place I thought I’d end up after a fruitful gym session. I managed to shoot a full week’s worth of videos. When I woke up this morning, I had more vigor than the Energizer Bunny, partially because I slept for nine hours, but mostly because of Scott.
After our spin session yesterday, a delivery showed up at my door. It was a bouquet of lush pink, white, and purple tulips. The card read:
Crystal,
You’re beautiful.
—Scott
I melted like a snowball in hell after reading that card. It’s probably the kindest gesture I’ve ever received. The message was simple, but the words were just what I needed to hear to snap me out of my spiral of negativity. This was physical proof that I was truly special to him. That I really mattered.
So when Scott mentioned in passing he’d forgotten to pack dinner today, I felt the overwhelming urge to come to his rescue. I’d already made myself a lemon poppy seed summer kale salad and turkey wraps anyway, so I figured I’d bring him my extras, lest he starve to death.
There are four massive garage doors open, housing three bright-red fire trucks. I step into the engine bay tepidly, entirely out of my element. It smells like a mechanic’s shop, ripe with oil, gasoline, and testosterone.
The last time I was at a fire station was for my second-grade field trip. One of my classmates, a girl named Alyssa, who galloped around the yard at recess under the delusion she was a horse, threw up her pizza Lunchable in the fire truck. According to Facebook, she’s married with two children now, living in a picturesque ranch bungalow.
As I let that thought soak in, I spot a tall, muscular guy with neatly trimmed dark hair and a full sleeve of tattoos adorning his right arm. He’s fiddling with some sort of contraption on the side of the truck. He flashes me a smoldering smile as I approach.
“Are you lost, ma’am?” He exudes a very overt brand of charm that’s probably an instant panty dropper for most women with the gift of sight.
My cheeks burn. I’m highly regretting my decision to show up without notice in the first place. I should have texted Scott first. But now that I’ve been spotted, it’s too late to turn back. “Uh, I’m looking for Scott Ritchie.”
He raises his brow with interest as he gives me a not-so-subtle once-over. “Scotty? He’s upstairs in the lounge.” I’m about to tell him I have no idea where the lounge is when he extends his hand. “I’m Trevor.”
“Crystal,” I say with a polite handshake as the name settles in recognition. Trevor is Scott’s roommate and godfather to Albus. We haven’t met yet, because every time I go to Scott’s, Trevor is either at work or with a lady friend. According to Scott, Trevor is a perpetual bachelor. In fact, he affectionately referred to him as a “cynical womanizer because daddy issues,” which strangely encapsulates the vibes I’m getting.
Trevor gives me an amused, cocky smile, as if he already knows who I am. I wonder how much Scott told him about me. Then again, how much would a guy tell his friend about a girl he’s cock-blocked from?
“Scott’s roommate,” I confirm.
“Sure am. I’m guessing Scotty’s told you all good things?” He casually leans against the side of the fire truck, arms crossed, tattooed biceps prominent, apparently in zero rush to usher me to Scott.
But before I can respond, a brawny, bald man with deep-set brown eyes comes barreling around the truck. “Word of advice, don’t look this guy directly in the eye. Most women don’t bounce back.”
I snort as Trevor punches him in the arm. “Duly noted.”
“Did you say you’re looking for Scotty?” the man asks.
I flash him an awkward smile and nod. He waves for me to follow him through a small door off to the side and up a narrow cement staircase. Trevor follows close behind.
“I’m Kevin. You Scotty’s girlfriend or something?” He glances at the Tupperware in my arms.
I snort again. “No. I’m a girl who happens to be his friend. My name’s Crystal.”
Kevin gives me a sly smile, obviously unconvinced. We pass through a minimalist boardroom adorned with photos commemorating firemen I assume have passed while on duty. Upon seeing these photos, it dawns on me just how serious Scott’s job is. Every day, he rushes headfirst into all kinds of dangerous scenarios. Being a fitness trainer, my biggest worry is dropping a weight on my toe or pulling a muscle. Comparatively, Scott could lose his life at any time. He’s a hero. And yet, you’d never know it to talk to him, because he never brags about it.
Kevin leads me a couple steps down the hallway into an open area with a flat-screen television and a monstrous suede sectional sofa, sizable enough to seat at least twelve. Scott is lying on the couch, arms crossed, ball cap over his eyes. By the slow way his chest rises and falls, he appears to be sleeping.
Trevor gives me a funny look, as if to say, Wait for it. He grabs a random tennis ball from the table and launches it straight into Scott’s hard stomach.
Scott bolts upright, brows furrowed, disoriented, as Trevor, Kevin, and I snort with laughter. “What the fuck, man?”
“You have a very special visitor,” Trevor tells him, watching the tennis ball bounce onto the floor.
Scott leans forward, squinting at me as if I’m a mirage. “Crys?”
I give him an embarrassing jazz-hands wave, like that of a dad trying to be hip in front of his tween daughter and her friends. I make a mental note to never do it again as long as I live. “Looks like you’re working hard. Or hardly working, I should say.” I cringe. My uncool dad vibes are out of control right now.
Scott stands, rounding the couch toward me. “I just got back from a stressful call an hour ago, smart-ass.”
I avert my gaze from his gorgeous eyes to the Tupperware in my hands. “Brought you some dinner. So you don’t starve.”
“Seriously?”
I nod, handing the glassware to him. “Kale salad and turkey wraps.”
His lips curl upward as he steps forward to pull me into a one-armed hug. “You’re amazing. Thank you.”
An involuntary shiver ripples down my spine from the tingle of his voice in my ear. “It’s no trouble. I had extras.” I glance at Trevor and Kevin, who are shoulder to shoulder, observing our exchange in amusement. “Anyway, I better get going. Tara and I are supposed to have Mel over tonight for a movie.” I really should turn to leave, but I don’t. I rock backward on the balls of my feet, loitering, because I want to soak up his magnetic presence for a little while longer.
Scott hesitantly chews his bottom lip. “Hey, let me give you the grand tour.”
“You don’t have to. You look like you were pretty busy there,” I tease.
He bumps my shoulder. “Hush. I’ll even let you sit in the fire truck.”
Kevin whistles. “Only special ladies get to go in the fire truck.”
Scott’s cheeks flush. “It’s true.”
I hold back a massive grin. “Okay, sold.”
Scott leads me through the building, introducing me to everyone who walks by. All the guys are easygoing, friendly, and highly interested in my presence. One of them asks me if I liked the flowers yesterday, which warms my heart, because now I know Scott talked about me at work.
After we razz Scott about his love for the Blackhawks, he shows me where they store their gear and tools. He even lets me hold his fire jacket and pants, which must weigh a good fifty pounds.
“How long do you have to put on all your gear?” I ask.
“About thirty seconds, ideally.” He smiles when he sets his helmet onto my head. “You look cute in that.”
My cheeks burn instantly as the helmet falls forward, shielding my eyes. “Don’t call me cute.”
“Sorry, I just speak the truth.” He lifts the helmet back off with a cheeky smile and nods toward yet another narrow doorway.
When we return to the garage area, he gestures at a gleaming fire truck. “Ever been in one of these?”
I inch closer. “When I was eight.”
He points to the handlebars on either side of the metal stairs leading to the entrance. “Hold on to the handles as you go up.”
“You have to promise not to stare at my ass,” I say, one foot on the first stair, fully aware he’s staring. I’m thankful I’m wearing my best leggings, which accentuate my booty.
“I promise nothing.” He methodically makes a point of absorbing my backside from every angle.
I hoist myself into the truck, which doesn’t actually feel that spacious inside given all the screens and gear. I immediately go for the driver’s seat.
“Which is the button for the sirens?” I ask, pointing at the console.
“Don’t touch anything.” He swats my hand away playfully before I have the chance to wreak havoc.
He settles into the passenger seat, my Tupperware in his lap. I hand him a fork from my purse and silently watch in anticipation as he takes his first bite, like a contestant nervously awaiting judgment from a celebrity chef on the Food Network.
“Thanks, Crys. This is really good.”
“Glad you like it.”
He catches my gaze and holds it. “I love it.”
The moment those words come out of his mouth, goose bumps erupt everywhere, most noticeably on my arms. My throat instantly dries. It’s as if he’s told me he loves me, even though he merely loves my salad. I clear my throat, straightening my spine, desperate to change the topic. “So aside from sleeping, what do you guys do when you’re in between calls?”
“Chores, usually. Lots of cleaning, making sure all the gear is good to go. We do training too. Oh, and meetings. But sometimes it’s slow, so we just shoot the shit or watch TV, depending on who’s supervising.”
“And you love it?”
“Yeah. Love the action. Every call gets my adrenaline going. I mean, we get a lot of bullshit calls, but we treat each one the same. You never really know what you’re gonna get when you show up.” Seeing his face light up when he talks about his job is beyond attractive. “And it makes me feel close to my grandpa. Gives us something to bond over.”
“You must really look up to Martin, following in his footsteps,” I say, mesmerized by his passion.
“Yeah. We’ve always been pretty close.” His voice breaks slightly. “Especially after my dad and my grandma Sheila passed in the same year. About ten years ago. Makes you want to cherish the people you have in your life when stuff like that happens.”
My stomach turns to rocks at the revelation. “In the same year? I’m sorry, Scott. That’s awful.”
“My dad had a random heart attack. My grandma passed a few months later. Her health kind of deteriorated after my dad died.”
“Your dad must have been really young.”
“Yeah. No one saw it coming. He was really active. Always out running and biking. Trying to set new personal bests.” He pauses and takes another bite.
“Sounds like someone else I know,” I say affectionately.
His ashen expression revives itself, as though he doesn’t want to dwell. “Anyway, enough about that. You’ll like this story . . .”
As Scott downs the salad, he describes a medical call from a man who is a frequent caller. He wears a literal tinfoil hat and calls 911 at least three times a week, claiming a foreign government is leaving coded messages in the form of burning paper bags on his doorstep.
I giggle as he promptly moves on to the turkey wrap. He groans loudly on his first bite, sending a course of heat throughout my body. I shift, resettling in my seat, trying to think of literally anything else, like the stray piece of lint on my leggings.
“This is my new favorite food,” he declares.
“What was your favorite food before?”
“Ribs. Yours?”
“Clementines.”
His eyes widen in elation. “Those tiny Christmas oranges? They’re like crack.”
“Right? No one else appreciates them.”
“I like them. As long as there’s none of that white stringy stuff.”
I roll my eyes. “The pith? You have the eating habits of a small child, Scotty.”
He grins and takes another bite. “I have a sophisticated palate, thank you very much. And this shit is amazing.” When he smiles, I’m immediately reminded of how different our relationship is now, compared to a month ago. We still banter constantly, but there’s a tenderness in his eyes now when he looks at me. Like he truly cares.
“I have a serious question for you,” I say hesitantly after a few moments of silence. “And you’re not allowed to lie.”
“Okay.” He seems unbothered by my tone.
“Did you hate my guts at the gym when we first met?”
“No.” He shakes his head, as if offended I’d even ask. “I don’t hate anyone. And I definitely didn’t hate you.”
“You didn’t have much of an issue stealing that squat rack from me. I even called you Squat Rack Thief until the engagement dinner.”
He bursts out laughing, his deep chuckle sending vibrations throughout my body. “Honestly, I was so stunned you were even talking to me that I didn’t really know what to do. I kind of just froze up. And I was actually gonna be late for work. Guess I came off like an asshole, huh?”
I set my head back on the headrest. “I mean, it was a quintessential asshole move. I was so pissed at you.”
He grins, like it’s a personal achievement to grind my gears. “Oh, I’m aware. I still remember the look you gave me. Pretty sure you could have frozen an entire country.”
“What about when I was putting Mel through sled pushes? Did you purposely steal our floor space?”
He swallows his bite. “Sure did.”
“Why?”
He waits a couple seconds, tightening his lips before speaking. “Because I thought you were cool. I wanted an excuse to talk to you. I didn’t know how else to do it.”
I’m momentarily stunned at how severely I misjudged him. “You didn’t want to come up to me and strike up a conversation? You know, like a normal, mature human?”
“I told you, I have a history of being socially awkward. I don’t approach women on the regular without a pretext.”
“I think people see you a lot differently than you think.”
His gaze lingers on my face. “I think the same about you.” He pauses. “Wanna know the first thing I noticed about you?”
“Please don’t say my eyes.” I shyly cover them with my hands. My entire life, my eyes have been a hot topic. People have always fetishized my “light” eyes, which makes me uncomfortable.
He reaches forward, his fingers circling my wrists, gently pulling them down to my lap. “No. Not your eyes, even though they’re beautiful. They were second . . . or maybe third after your ass in those leggings.” He smirks, watching my face with an expectant grin.
I should be pulling away, but we’re both leaning closer. The air has changed around us. I’m hypersensitive to everything. The one wayward hair falling into my eye. The softness of my shirt against my skin. The feel of the seat below my thighs, which are tingling with heat. “Then what did you notice first?”
“Your beauty mark, right here.” His finger brushes the little dot right below my left eye, close to my nose.
We’re practically knee to knee. I don’t know if it’s just me, but the space around us shrinks with each passing second.
He lets his hand fall over my knee, giving it a light squeeze, sending a trickle of electricity to the forgotten places in my body. Our faces are close enough that I can feel his warm breath against my cheek. If I closed those last few inches, I could kiss him. His gaze flickers to my lips. I catch myself leaning in slightly, until our foreheads connect. We stay like this for a few long breaths as I listen to the steady drum of my heart. Finally, he tilts his head downward, his lips grazing mine with the lightest touch.
I’m about to press closer as an equal and very willing participant when an awful, high-pitched alarm goes off, sending my blood pressure sky-high. We jump back simultaneously.
“Shit. It’s a call. I gotta go.” His easygoing face suddenly transitions to that ultraserious expression from when we first met. He bolts out of the passenger seat, taking care to gather the Tupperware containers.
I shuffle out of the truck after him as everyone races to the back room behind the fire trucks to gear up.
He stops for a beat, pulling me in by the nape of my neck. He then rewards me with a soft kiss on my forehead. “Thanks for bringing dinner, Crys.” It isn’t a quick peck. It’s a full-on press of his lips to my skin.
Then he bolts away to the back room, leaving me mystified and practically immobile.
As I walk back to my apartment, my forehead and lips sear from the warmth of his kisses. From the touch of our foreheads together in the fire truck. From the look in his green eyes that stirs up all the feelings I’m trying to suppress until August. I don’t know if I can wait that long.