“A lot of people have had their hearts broken.”
Slade ran both hands through his hair. “You’re going to regret dragging all this out. She was the last in a long line of people leaving me. My parents died when I was a teenager. My best friend in eighth grade ditched me to hang out with a group he said was more popular. The one guy in the Army I had a connection with, killed in action. I had finally found the one who would never leave.”
I would never leave, thought Poppy. But how could she say that when she would never arrive to begin with. If he ever found out about her past, he would be the one to leave. “I’m sorry you lost so many people.”
Slade shrugged. “Thanks.”
“That kind of explains why you broke up with me on the trail.”
“Purely preventative measures for my heart.”
“Strike first before you can be struck.”
“I could’ve handled it better.”
“Ya think?” Losing that kind of connection to someone would definitely hurt. If Poppy did have a chance with Slade, it could hurt both of them if he truly thought he could never love another person as much as So-and-So McWhats-her-face. But still, there was a big part of the end of that relationship he was completely overlooking. “Since you offered all the details, can I ask you something?”
“Shoot.”
“Did you get a chance to talk to her? About the breakup?”
“I got a letter. Eight and a half pages. God put someone in her life. She still loved me, but for whatever reason, the thing that was happening with the new man was ‘right’. You know, all the buffering sentiments you’d expect to hear in a break up letter.”
“Sounds more like eight and a half pages of baring her soul to you. Reading it had to hurt you. I’ve been dumped, I know. But Slade, it sounds like you are saying you are allowed to be with your soul mate but she isn’t. She’s a real person, Slade, not just something created to be the other half of you.”
Slade’s eyes softened thoughtfully and for a minute neither spoke as he considered her words. When he spoke, it was ponderous. “That actually makes sense. I’ve … been too hard on her in my mind. Still, I have nothing left to give.”
“So where do I come in? Or am I asking for trouble with that question?”
“I need a muse.”
Poppy laughed out loud and stood up to face him. “Okay, this is getting too silly. The poet needs a muse?”
He didn’t react, and if was faking, he was a heck of an actor.
“Come on, Slade. You Googled me, right? You know more than you’re saying.”
“What are you talking about, Poppy?” He stood up and looked down at her.
They studied each other. As her eyes locked with his she let the moment run with itself, hoping their eyes would get across what their words weren’t. It was like a universe in each eye, deep and detailed. The blue eyes, dark hair combination was more than gorgeous, it was thrilling. She wanted to reach up and put her hands on the side of his head and bring that face closer to hers. To put his forehead against hers, and see if she could read his mind like she expected she would be able to. Then to bring her lips slowly forward until they made contact with his confused mouth.
His muse. Could it really be as simple as that, or was he playing her? If it was coincidence or fate that made him say that, then what? She was ruined.
A text alert sounded. Poppy blinked and pulled back, not having realized she’d begun closing the gap. She licked her lips and pulled out her phone, slightly out of breath.
“It’s Daria. She says she’s sorry if she’s interrupting anything, but Amygdala is looking a little pekid. Well, that’s an antiquated spelling. How a ferret can be peaked, I don’t know.”
Slade gulped. “Come have dinner at the station Sunday.”
“I hate to be selfish, but what’s in this relationship for me? Just hang out and wait until we get too close so you can preemptively dump me again? I get enough put downs from my mother, thank you anyway.”
“The guys will kill me if I don’t get you to come. They feel like they owe you one.”
She was tempted to ask if it was for the guys or for him, but didn’t want to give him an easy out. Regardless of the crazy longings he made her feel, spending time with him was her favorite thing to do lately.
“Besides,” said Slade, “it’s a big day for me. I have my final probationary tests that day, so by Monday morning I’ll either be a full-fledged firefighter or a former firefighter.”
“I’ll do it on one condition. No, two conditions.”
“Anything. You want me to bring you the Golden Fleece? Catch and tame a Pegasus for you?”
“That second one is tempting,” said Poppy. “That would sure bring some exposure to Two Hearts Rescue. But my first condition is share some poetry with me.”
“That’s a deal killer,” said Slade. It was perfectly clear he was not joking. “I’ve never shared it. That’s not what it’s for.”
“Not even with Jenny the Betrayer?”
“No. She was the reason I started writing.”
The conversation went dead. It was obvious they were at an impasse, and that only made her want it more. Why did she feel like if he would open up and share some of his horrible poems with her, it would make her feel like she was good enough in a way? Good enough for at least one person at least, if only in one little aspect.
“I’ll think about it,” said Poppy, leading him back toward the house.
“If that was the first condition, I’m scared to ask about the second.”
“This is an honor code one. You have to cross your heart and pinky swear.”
“Deal, but not in front of any witnesses.”
She held out her tiny pinky and he linked his with it as they continued walking. The thought of this muscular, manly fireman pinky swearing and watching Jane Austen movies and writing poetry was still so funny to her.
“Don’t Google me, okay? Don’t go looking for information or trying to dig up any dirt on me. If you want to get to know me, get to know me, not what the paparazzi says about me or my family.”
“You got it. I pinky swear.” He tried shaking her pinky up and down.
“You don’t shake on a pinky swear,” she told him. “Haven’t you done this before?”
“Hey, I’m just doing it like we do at the fire station.”
“At the fire station, uh huh. Now I’ll know how to do it when I go on Sunday.”
“So you’re coming. Perfect.”
They reached the steps, but she steered him around to the side of the house. Once was enough for a mom encounter.
“Oh that’s right,” said Poppy. “I’m still undecided. There is the issue of a po-em.”
“I’ll think it over, but I don’t like your chances.”
“The guys will have no one to blame but you,” said Poppy.
Slade stared at the massive swimming pool as they approached it. The retractable cover was on, but it was heated to a perfect 82 degrees year round.
He said, “I can’t be held responsible if you, with full knowledge, decide to completely ignore protocol.”
It was an obvious attempt to get her to ask more questions. Poppy obliged. “Protocol?
“There are rules to the fire station. There are also customs. And traditions and taboos, and—”
“Where do I sign up for the twenty-week course on fire station culture?”
“You’re in luck. I’m a certified instructor.”
“Imagine that.”
“So, the first time you do something, whether it’s first fire, or code save, or first time going down the fire pole, you buy ice cream. Same for screw ups. You drop an axe when you’re climbing a ladder, you buy ice cream for the guys. Even if it’s your hundredth time doing it. Especially if someone else saves your butt. Leave a piece of medical equipment on scene for example. If the medics grab it on their way out the door, you’re buying them ice cream.”
“I’m following you. Firs
ts equal ice cream. As do screw ups.”
They made it past the pool and onto the lawn that led around the side of the house.
“If you pull the last butter from the freezer, write ‘butter’ on the board so Pineapple knows we need more for the kitty.”
“The kitty?”
“It’s the staple items like sugar, salad dressings, and coffee. Next one, never let them know where your goat is tied, or they will get it at every opportunity.”
“Should I be taking notes?”
“Depends how bad you want to fit in. If I were you I’d record this lecture then transcribe it later. Those guys have memories longer than elephants and they love to make you pay for any mistake.”
Poppy pulled out her phone and held it toward his mouth.
“Good,” he said. “Glad you are taking this seriously because here’s the important part. If you do something nice for us, you gotta accept our hospitality. If you don’t want to let us cook you dinner, don’t do nice things.”
“So since I did you a favor, I’m obligated to eat dinner with you? Sounds like I owe you one.”
“Yeah, basically. It’s firehouse logic.”
“Coulda warned me. I would have just left the pigs there to devour you all.”
Slade laughed. “Did you see JFK? We didn’t know he had a pig phobia.”
“Are any of you guys the tough, fearless heroes we see on TV?”
“Pretty much no. It’s just a matter of finding our secrets.”
They reached his truck, and Slade looked down at his wrist. “Look at that, I got my steps in for the day just doing one lap around your house.”
“I’ve been wasting money at the gym apparently.”
“See you Sunday.”
“That’s up to you, Maya Angelou. What’s your number? I’ll text you in a couple of days to see what you’ve decided.”
He gave it to her and she typed in into her phone. The thrill she felt at getting his number stayed perfectly hidden under her calm exterior, if she did say so herself.
“What’s yours?” asked Slade.
“I can’t just give it to you. My parents and their neighbors spent a lot of money on the Bridge of Death and the Gorge of Eternal Peril. The licensing costs alone that they paid to Monty Python could feed a small nation for years. If they can’t even waylay perspective suitors, what are the perils there for?”
Slade smiled, then looking down at her own grin he smiled more widely and his eyes brightened. Would a goodbye kiss be a bad idea? A teaser to make him decide to share some of his poetry?
“See you Sunday,” he said again, as if it wasn’t a question.
Before Poppy could answer, he was in his truck, watching her in his mirror for as long as she could see.
“Not the dating type,” Poppy muttered as she walked back toward the house. “Apparently you’re the drive a girl crazy type.”
At least she had his number. What she’d do with it, she had no idea.
10
Slade woke under another black cloud. With another black cloud inside of him. More dreams of Jenny. Why so many lately?
In the dream she had been singing that Adele song, Someone Like You. The irony of Jenny singing that painful song when he was the one for whom it obviously still wasn’t over, confused and annoyed him, and that just made the funk worse. Another thing that made no sense was that he felt anger toward her for the tumultuous dream.
What was it that Poppy had said? Jenny was a person with free will and a path laid out for her by God and who was Slade to say she’d taken the wrong path? He realized how selfish and unfair his negative feelings were, whether he was consciously responsible for them or not. It didn’t make sense by any stretch of the imagination. None of it did, and he felt bad about the unbidden hard feelings. Maybe his anger at God fell under the same illogical canopy.
Usually there was no sleep better than the first night after a forty-eight hour shift. Unless ghosts tormented him. What he wouldn’t give to trade in his ghost for one of the kind that tried to murder his body instead of his soul.
... how can a heart that has already been freely given keep getting ripped from this defenseless tomb …
… even the quotidian made difficult by lack of a malfunctioned heart …
He reached for the pad and pen from his nightstand, but instead grabbed his phone to turn the ringer on and see if anything had come in his sleep.
One text, from a number he didn’t recognize. He opened it to a pot of gold. No, even better. That smile. The brightness that emanated from his phone instantly banished the muddle-brain. For a long time he lay in bed and stared at her face. It was impossible to define what it was about that smile that made him feel so happy, but he’d never experienced anything like it in the world.
It suddenly hit Slade why he wanted Poppy in his life. Before running into her at the gym, his life was all seriousness and work. Within two seconds of meeting Poppy an entirely new dimension had opened in his life, and her smile was the key that opened the portal. She embodied fun and joy—two things he hadn’t even realized had been lacking in his life. And now that he’d experienced them, he couldn’t imagine a life without them.
No, to say that he wanted Poppy in his life wasn’t accurate. He needed what she had, but didn’t know it existed until that day in the gym.
That need for what Poppy offered made a romantic relationship with her even more impossible. Back when he didn’t know what he was missing out on, being abandoned again would be painful. Now that he’d been exposed to an entirely new aspect of his world, losing something like that would completely wreck him. And there was no doubt whatsoever that eventually he would lose her. He’d never not lost someone at any point in his life.
For one day at least, Poppy had banished the dark clouds of a funk it usually took hours to escape from, and it had only taken a single picture to do it.
Slade decided he should probably reply or at least get on with his day, and noticed the caption. If the best smile in the world can inspire poetry, can it convince you to share some?
That smile was magic. It had healed him instantly. But it wasn’t enough to get him to share the silly lines he wrote. The stupid, the witty, the murky and moving. No, that was giving him and his so-called poems too much credit. Yes, he’d told her all about Jenny and how much she hurt him, and he’d never told anyone that before.
But those were just feelings and memories, not the parts of his being that didn’t fit into the mold of the man he wanted to be.
The pure and simple truth about poetry was that it could never live up to expectations. Especially in a case like this, where he offered an epic quest and she requested a poem. Poppy was expecting something that should be carved in stone. Poetry wasn’t like that. It was meant to be written. And when read it was meant to touch you or teach you, not to impress or woo or show off. Well, maybe to woo, but not in this case. But all that was a simplification of an entire art form which was millennia older than him. The great thing about art was that it could be practiced however an individual wanted to practice it. And Slade chose to practice by writing, and that was all.
He would never let anyone into his heart, and he would never share his poetry. Just in case he ever had to defend the position—who knew, Poppy could try using that magic smile on him—he went to a fresh page in his notepad and started his defense.
It’s mostly garbage from my life. Black residue of ghosts. Crap I see on emergency calls that I had no idea how hard it would be to see. There are the occasional poems written when I have that rare hero sensation, or the wonder poems that I’ve been doing lately that try to describe a piece of the beauty in the world.
Poems when read to someone sound stupid. If you are expecting funny and clever, but the poem is somber then how do you respond? If you are expecting wisdom and you get levity then I look stupid.
What about open mic night, when people go in blind, no expectations?
That wouldn’t be bad EXCEPT it’s p
ublic and why do I want to flash a bunch of strangers with my darkest? You wouldn’t pull an RV on a stage and dump the septic tank. And you wouldn’t go streaking through Disneyland.
If it wasn’t my soul, it wouldn’t matter. I’ll never share my heart, and never share my soul.
That seemed pretty cut and dry. Maybe she would show up Sunday, maybe not. At least he had a picture of her now, as well as her phone number and place of work. If he became a volunteer at her shelter, he’d see her all the time, and they’d have an excuse to not get romantically involved because of boss/employee ethics, right?
One thing he was sure of, he had to have her in his life, but only at arm’s length. The undeserved pain and gloom he woke up with was a perfect reminder of what he risked if he allowed himself to feel too much.
Slade hopped out of bed. It was a big day. In three hours he had the meeting with Sundry International with a chance to get his fledging grant-writing consultant company on its feet. For months he had sunk hours on every day off into preparing for the pitch meeting by researching the organizations Sundry represented and working out draft after draft of some sample grant application excerpts. And now, the decision makers of Sundry International were coming to Park City to meet with him. Today would either make his company, or set it back months.
11
Dust blinded Poppy as she peered into the empty lot. Six malnourished, maltreated horses postured and circled, looking for a way out of the confined lot. They’d broken out of a busted up pen half a block away and ended up at this half-acre lot that was penned in only by a low fence on two sides and some flimsy brush on another side. Poppy and Daria and their waving arms were all that kept them from running back into the street.
It was just a matter of time until one of them realized that the shrubs were barely more than a façade and once one of them busted through, the other five would follow. Which wouldn’t be a big deal if State Route 224 didn’t run right along that side of the lot.
Animal Control was sending a guy, but he was out toward Heber. That would take over half an hour. No one else was available. The sheriff’s office might respond if she called them, but there was a chance they would shoot the animals if they thought they were a threat to the cars on the highway.
Two Hearts Rescue: Park City Firefighter Romance Page 9
