“And do you feel better?” I asked. “Since telling your dad?”
“I think so,” he said, nodding. “Although I still have one thing left I need to tell him.”
“What’s that?”
He hesitated a second, and then he said, “I’m quitting the fire department.”
Wait—what?
“I need to talk to my dad first, of course. He and my mom are down in Boston this week, but I’m planning to cook them dinner once they’re back and break the news. You know, delight them with some amazing meal, and then say, ‘That food in your belly? I want to do that all the time.’ Then I’ll make it official with the captain.”
I was still catching up. “Wait. You’re—what?”
He nodded. “You were right. I should be cooking.”
I was right? I didn’t want to be right! That was the last thing I wanted—no matter how much I’d benefit. He was my favorite person in the firehouse. He might be my favorite person, period. Suddenly, words my captain in Austin had said to me flashed into my head:Find one person you can count on.
I took a step back. “Can’t you do both?” I asked. Most firefighters had two jobs. Some had three.
He shook his head.
I knew my reaction was totally irrational. We couldn’t both stay. If he stayed, if he fought for his position and won, then I would lose. Himleaving meant I could stay. It might well have been part of why he was doing it—to do something kind for me.
I knew all this in my head.
But, in the moment, given all the sadness that already surrounded me, all I could focus on wasthe leaving.My heart rate sped up. Was it panic? Was it anger? All I can say is, I just wasn’t sure I could take one more person leaving me.
Not today.
“I’m no good,” he said, giving me a look. “You know that.”
“You can practice!” I said. “You can work to get better!”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I want to get better.”
Really?He wasn’t even going to try? Hadn’t we become friends? Hadn’t we—I don’t know—come to matter to each other?
“Where will you go?” I asked. “Back to Boston?”
He gave a shrug, like he wasn’t sure.
I felt a sting in my chest, right behind my sternum. Owen was leaving. With the possible exception of the night I watched my mom drive off down our street, it was the sharpest feeling of abandonment I could ever remember.
But I’d never been comfortable with sorrow. I’d much rather be angry. So I just stood up and walked away, as fast as I could while still being careful of my ankle.
“Hey!” he said, following after me. “Where are you going?”
I kept walking. “It’s fine. Go to Boston.”
“I’m trying to help you!”
“I don’t need your help!”
“You of all people know I’m not right for this job,” he said, like there was some kind of logical argument to be made.
“That’s not a reason to quit. Is that who you want to be? A quitter? I’ve spent months trying to help you. I’ve got veins like Swiss cheese from all those sticks. I’ve taught you everything I know. But here’s something else I know. You can’t make people stay if they don’t want to. People leave all the time. They look around one day and say, ‘You know what? Never mind. I’m out.’ I certainly can’t stop you, and I’m sure as hell not going to try.”
“Hey,” Owen said, trying to grab my arm to turn me around.
