From Air Signed Paperback

“You should get a gun and a vibrator.” Melissa crosses her arms, rocking back and forth on her flip-flop-clad feet.

She’s angry that I’m leaving her. We’ve been best friends for as long as I can remember. And, according to her, best friends never leave. She’s a total Cancerian.

With a laugh, I inspect the three things in the back of my Jeep—a suitcase, my skateboard, and a box.

That stupid box. For the record, I don’t want to know if I’m dying. Preparation is overrated, along with dying wishes. My mom had six months to live—six months to prepare for her death. She died in three.

Three months to rethink her life.

Three months to sort through her belongings and specify which boxes I should keep “forever.” She was a hoarder; I am a minimalist. Out of fifteen keep-forever boxes, I only lug around the one containing the contents of her fire safe—some jewelry, her passport, miscellaneous certificates, photos, and a dozen or so manila envelopes. I believe they are tax returns. The rest of the boxes reside in Melissa’s parents’ storage unit. They’re confident I’ll want everything when I’m old enough to appreciate the sentimentality of it.
Mom lived up to her zodiac sign—she was a Cancerian like Melissa, who also keeps everything.

On point with minimalism, I am a Virgo.

“A gun and a vibrator? Interesting combination. There’s a high probability of a self-inflicted injury with either one.” I close the back of my Jeep and turn toward Melissa and her pouty rosebud lips and piercing hazel eyes beneath her perfectly arched brows.

“Everyone in Montana owns a gun,” she says, flipping out her hip while the thick Miami humidity wreaks havoc on her long chocolate-cherry hair, curling her recently chopped bangs. A regrettable decision.

“And a vibrator?” I raise an eyebrow that’s less than perfectly arched.

“You’re not a people person.” She smirks, smoothing her hands down my shoulder-length black hair like a mother fussing over a child before taking family photos.

Suppressing my eye roll, I lift onto my toes and hug her. “You’re a person, and I like you. And I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ve heard Montana’s cold in January. Have you ever seen snow? Have you driven in it?” She changes the subject while wiping the corners of her eyes.

I take a step back, adjusting the waistband of my Lululemon leggings and tugging my white crew neck tee away from my sweaty chest. “I’m leaving Miami. I think it’s safe to say every place north of us is colder in January. Winter won’t last forever. And I have seen snow—once. I’m sure Fiona is great in the snow.” I give the side of my Jeep two confident slaps.

“Fiona is only as good as her driver.” Melissa sniffles while checking her reflection in the back window. She scowls and corrals her frizzy hair with one hand while her other keeps the wind from blowing up her cotton skirt for a peep show.

I can’t look at her red-rimmed eyes. If she makes me cry, I swear I will strangle her.

“Also”—she continues her futile case—“your mom would not be okay with you having a male roommate you’ve never met. Stranger danger.”

“Good thing she’s—”

Melissa gasps, releasing her hair and pressing her fingers
to my lips. “Jaymes Lanette Andrews! Don’t you dare say it.”

I crank my neck and bat away her hand. “Stop. It’s been two years. I love her. I will always love her. But I will not live like she’s looking over my shoulder.”

Melissa deflates with a sigh.

“Listen, Mel, one of the other nurses knows Will. She said he’s as good as they get. She’s the one who gave me this rental listing. I’m not worried. You need not worry either. And my mom is”—I quickly inspect the alleyway behind our three-story apartment building, littered with bikes, trash bins, and a handful of cars, before lowering my voice—“dead. So she’s no longer worrying about me.”
“I’m serious about the gun, Jamie.”

I open the driver’s side door. “I don’t know how to use a gun. I’d only shoot myself in the foot or accidentally kill someone. Love you! I’ll call you when I make it to my first stop.”

***


It takes six days, multiple near fender benders, and white-knuckle driving in the snow, but Fiona and I arrive in Missoula—thankfully, in one piece. Icicles hang from the gutters of my temporary home, a simple gray two-story with a steeply pitched roof, white shutters, a dilapidated porch, and a tiny balcony on the second floor. It’s perfect.
The driveway’s been cleared of snow, so I pull behind an old red Bronco cloaked in dirt and salt residue.

When I open my car door, a gust of frigid air bites my face, a sure sign this Miami girl will freeze her tits off.

I hop down. “Shit!” My boots find no traction, and I nearly do the splits, saving myself by planting my hands on the slippery driveway.

“Whoa! Easy there. Are you okay?”

I gingerly slide my feet closer together. It’s what I imagine ice skating is like if you’re bad at it. “Yes. I’m great. Just stretching. It’s been a long drive.” Standing upright, I brush the snow off my hands.

A sandy blond with a thick mustache gives me a winning grin. “You must be Jaymes.”

I accept his proffered hand. “Jamie.”

“I’m Will. And I apologize. I meant to throw down a little ice melt.”

“It’s fine. I need better boots. I opted for warmth, not traction. Both would be good.”

Will chuckles. “Traction’s good. What can I get for you?”

“I just have a suitcase, my skateboard”—I open the back of my Jeep and frown—“and a box.”

“Got it.” He hauls my suitcase and box toward the house.

“You just focus on staying vertical.”

“Thank you.” I follow with cautious steps and my skateboard hugged to my chest.

A faint piney scent, maybe a furniture polish, greets me when I step inside, wiping my boots on the blue-and-metal-gray braided rug. On my left, a half dozen cast-iron hooks hold coats, hats, and scarves. Stairs covered in worn beige carpet make a steep incline to the second floor.

“Leave your boots on,” Will instructs me, nodding toward the stairs. “There are two bathrooms upstairs. You’ll share the one with the blue shower curtain.” The narrow strip of wood flooring creaks under his boots while he leads me to the glass sliding door at the back of the house.

“With you?”

“No, with Maren. You don’t want to share the other with Fitz and me. The toilet seat will always be up, and we don’t clean it as often as we should.”

We pass the living room on the right. There’s not much wiggle room around the oversize brown leather sofa and matching recliner facing the bone-colored wall behind a TV—a buck’s head on one side and a collage of black-framed photos on the other. A repurposed tree trunk on casters serves as a rugged coffee table atop the very worn beige carpet.

The mahogany blinds covering the bay window could use a dusting, but everything’s tidy and welcoming, including the open kitchen between the living room and the back door.
Will opens the sliding door to the covered deck.

“Uh . . . who are Maren and Fitz?” I ask as he nods to the left at the laundry room before stepping outside.

“My other roommates.” Will treads through nearly a foot of icy snow.

I skip and jump to land my feet in his boot tracks.

He stops at a red shed in the corner of the yard, nestled between two groupings of evergreens drooping from the heavy blanket of snow. “It’s my house, but they rent rooms as well.”

“What are we—” My question dies the second Will opens the door to the shed. I take a hesitant step inside, where there’s a daybed with a white-and-blue checked comforter, floral decorative pillows, a light-blue velvet chair, and a weathered white dresser with a mirror.

Leaving my boots on the shaggy gray rug, I step onto the navy-painted hard-surface floor that’s curiously warm. A row of plants sits on a window ledge surrounded by white shiplap walls. It’s a lovely room, just like the photos.


However, that it’s in a shed in the backyard wasn’t in the photos or the description. The listing said it was a four-bedroom, two-bathroom house with a shared living room, kitchen, and laundry.

“The feminine decor is all Maren’s taste. But since you’re a girl, I’m sure you won’t mind it.” Will deposits my suitcase and box on the floor. “Here’s a key to the house.” He hands me a fire hydrant key chain with a dangling silver key.

I glance over my shoulder at the house.

“Everything good?”

I turn back toward him. “I, uh . . .” I set my skateboard on the floor and toss my purse on the bed before taking the key from him.

“Shit. You thought it was in the house?”

“Kinda, sorta . . . yeah.”

With a sigh, he scrubs his face. “Maren was right. I thought the ‘private room’ made it clear. Is this going to be a problem?”

“Not per se.” I offer Will an earnest smile. “I had a picture in mind, a room in a house. It will take a bit to adjust for the discrepancy between reality and my expectations.” My incessant nodding gains momentum as I adapt in real time.

“As long as I drink nothing after eight p.m., I should be good. Fine. Yep. No problem.”

“Cool. Well, the floor’s heated, and the walls are well insulated. You shouldn’t need anything else, but feel free to buy an extra blanket. Things around here are laid back. Spend as much time in the house as you want. We cleared a shelf in the fridge for you, and you have a kitchen cabinet.”

“Thank you.” I turn in a slow circle while finger combing my staticky rat’s nest of hair.

“So you’re a nurse. Correct?” Will removes his beanie and scratches his head before pulling his hat back over his shaggy hair.

I stare at the tiny mole beneath his left eye for a second, the same eye that has a slight twitch when he smiles. “Yes. A travel nurse. I lucked out and found a six-month position here in a mental health clinic.”

“Oh.” He returns a sheepish grin. “I think you mentioned that in one of our messages. Sounds stressful.”

“I worked in the ER, which was way more stressful.”

“You’ll fit right in with this first responder crew.”

“Oh?”

He briefly glances out the window, blue eyes squinting at a bird feeder hanging from a steel shepherd’s hook. “I’m an engine chief for the Missoula Fire Department. Fitz is a smoke jumper, and Maren is an air tanker pilot.”

“Smoke jumper?”

“Yes. They’re wildland firefighters who parachute into remote areas to suppress fires. They can get there quickly. Some call them elite, but I don’t feed Fitz’s ego, and neither should you.”

I chuckle. “Sheesh. I feel boring in comparison.”

“Don’t.” He rubs his jaw. “You’ll be a breath of fresh air around here. Egos get out of control in a houseful of firefighters.”

“Good thing I’m not in the house.” I give him a toothy grin.

“Damn.” He shakes his head. “I messed up that listing. I’m sorry.”

I wave him off. “I’m kidding. Don’t be sorry. This is perfect.”

“I hope so.” He steps toward the door. “Well, I’ll let you get settled.”

“Thanks.”

“Oh, fair warning.” Will turns back to me. “Maren will hunt you down when she gets home. Be prepared. She’s”—he twists his lips—“a lot.”

“I left a roommate who is a lot, so we’ll be good.”

“And try to ignore Fitz if you do happen to run into him. He’s a loner and an asshole. I don’t want to use the word sanctimonious, but I just did. However, he pays rent on time, and he’s gone more than he’s here, so we put up with his stellar personality. But I’m sure you’re used to dealing with mentally ill people.”

Biting my lower lip, I nod several times. “Got it. Leave Fitz alone.”

“Exactly.” Will winks and shuts the door.