“These two women you admire so much are probably in their thirties, right?”
“Yeah. Yolanda is thirty-eight, and I think JoJo is something like thirty-six or thirty-seven. She was vague about it when I asked.”
“So, give yourself some time,” Dylan said. “They’ve had an extra decade to figure things out and get their lives together. Plus, you just told me JoJo studied jewelry design—in other words, that was a skill she learned, and you could definitely do the same thing. Is there an area of art that interests you?”
I shrugged and said, “I took some ceramics classes a couple of months ago, and they were fun. At Christmas, I made ornaments for all my housemates, and they really loved them. It felt good that something I’d made got such a great response. But it’s just a hobby, and I don’t really see supporting myself by making ceramics.”
“Just to be clear, I’m not saying there’s a single thing wrong with what you do for a living. But if you admire what your friend is doing, there are ways to follow in her footsteps. One way is by taking classes and discovering what you love, which you’ve already started to do.”
We talked about art classes for a while, and I thought it was nice that he was trying to be supportive. Then I got up from the table and said, “Be right back, I need to stick the stromboli in the oven.”
I went to the kitchen and turned on the oven, and as I pulled the pizza roll from the fridge, Dylan said, “What a charming kitchen.”
I hadn’t realized he’d followed me, and I told him, “You weren’t supposed to see the mess I made while I was making dinner.”
“Can I help clean up? I actually like doing dishes. If it’s going to be a while for the main course, how about if I wash and you dry until it’s ready?”
I raised a skeptical brow. “Are you just saying that because this is so horrifying that you feel you have to step in?”
“Nope. I really do like it.”
“Well, okay then.” I took off my apron and hung it around his neck. While he tied it around his waist, I filled half of the double sink with warm water and lots of soap, so it foamed up into a big, puffy cloud of bubbles. Then I found a clean dish towel and the old barstool that was kept stashed in the laundry room, sat down beside Dylan, and crossed my legs. “Okay,” I said, “let’s do this.” He grinned at me as he pushed back his sleeves.
Working side-by-side with him turned out to be surprisingly fun. He pulled up some background music on his phone, and we chatted while we made our way through the dishes. I told him about Kel, Eliot, Casey, and Theo, and he said, “So, Casey must have been the big guy who hugged you on New Year’s.”
“I think everyone hugged everyone, but he got to me first, right after you kissed me.” I flashed him a teasing grin and joked, “Were you jealous?”
“I was, actually. Since I barely knew you, it shouldn’t have mattered. The fact that it did just added to the confusion I was feeling.”
“I wonder what would’ve happened if you hadn’t seen me at that party,” I said. “Do you think you would have asked to meet me?”
He thought about that before saying, “I hope I would have been that bold. I know I would have asked for many more nights like that first one, where we chatted and played music and hung out together online. But you’re an entertainer with hundreds of fans, so you probably would have felt like an unattainable fantasy to me.”
I snort-laughed and said, “Oh yeah, I’m a real fantasy.”
“You are. That’s why hundreds of people follow you on your fan page.”
“I’m a weirdo with lots of silly costumes and a nice ass, and I’m willing to take my clothes off for an audience. That’s about it.”
“You’re so much more than that, Lark.”
A thought occurred to me, and I exclaimed, “I forgot about our dinner!”
Dylan chuckled at that. He dried his hands and set a timer on his phone for the stromboli, while I dashed across the kitchen and finally put it in the now thoroughly preheated oven. When I turned back to him, he said, “I like this song,” and drew me into his arms. “U Move, I Move” by John Legend was playing, and we began to slow dance.
I rested my head on his shoulder and heard him exhale slowly as we swayed to the music. “This feels so good,” he murmured, as he rubbed his cheek against my hair. “I didn’t realize how much tension I was carrying until I finally relaxed.”
“How was your shift yesterday?”
“Fairly quiet. It still left me on edge, though. That’s why I called my therapist this morning and changed our sessions from once a month back to once a week. I feel like I’m…slowly unraveling, I guess. I always assumed my anxiety would lessen as time passed, but the opposite is true. Pretty soon, it’s going to start affecting my job, and then I don’t know what I’ll do.”
After a pause, I said, “I hope this isn’t an insensitive question, but do you ever think about retiring? Not because of your anxiety. I just mean you’ve given fifteen years of your life to a high-stress job, and that’s a lot.”
“I think about it all the time.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Two things, I guess. This is how I’ve defined myself, all my adult life. I don’t even know who I’d be if I wasn’t a firefighter. Hell, I even have part of the fire department’s original logo tattooed on my bicep, that’s how much this job is a part of me,” he said.