17. Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Seventeen

Trent

The view of the backyard, once green with hints of bright colour as far as the eye could see, was now barren. Not quite a wasteland—the blackened trunks of trees stood like sentinels, markers of a once flourishing bushland—but pretty close. Trent sucked in a breath at the familiar tingle behind his eyes. He blinked furiously . I will not cry.

Fuck. He'd shed enough tears in recent weeks to float a ship. His emotions were a rollercoaster, all over the place. One minute he was on a high basking in his new relationship with Callum, the next lamenting the impact on his community and the destruction of his beautiful home.

The once magnificent garden of rhododendrons and azaleas backed by towering pines tore at Trent's heart. So many hours of careful nurturing, of feeding and pruning, and the many afternoons spent wandering the paved paths just enjoying the quiet, the scent of the pine needles, the birdsong. Would he ever again witness the sea of flowers that appeared every winter from the bulbs nestled beneath the earth?

On the surface it was desolate, the landscape reflecting in Trent's mood. Bleak, hopeless.

Soft footsteps sounded on the path, but Trent didn't turn around. He didn't want Callum to see his face, to see how much he was hurting.

Callum slid his arms around Trent's waist, and for one moment, he wanted to fall back into his hold and give in to the grief. Because that's what it was, wasn't it? It appeared he'd skipped straight to depression. Or perhaps it was anger. Why in hell had this happened to him? To them? Instead he took a deep breath— I can do this, I can hold it together —and turned.

"Hey, babe." He was amazed at how much lightness he could force into his voice.

Callum draped his arms around Trent's neck. He looked at him with those big brown eyes that seemed to see into Trent's very soul. "Are you doing okay?"

Trent forced a smile. Could Callum see through him? "Sure. Just thinking."

"About what?"

Ah, the million-dollar question.

"Just all the things I need to get done. The list never ends." His laugh sounded forced to his own ears. "But first, coffee. I can't get anything done without being caffeinated."

Trent pressed a kiss to Callum's lips before extricating himself from his hold. Callum's grip tightened for a moment before he dropped his arms, perhaps sensing Trent's need to get away. Before I collapse into his hold, before I allow the black hole to suck me in. He turned abruptly and headed to the kitchen, knowing Callum would follow, but the couple of minutes back to the house would give him time to compose himself.

The sun streamed through the kitchen window, hitting the table and pooling on the floorboards. If he didn't look beyond the windows with their sheer curtains fluttering in the morning breeze, he could almost pretend that the events of over a month ago hadn't happened. Trent crossed the room to the coffee maker. "You want one?" he asked Callum over his shoulder.

Callum gave a half-smile. He nodded, then took his seat at the end of the table. His seat.

That thought brought the first genuine smile to Trent's face. Warmth bloomed in his chest. Callum fitted so perfectly into the kitchen, into his life. It was just such a goddamn shame that fate had thrown them this curve ball.

From the corner of his eye, he saw Mushroom slink into the kitchen. The cat skirted the edges of the room, brushing against the lower cupboards as she completed the circuit. In days gone past, she would have bounded into the kitchen and launched herself onto the benchtop, sniffing at whatever was on the surface. Now it appeared Trent wasn't alone in his changed demeanour—even his previously outgoing cat was tiptoeing around. Trent missed the annoying behaviour. He snorted. He never thought he'd see the day he wanted Mushroom to make that leap so he could gently scold her and push her back to the floor. Instead, he made do with Mushroom winding around his ankles, taking some comfort from the damn cat, although he knew Mushroom most likely only wanted food.

The coffee machine hissed, drawing Trent from his wandering thoughts. He dropped a coffee pod into the machine and pressed the button. Once he'd filled two cups, he took them, and the biscuit tin from the dresser, and placed them on the table.

The first sip of coffee was tonic to his jittery nerves.

"You look like you needed that," Callum said.

Trent took another sip and nodded over the rim of his cup. Whether it was the caffeine or just the heat of the drink, enjoying a cup of coffee in the kitchen was a ritual he always enjoyed. He put the cup down and focused on the biscuit tin. It only took about ten seconds of Trent struggling before Callum was reaching out for the tin. He levered the lid up in a matter of moments and held it out. Trent took an Iced Vo-Vo.

"There's something I wanted to talk to you about."

Why did Callum's words trigger a feeling of dread? It must have been the tone he used, or the way he adjusted his seat so he was facing Trent full-on.

"Yeah?" Trent only glanced at him, preferring to study the biscuit in his hand—pink and white and speckled with coconut.

"I've been thinking. With everything that's happened, I feel like I need to do something, give something back, you know? There are so many people who've put themselves out there during this crisis, whether it's been on the front line or the people helping quietly in the background. I'd like to give something back, do something for our local community."

Trent put the biscuit down and exchanged it for his coffee cup. "I think that's great. What did you have in mind?"

"I want to join the Rural Fire Service."

Trent's stomach plummeted, the coffee suddenly sitting uneasily in his stomach. "You what?"

"I want to volunteer for the RFS. I think I can do some real good there."

Trent's cup clattered to the tabletop. "You can do some real good here. You don't need to join the RFS."

Callum nodded. "And if we had another fire here at the guesthouse, then I'd definitely want to be here to help. But there are fires that take place elsewhere. I mean, this bloody fire started two towns over. What if we had had more volunteer firefighters? What if I'd been able to help stop the fire before it spread this far, before it did so much damage?"

"But you couldn't, no one could. There were so many factors all contributing to the spread of the fire." Trent started counting them off on his fingers. "The drought and how dry everything was and still is, the lack of back burning meaning there was so much fuel for the fire, and the weather was against us with those huge winds." The Rural Fire Service had done everything they could when the fire started; Callum being part of their team would have made absolutely no difference.

"But we don't know what might happen next time."

"No, we don't." Trent fought to keep his voice from rising. "And that's why you should leave it to the professionals. That's what they're there for."

Callum folded his arms across his chest. "They're not professionals, Trent. The service is made up of volunteers."

"You know what I mean," Trent snapped, frustration getting the better of him. "They've had training. They know what they're doing."

"And so would I. They are a professional outfit with training and—"

"No." The sound of Trent's chair legs scraping across the linoleum was grating.

"—they take every precaution, safety-wise."

Trent stared down at Callum as he attempted to hold it together. "People died, Callum. Died!"

Callum's face dimmed. "I know. But—"

"No buts. They were killed! People just like you who wanted to do a good thing, who were trying to help their friends, their neighbours, and ended up sacrificing themselves in the process." Trent's fingers ached with the tight grip he had on the chair back.

"It's horrific, what happened," Callum said. Trent snorted at the understatement, but Callum ignored him and continued. "Those people paid the ultimate price for doing the right thing."

"It wasn't the right thing!"

"I—"

"I don't want to talk about it. I can't talk about this right now." Trent forced his hands to let go of the chair and turned and fled. The screen door slammed on Callum's pleas for him to stay and talk, but he didn't want to hear a word of it. Instead, he increased his pace.

By the time he'd arrived at the back fence, or what remained of it, the tears had reached the surface. He swiped angrily at the moisture on his cheeks. Why the hell would Callum think placing himself in harm's way—placing himself in the path of a blazing bushfire—would ever be a good thing?