12. Patrick

"He asked you to go bowling? Oh my god, that's so amazing." Kaitlin's childlike enthusiasm resonated through the phone.

"Is it? Bowling?" I still hadn't recovered from the shock of Dane asking me out on an actual date—if bowling could be considered such. I wasn't even sure what puzzled me more: that he asked at a seemingly random point in my visit at the station, or that he had suggested pins and balls.

Don't get me wrong, I didn't have anything against bowling. My mom made me watch it every Saturday morning instead of the cartoons that every other normal child in America was glued to at that time. No, I wasn't bitter. I certainly wouldn't have enjoyed watching Superman or SpongeBob—or anything other than the Pro Bowling Tour. Okay, maybe I was a little resentful of my wasted youth. Saturdays were meant for cartoons, not men pretending to be athletes in a hall designed more for beer than sports.

Wow, I really did sound bitter when I thought it out loud.

"Of course it's exciting, silly. Dane didn't just ask you out. He knew exactly what he wanted to do. He planned it. That means he was thinking about you while you weren't together." She let out a giddy squeal high-pitched enough to make any thirteen-year-old girl sound like Margaret Thatcher by comparison. A tiny bark punctuated her pubescent pleasure. "Shush, Java. Mama's talking to Patrick about his new man."

I banged my phone against my forehead, smearing face oil all over the screen, which made me groan even louder. "He's not my anything. He's a source, a story maker–informer–person thing."

"Do you let every story maker–informer–person thing put their baby-maker thing near your poop chute?"

I made a gagging sound. It wasn't intentional. I actually gagged. "Katie, you're disgusting."

She giggled, and Java whined.

Kaitlin had been my best friend since high school. I was the nerdy, newly gay kid with out-of-control acne and impossibly frizzy hair who only cared about running the school newspaper, and she was the band nerd who'd yet to shed her baby cheeks (and arms and butt) but had already grown into her big-ass woman boobs, which resembled the kind you might find on an elephant in leather dancing on a stripper pole. To say we were an awkward pair was an understatement, but I loved her the moment we met.

Java, her solid, puffy white dog whose parentage lay ambiguously between terrier, retriever, and Pomeranian (possibly all three, at the same time, from three different fathers) was perhaps the most ill-named pup on the planet—real java being black. Kaitlin's explanation was that coffee creamer was white, and she loved lots of creamer in her coffee, so Java being white made sense. Right?

That's my Katie.

"Wait, we jumped into your pending date so fast, I never got to hear about the station visit. Was it awesome? Were there hot firemen everywhere? Did they walk around naked and only dress when the alarm sounded? Did you get to slide down someone's—"

"No!" I wanted to throw my hands in the air, but that didn't work so well over the phone. "There was no pole sliding, and there were no naked firemen."

"Were there at least some hotties?"

"Eh. Not really. Definitely not on Dane's team. Maybe one of the guys on the box crew."

"Box crew?"

I grinned at how easily the lingo had seeped into my vernacular. "Ambulance. They call it a box."

"Aw. That's cute."

"Cute? It's an ambulance," I said.

"Still, it's a cute nickname. What else? Was it exciting? Did you get to fight a fire?"

I nearly choked on a laugh. "No, there were no fires, for me or the crew. I did get to go on a medical run. That was kind of a bust. Some old lady fell and called nine-one-one."

"Really? Somebody called for a fire truck because they fell?" Her snarky tone made me snort.

"Apparently, it's a thing. Falls are their number-one call. Fires are actually rare."

A moment of silence passed, then she huffed out a breath. "No offense, but that's all very boring. Back to bowling and Dane-a-licious," she said, right before dropping the phone as she wrestled Java out of her lap. "Sorry. So sorry. I dropped you."

"Ouch. Where's the love?" I teased, ignoring her nickname for Dane, lest it stick.

"Not literally, silly. I'd rather drop something on you anyway." She giggled again. "Important question: What are you going to wear?"

"Um. Jeans?" I knew I was treading on dangerous ground.

"Patrick Mahomes Peter Joseph Pierce. Have I not taught you better? Have you learned nothing?"

"Um, yes, I'm sure I have?" My voice shrank with each itty-bitty syllable. "And why am I now a Black Irish Catholic football player?"

She made a shushing sound so loud I had to hold the receiver away. "Do not speak ill of my Patty Mo. He is perfection."

I chuckled, almost feeling released from the doghouse. "Your Patty Mo?"

"Yes. Mine!" She made a mock snorting sound as if invoking his name brought tears. "He just doesn't know it yet. He will learn—as you must now."

I groaned, as the doghouse door slammed shut again.

"Bowling, hmm, let me think. Jeans: tight but loose enough to bend in, but still tight enough to show off the goods."

"The goods? How do you know—"

"Please! Don't pretend to be a top, not with me."

"Eww."

"You know what I meant—and yes, that would be a big fat eww. Just thinking about you naked and waggling … I think I might be sick."

"Hey!" I protested. "Men love my waggle, thank you very much."

She made a barfing noise. "There went lunch, all over your Oscar Meyer Weiner."

"Aw, Katie, no chunks on the weenie, please."

"Just poop?"

"God, now I'm sick," I parroted.

She giggled. "No worries there, bottom boy."

"Why did I ever teach you our language? Why?"

"Like it's some secret code." I could hear her eyes rolling. "You gays think you own your dictionary, but we hags wrote most of it."

"Probably true," I admitted. "And you're not a hag. I hate that term."

"Well, I can't be a queen. You have that one covered, Your Majesty."

I groaned through the speaker. There was no way to win against the Titan of Snark.

"Back to clothes." She would not be deterred. "You need a shirt that makes your eyes pop. You have really pretty eyes, but don't let that go to your head—either of them—until he compliments you, and then you can let either head swell. Just don't make me see it, please."

"Katie!"

Another giggle. "You can still wear that royal blue shirt, can't you? You know the one? You wore it on New Year's Eve last year, or maybe the one before?"

"Yeah, it's kind of shiny for bowling, don't you think?"

A pause told me she was actually considering my input. "Okay, you're right. The navy one with the sleeves that crawl up your arms. That's the one."

"But my arms are like pencils."

"Apparently, Mr. Flame Thrower likes pencils. Show 'em off. It won't exactly be a gun show, more like a bullet show; but it's still a show, right?"

"You instill confidence."

"I know. I'm amazing. You may praise me now."

"I need to shower," I said, letting a tone of dismissal seep into my voice.

"Fine. Get behind your ears and between your cheeks. Don't forget to finger yourself with a soapy finger. All the gay books say that helps clean things out and prep you."

I bit back another groan. "We're bowling, not fisting."

"I really am going to hurl. Go shower. Love you, sweetness."

"Love you too."

I watched her face vanish from my screen, and a smile pinched my cheeks. Katie was one of a kind.

My phone read five thirty, giving me an hour and a half to shower, change, and make the rush-hour trek to the bowling alley where we were set to meet. I tried to scrub Dane's smile and chiseled jaw from my mind as I showered, but Little Patrick was determined to stand up and salute Dane's service … or his jawline … maybe his arms and chest too. Dane's service to his community is worthy of the fullness of my salutes, so thought Little Patrick in his little head.

The afternoon at the station had been active. After the initial call, we made our way back to the station, and the team resumed their daily equipment checks. Dane said they tried to complete the checks before going on calls, but old Mrs. Dewer's clumsiness hadn't cooperated.

The routine was like watching a choreographed dance. Sam, Alex, and Dane moved from one device to the next, inspecting each carefully before flipping them on and off. Some required batteries full of juice, while others required a top up with gasoline. I had never considered the need for such diligence, assuming someone checked things out on a regular basis, but Dane said they performed these checks every day, every shift. It made sense when I thought about it. Lives were at stake when they left the station, the last thing they needed was for their chainsaw to putter out as they cut away some tree crushing an old man.

Old men really should avoid falling trees … and falling in general.

After the equipment checks, the station lieutenant conducted a belated roll call, yet another daily activity Dane said normally happened at the beginning of each shift. The chief made a few announcements about events going on around town that might invoke calls, traffic pattern changes, and other mundane things that had my eyes glazing. Then he unfolded a flyer and spun it about for all to see.

Dane whispered, "Here we go," like this was a regular occurrence I wasn't sure he enjoyed.

With far more enthusiasm than I heard in Dane's utterance, the lieutenant rattled off a time, date, and location for the annual Blue Ball. Alex made several jokes that, by the less-than-amused expression on Sami and Burton 's faces, were old favorites.

"We do this every year," Dane explained. "It's a charity event honoring police and fire services in the area. We parade around in our dress uniforms while fat-cat donors in tuxes and gowns fawn over us."

"Sounds fun," I said, trying to be positive despite his droll tone.

He rolled his eyes. "Right up there with a colonoscopy."

"This year will be different," the lieutenant said, clearly irritated at our sidebar conversation. "It's a reverse ball. You lovelies will be in the tuxes and gowns, while the donors will play costume party in our uniforms."

"Okay, this is getting better." Alex perked up, then turned toward Sam. "You in a gown? Damn."

Sami snorted. "Fuck no. I'll be in a tux. Pretty boy Dane can wear the gown. He might be hot in a slinky sequined number."

"Yeah, but can they find high heels big enough for his caveman feet?" Alex asked.

"This is Hotlanta. There's probably more shops for men wearing heels than women," Sami snarked.

The room erupted into laughter, which grew the moment Dane's face flooded with color. Even the lieutenant lost his composure for a second.

I'd almost felt sorry for Dane in that moment. Well, I would have, if I hadn't been laughing at his embarrassment like everyone else. It was hilarious seeing the unflappable stone man duck his head and flash crimson.

As I laced up my shoes, I realized I was grinning at the memory, and not only from the humor in it. A trickle of warmth wove through me as I pictured Dane beside me in the station's meeting room, his shoulder pressed against mine in the tight confines. Thinking back, maybe the room hadn't been so small as to require us to be shoved together. Had he done that on purpose? Had he wanted to be touching me on his home turf?

I might've been projecting there, but my smile widened all the same.

Shit, I liked this guy. The realization struck like the pavement flying up to meet Mrs. Dewer.

Guilt at invoking the poor woman almost overcame giddiness. Almost.

Then I glanced down at my sneakers and realized where we were headed. Panic flashed through my brain. My hand was nearly shaking as I grabbed my phone and punched Kaitlin's face.

"Don't tell me he canceled," she said by way of greeting.

"No. Shit. Help."

"Uh, okay. What is it, precious?"

"I'm such an idiot. I have twenty minutes to get to the bowling alley. Where do I get bowling shoes?"