The Only Thing that Ever Made Sense

Chapter 1As lost as he’d felt when first arriving in San Francisco, Beto has made a great life for himself here. Far from the rest of the Cepeda family back in Phoenix, Beto only has his abuela, who retired to the city some twenty years ago. But he also has the family he made with Engine #30, the firefighter crew he finished his probationary year with a month ago. They are the people he can count on for anything, a team he never tires of the company of whether in work or out. All Beto ever wanted was a simple life where he could do good, and to have his own space without his parents criticizing and interfering. Here, he has it, doing just that. Under the scorching sun three days into unrelenting heat, Beto raises his helmet enough to wipe sweat from his forehead and eyes. He adjusts his goggles, then rearranges his grip on the Jaws of Life he is using, tilting his head to work out the best angle to cut. A twenty-eight-car traffic accident as their first call of the day isn’t the most dramatic he has experienced. Though Beto is still glad of his good night’s sleep, his lazy day off yesterday, and that the other crews in attendance always work in perfect tandem with theirs. The terrorized screams as the soundtrack to these scenes never really get to Beto. The sight of cars plowed into each other and trucks strewn in jagged pieces across the highway is something he can easily tune out as a veteran of two army tours. It’s the vehicles they approach with nothing but silence from their occupants that make Beto’s heart pound. This is particularly true when he makes eye contact with them and there is more fear staring back at him than any scream can ever conjure. “A couple more minutes and we’ll have you out,” Beto calls through the window hoping he isn’t being too optimistic. He has one side of the car frame cut through while Henry and Gray secure the other for the angle it has crumpled, hoping not to further injure those inside. The sparks coming off the smoking engine tell him nothing good either. Beto hunkers down, locking eyes with the backseat passenger, nodding for them to keep still. They are on scene for four hours. Considering the twisted mass of metal the crew arrived to, Beto thinks having only seven casualties is close to a miracle. Though no firefighter ever comes away from a call with casualties feeling good. “Maybe the next one will be an easy one,” Henry says, knocking his fist against Beto’s shoulder before climbing in. He is always the first to try to lift the team’s spirits after calls like this. Beto gives him a grateful smile. Taking one last glance over the scene behind them, Beto watches another ambulance driving away, the eeriness of a quiet highway making Henry’s voice seem too loud. “Yeah. I hope so.” * * * * A toaster fire, an overheated AC unit, a kid stuck in a jungle gym in the park. Twelve hours into the shift and Beto’s day is a mixed bag, a chaotic start followed by hours of cleaning in between calls, though thankfully no more deaths. Dinner they get through without incident, and there is even time to deep clean the kitchen when finished before they hear a single call alarm. A small fire in a laundromat in Lower Haight gets the crew back out on the road next, everyone dedicated to their jobs as always despite how sluggish they now feel in the heat. Only ten minutes from the firehouse, the sight of the small building with billowing smoke tells Beto this should be a straightforward call. Once the crew part the bystanders watching the flames climb higher, they find there is just one dryer aflame. Getting the flames under control goes like clockwork. Within half an hour the fire is out, the building made safe, and the laundromat owner already on the phone to their insurers. Beto overhears them as he looks around while waiting for confirmation to climb back on their trucks. The laundromat is on a street corner with a large Goodwill across from it and a deli and donut store on either side. The thought of donuts makes Beto’s mouth water despite the heat. “What do you think? A couple dozen?” he says, knocking the back of his hand against his colleague Evelyn’s arm and nodding towards the donut store. “At least,” Evelyn agrees. She has an even sweeter tooth than him so starts giving Beto specific instructions for donut choices as he gets money to pay for them. They always keep cash on the truck, everyone contributing to a kitty so when they need a sugar fix like right now, no one is out of pocket. The store is quiet, with only one customer in front of Beto as he waits. He scours the menu, seeing an offer for three dozen for the price of two, pointing out all of Evelyn’s favorites before asking the server to choose the rest themselves. He hands over cash then watches the server box the donuts up, smiling in thanks when they pass the boxes over the counter. Stepping outside with his arms full, Beto is glad of the reprieve of the approaching dusk after a long, stuffy day. He will be even gladder to get home in the morning after shift, take a cold shower, then spend a couple of hours with his book down breeze of his AC unit. Donuts first though. “Beto?” Beto knows that voice though can’t place it as he turns, a smile ready on his face anyway. Though for seeing the man watching him with a half-smile and intense eyes that have haunted his dreams for years, Beto’s stomach drops, cold rippling across his shoulders. White noise fills his ears. Beto forgets how to breathe, and everything around him drops away. As a wall of memories hits, Beto forgets his crew, the waiting fire truck, and the lingering smell of the now-out fire in the laundromat. This really can’t be him. “Aiden?” he says, his voice catching, watching that half-smile become a bittersweet one as Aiden raises his hand in a half-wave. “Hi,” Aiden says softly, his expression guarded. “It’s been a while.” * * * * The house is clean. Despite the heat, Beto has on jeans instead of his favorite shorts for this weather, and settled on an old faded Scooby-Doo T-shirt for comfort. His hair is too long. Beto tugs on it while glaring in the mirror trying to flatten the light brown strands, imagining his reflection shows the cropped hairline and more serious brown eyes that were part of who he was for all his time serving. To keep as grounded as he can Beto is barefoot, the cool floorboards beneath his feet a reprieve as he paces, waiting for Aiden to arrive. When they met on the laundromat call they exchanged numbers, Beto all but running back to the fire truck away from the upheaval of so many memories and unable to stomach a single donut. They texted a couple of times before the end of the shift and throughout his day off, agreeing to meet today after more texts. Beto hasn’t slept more than a couple of hours since for barely thinking of anything else. How can he? When he closes his eyes, Beto pictures the muted light of army barracks or the flickering flames of campfire dancing across a face that is always in his dreams. Anything can set a memory off. A loud bang and he is back in the desert under gunfire. A burst of laughter and he is sharing a private joke that isn’t for anyone else’s ears. A long silence and Beto’s stomach clenches for remembering unsaid words, lingering looks, and a feeling that nothing would ever be right again. He’d thought he’d put Aiden far behind him, but here he is. In San Francisco. There was never any real reason to expect to find him here. Was there? Guilt is the next emotion to gut him, along with a furious rage of defending himself for never really doing anything wrong. Though that isn’t true either, is it? There are many ways to be unfaithful without touching another person. Sharing parts of himself he never could with his wife. Open as he’d never learned to be with his friends back in Phoenix. Trusting, when his parents taught him to do the opposite. Even now, miles from those parents and friends and two years post-divorce, being close to something he shouldn’t be or have terrifies Beto. How painful will it be to have Aiden in the same room? They should have met somewhere neutral. Beto hasn’t asked Aiden much of anything; not what he is doing here, not when he finished serving, not what he does for work. Their conversations have only been short, awkward text messages, Aiden asking Beto the questions he couldn’t and seeming pleased for his answers. Though everything Beto has achieved in his time here in San Francisco with his crew now feels unfinished, half-done even. How can one glimpse at a person upend his entire self-belief so quickly and so thoroughly? There is no reason for Beto’s knees to tremble for the knock on his door. His instinct is to rush to open it, so Beto moves deliberately, taking his time with the lock before pulling the door open. His breath catches when Aiden is standing there with his hands in his pockets, looking far more put-together than Beto feels. “Hi,” Beto says, stepping back to let him in, lingering at the door as he closes it behind him. “Hi. Did you just get off shift?” “A few hours ago. Coffee?” “Sure. Did you sleep?” Aiden asks, following Beto to the kitchen. Is he looking around the apartment, trying to find the pieces of Beto he has tried to keep hidden? “I tried.” “You never did sleep well when you had something on your mind.” For the softness of Aiden’s voice Beto pauses by the coffee machine, stuck for a wash of memory of catching Aiden’s eyes across a room in the near-dark. They were like that for hours sometimes, unspoken things passing between them as their teams carried on oblivious around them. It isn’t fair that even after more than three years since he last saw him, Aiden still knows Beto better than anyone else ever has. “Guess not.” “I’m sorry if I’m the thing that’s making you not sleep.” “You are,” Beto says, pulling cups from a cupboard as Aiden leans on a counter to his side, in touching distance. The urge to be closer tugs on Beto, and to fight it he keeps busy setting up a tray for their drinks. “My abuela sent me home with a ton of cookies. You want?” “I forgot she lived in San Francisco,” Aiden says, and when Beto dares to look, is smiling softly. “How do you remember that?” Beto demands, not meaning to drop the Tupperware box on the counter, gritting his teeth when Aiden’s eyes fall to it. “I never forgot anything you ever told me. I probably never will. Yes to the cookies,” Aiden adds, nodding to the box. Beto hasn’t forgotten anything Aiden has told him either, and it’s gutting him. It is agony that the one person in the world who knows him best is right here, after everything, but couldn’t feel further away. He shouldn’t be here. Aiden can’t be here, not after all this time. “I don’t know what to say to you,” Beto chokes out. So much turmoil rolls through him that he can’t even do something as simple as put cookies on a plate. Aiden takes the plate from him making Beto tremble for how close he is, then wraps his fingers around Beto’s wrist. Beto’s breath comes out in a panicked stutter. He can’t look at Aiden, can’t see him so close, not now. “It’s been a while.” For the soft thumb swirling against the inside of Beto’s wrist, his voice catches. “It doesn’t feel like it. It should feel like forever. It shouldn’t matter.” “I can go, if you want.” “It’s too late for that, isn’t it?” Beto says with a bitter huff of laughter as he jabs his fingertips at his temple. “You’re already in here. Again.” “You say that like I did something intentionally.” “Why are you here, Aiden?” Beto croaks out. That thumb at his wrist is a pulse of heat, and want, and need that rushes through him, leaving Beto stranded here in his kitchen like he doesn’t belong.