Page 6 of Before the Fire
I feel a pull at the corner of my mouth that I register only because I'm sitting alone in my kitchen and there's no one to hide it from. I'm not a person who smiles at text messages. I'm not a person who smiles much at all, if I'm honest about it.
Question 11 arrives at midnight. I'm reading, or trying to. The book is open on my chest and the phone buzzes on the arm of the couch.
Ok this one's not a question. I just want to say that I know this whole situation is weird and probably not how you wanted your summer to go. And I know we don't know each other. But I'm glad you picked up the phone the other day. For what it's worth.
I read it twice. The second time slower. There's nothing to analyze. No angle, no professional maneuvering. Just a person saying a thing that appears to be true.
I type and delete three responses.
For what it's worth, I'm glad I picked up too.
I send it before I can reconsider, then put the phone face-down on the couch and stare at the ceiling crack for ten minutes, which is how I know it bothers me. Not what I said. The fact that I meant it.
Three days after the first text, my phone buzzes while I'm washing dishes.
IT'S OFFICIAL. Signed this morning. I'm a Firebird. I'm IN.
Below it, a photo. Ash at a table, pen in hand, grinning at the camera with such unguarded happiness that it makes me look away and then look back. A Phoenix jersey is laid out behind him. He looks like a person who has just gotten exactly what he wanted, and it strikes me that I don't know what that feels like. Not recently.
Welcome.
LET'S GO. Ok I still have three questions left but they can wait. We'll figure it out when we're both there. You ARE coming right? Please tell me you're coming and not retiring or something.
I set the phone on the counter. The dish soap is still on my hands. Outside the window, Philadelphia is doing what it always does, being a city that used to be mine and isn't anymore.
I dry my hands. Pick up the phone.
I'll be there.
That night I open my laptop and book a one-way flight to Atlanta and get back to packing. I tape another box, this one heavier. Not full, but close. Books, a few kitchen things, the blanket from the couch that I tell myself is practical to keep. My grandmother's photo is on the counter, leaning against the wall, not packed because I haven't decided which box it goes in yet. Which room of some unseen, unknown place I will move to. Iwant to put it where I can see it, which is not a thing I would have said about many of my possessions before this week.
The condo is still quiet. Still mostly the same. But there are four boxes now where there was one, and a flight confirmation in my inbox, and somewhere in California a person I've never met is packing too, heading toward the same city for reasons that overlap with mine but aren't the same. He chose this. I was pushed. Yet, we arrive at the same place.
I don't know what to make of that. I don't know what to make of a lot of things. It isn't much, but the boxes are packed and the flight is booked and for the first time in weeks, I'm moving in a direction instead of standing still.
Part Two: Free Agent
Chapter 5: Ash
Marco picks the restaurant because Marco always picks the restaurant. I curate the list and he gets to choose. This one is a tapas place in the Mission with a wait list that he somehow bypassed, which is the most Marco thing possible. The man could talk his way into a closed embassy. I've seen him charm a parking enforcement officer out of a ticket while the ticket was being written.
"To the Firebirds," he says, lifting his glass.
"Firebirds." I clink his glass. "I made the mistake of calling them 'the Birds' in a text. Got corrected."
"Corrected by who?"
"Ikonen. The captain, the guy I told you about. Texted back one word.Firebirds.No context. No emoji. Just the full name like I'd personally offended him." Just the thought of that text cracks me. A man of few words is an understatement.
Marco takes a sip of his wine and watches me over the rim of the glass. Marco has a way of watching people that's somehow both casual and surgical, which makes sense for someone whodoes PR for a living. Five years ago I did a charity event for his organization, a youth sports access thing in the East Bay, and by the end of the night he'd gotten me to commit to three more events and a golf tournament I'm still not sure how I agreed to. We've been inseparable since, which is saying a lot considering I'm on the road half the year.
"The captain," he repeats. "This is the guy you called on his running trail?"
"He wasn't running when I called. He'd finished running. There's a difference."
"You know the details of his running schedule?"
"It came up. When we were talking." I grab a piece of bread and tear it in half. "He runs along the river in Philly. The Schuylkill."
