Page 21 of Faking the Heat

“No. I do. I mean, I really do, but I also don’t, because,” I grip the coffee mug so hard it might shatter. “Because it’s Mandy. She’s always been the one person I could trust not to go nuclear on my life. She doesn’t complain if I can’t make an event, of if I’m late, or have to leave early because of work. She’s consistent. If I mess this up, I lose everything.”

Jake considers that. “You ever think maybe she’s scared, too?”

I stare into the mug, which is now half-empty and tastes like dishwater. “She’s the bravest person I know.”

He smiles, “That’s not the same as not being scared.”

I bark out a laugh. “I sound like a twelve, year, old.”

Jake shrugs. “I’ve heard worse. Remember Tommy LaPlante? Fell in love with his dental hygienist, didn’t tell anyone, just started flossing three times a day until his gums bled. Brought in his own toothbrush to every shift. You’re not even in the top ten for embarrassing confessions.”

This time, my smile is real. “Thanks, I think.”

“Listen,” Jake says, “you ever wonder why you do this job? Why you keep putting yourself in the line of fire, literally and metaphorically?”

I think about it. “I like to help people.”

He waves that off. “Everyone says that. The real answer? You like to fix things. You like being the guy who knows what to do when the world is on fire. But this isn’t something you can fix, man. You have to let it happen.”

“That’s not how I’m wired.”

Jake leans in, serious now. “You can’t rescue yourself from this. You either go for it or you don’t, but if you keep running, she’ll figure it out, and then it’s over anyway.”

I swallow, hard. “What if I do it wrong?”

Jake sits back, arms crossed. “Then you pick up the pieces, same as always. But if you don’t even try, you’ll regret it. Trust me.”

He gets up, rinses his mug, and heads for the bay. “You got a shift tomorrow?”

“Yeah. Double. Then two days off.”

He nods. “Good. Figure out what you want before then.”

The door swings shut behind him, and I’m left in the kitchen with the world’s worst cup of coffee and an echo of his words bouncing off the tile.

For the first time in my life, I don’t know what happens next.

I finish the coffee, even though it’s cold and kind of gross. I wash the cup, dry it, and put it back.

Then I go to the window, look out at the street, and let the quiet settle in.

I could stand here all day, looking for a sign. But that’s not how this works.

Because if I’m going to screw this up, I want to be the first to know.

Chapter nine

The App

Mandy

The kerning on the 'P’ and the 'e’ is offensive. It’s a three-pixel gap that feels like a canyon, an unforgivable lapse in a logo for a high-end architectural firm that probably prides itself on precision. I lean into the glow of my dual monitors, the blue light stinging my eyes, and nudge the letter with a surgical tap of my finger. Better. Still not right, but better.

My life has been reduced to ash and borrowed sweaters, but by God, the spacing on this typography is going to be flawless. A sticky note covered in pen doodles is stuck to the corner of the screen, right where the “submit” button will go when I finish the logo. The sticky note has, in order, a tiny skull, a three-dimensional cube, and the words “stop stalling, M” in aggressively round letters. I remember writing it last night, but only vaguely. The past month has been one long, overlapping blur, layered like a Photoshop file with all the opacity sliders set wrong.

On the coffee table, Bowie is stationed directly on top of the single printed reference sheet I need, paws tucked under and eyes closed. He looks so contented I almost respect the sabotage. He has adjusted to the loft with a terrifying lack of loyalty, as if he had always lived in a converted warehouse with a firefighter who smells like woodsmoke and expensive soap. He has claimed the windowsill as his personal watchtower, and he usually looks at me with a smugness that suggests he knows exactly how much trouble I’m in. I reach out and scratch the base of his ears, my fingers trembling just enough to make the mouse cursor jitter across the screen. I’m a professional. I’m a designer. I’m currently a mess.

The vibration of my phone on the desk sounds like a chainsaw in the silence. I don’t even have to look to know the rhythm of the buzz.