Page 93 of Rising Heat

Bex

THE boys (plural)?

Bex

Darcy Elizabeth Reed!

Darcy

It’s a group thing. The whole firehouse goes.

Bex

That’s what they want you to think.

Darcy

They literally march in the parade with the other firehouses and police departments. It’s a civic event.

Bex

Please tell me you’re going…

I turn the block and get hit with a gust of wind strong enough to humble me.

Darcy

Yes.

Bex

Thank god. What are you wearing?

Darcy

Haven’t decided yet.

Bex

Let me guess…something green.

Darcy

Probably.

Bex

Groundbreaking.

I laugh into the cold air and keep running.

Back at the apartment, showered and warm and still a little flushed from my run, I stand in front of my closet having an internal debate over outfit choices that would be embarrassing if witnessed by another human being.

It’s a parade followed by a bar crawl. A group thing. I am not dressing for anyone in particular—I simply happen to own a green cashmere sweater, and today just so happens to be St. Patrick’s Day. Those two facts are entirely unrelated, despite what Bex would undoubtedly argue.

The sweater wins anyway.

I pull on black jeans and my Docs, add the gold hoops that have become permanent fixtures at this point, then shake my hair loose and let it do the wavy thing it defaults to when I stop trying to control it. Mascara. Lip gloss that technically counts as low effort even though it absolutely does not.