Catching Fire

Note on Part 16: This is Part 2 of 2 of the overall finale. I'm warning you now: this is a VERY slow-burn resolution to the end of a serial romance I've spent the last ten months writing, and which is personally important to me. If you want a quickie, this *definitely* ain't it, and no hard feelings if you stop reading now.

Luke and Erin are real people by my understanding, and they deserved something that felt real. So I took my time. Also, thanks to a kind reader's suggestion, I'll later be putting this all together and resubmitting it over into Romance where it belonged in the first place, though there are certain elements that actually require the serial approach, so it will likely still be in a few larger chapters rather than one massive story. I think I may have actually hit novel length.

As for me: Whether it's a lover, a heartbreak, or a story, you always remember your first. If you've read the entire thing: thank you! You're in small but elevated company, and I appreciate you. It's been an absolute joy to write this series and see how many people have come along with me. Telling this story helped me find my way out of a very dark place last year. I hope you enjoy the ending, and I look forward to writing for you again soon. And who knows? There might be some other parts of this particular thing to tell. In any case, I loved sharing this adventure with you.

Catching Fire is dedicated to Erin. And Luke.

***

***Mid Fall, 2025***

"Here," I said, holding out the medium-sized bouquet, feeling stupid and embarrassed, "Please. Take them."

"What's wrong with you?" she asked, aghast and confused.

Fuck.

This was going terribly right out of the gate.

"I know," I said, tripping over every other word, "Tulips are out of season. I had to shop around everywhere this morning to find them. Please, I need you to take them! I'm... I'm not really sure what I'm doing, right now. I just know that these were a bad idea, and I need you to take them."

"Okay, okay, if you insist," she said, hesitating to reach out but looking at them with unfeigned fondness, "I don't remember the last time anyone gave me flowers. Thank you, I guess. Tulips are my favorite, after all." I sagged a bit in relief. I was sweating, and took off my light jacket.

Underneath, I was wearing my usual attire of a button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It was my favorite one, with a simple pattern that wasn't too busy and a color I liked. I wore thin gray wool slacks and my rarely-used dress shoes, cleaned the night before. My beard was trimmed, my teeth were brushed, my glasses were clean. I didn't wear any jewelry. I had no tattoos. I had something in my beard that smelled nice, but otherwise I was as I've always been: unadorned and awkward.

"I'm glad I got that much right, at least," I said gratefully, "Everything else about today feels completely off the rails."

"But why? And really: what's wrong with you?"

"I'm... I'm panicking," I admitted, slumping down on the other end of the park bench she was sitting on, looking across the street to watch the morning fog begin to rise from the sidewalk level to the rooflines of second-story buildings.

"Well I got time, God willing. And we're both here until my ride shows up. So tell me: about what?" She set the flowers down carefully between us, smiling at the spray of color on the otherwise gray day, then at me - disheveled and directionless.

"About a pair of very, very pretty eyes," I admitted.

"I figured that much out already," the old woman laughed. She had to be more than twice my age. I'd been walking towards the cafe from my car, ready to throw up in the nearest rose bush, feeling over the top about the flowers and catastrophically stupid about everything and fucking *juvenile* all morning, and then there she was, like a hunched angel in a bulky coat, feeding squirrels and waiting on a park bench to convince me to do something besides act like a lunatic.

"What's her name?" she asked, head wobbling slightly as older folks sometimes do.

"Erin," I said wistfully.

For the sake of continuity and privacy, I'll stick with 'Erin' and 'Luke' and all the other little lies.

"Beautiful name."

"It is. I haven't seen her in about twenty years," I continued, trying not to be as crass and she probably assumed my generation to be, "We lost touch completely a long time ago. Then she found me in the most accidental way imaginable online, we exchanged a few emails, and now I'm supposed to meet her for coffee in ten minutes, just around the corner. But I'm a wreck! I don't know what I'm doing. Obviously. Look at the flowers, for... for Pete's sake. They were her favorite, back when we were, um, seeing each other. What am I even supposed to say? Just 'hi, how have you been, I remember you liked tulips?' My hands are shaking! Look!"

"What's she like?" she asked, letting my ranting wash over her the way I'd listen to a kindergartener talk about their day.

"She's... like lightning in a perfume bottle," I sighed. I hadn't managed anything truer since I'd said the same to Alex back then.

"That's perfect! I can see her now! Twenty years, you said?"

"Closer to eighteen, but yes ma'am."

"And how old are you both?"

I told her.

"Oh, you beautiful babies - I've got grandkids as old as you! Lord, to be that young again! And you said her name is Erin?"

"Yes."

"What's yours?"

"Luke."

"Damn. Too bad. I thought you were doing okay until I knew you were a Luke. Awful name. I oughta know - that was my first husband." I blinked at her, then saw her smiling at me. I started laughing, and it took a minute to stop.

"You're panicking because you *think* you don't know what you want to do," she said eventually.

"What do you mean?" In response, she rolled her eyes and pointedly jostled the bouquet on the bench.

"Why'd you bring an armload of flowers for some lady you haven't seen in twenty years?"

"I, um..." I considered giving a condensed version of the past. Maybe even something that would make her regret ever talking to me. Instead, a truth came out that I hadn't fully discussed with myself.

"I never got to say goodbye. I don't care about how much it hurt, anymore. I was reaching out for her, then. This time... she wanted to reach out to me. She didn't have to - had every reason not to, actually - so I want to know why." She smiled at that, reached across to pat my hand with a gnarled claw.

"Well," she said, eyes beginning to leak, "I sure wish I could get through a chat without getting weepy anymore. Getting old's the worst. But sometimes, something wonderful still comes along, looking like an earnest, healthy young man carrying flowers. Good reason to keep taking my pills, I guess. Anyway, you gave an old lady two gifts today. You gave me tulips, and you asked me for advice, in a way. So here it is: do you want to finally get a chance to say goodbye? Are you trying to pick up where you left off? Or... do you want to start over with a hello? Try to meet her again, *as she is,* not how you remember her?" I thought about that for a long moment.

"I don't know. I just know that I want to find out. I guess I want to meet her all over again. And, frankly, I have something to apologize for. So I need to at least do that. She doesn't owe me anything. I owe her that, though." She smiled at that, genuinely enough to show a few golden teeth.

"Good," she nodded, "Good idea. Now you better forget every other idea you've got, because she's probably got a whole other plan that you just gotta go along with. Ha! Anyway, you don't want to be late. Better get going, Handsome." I had been standing up through her rambling, but then I stumbled when she called me by the nickname that only Erin had ever used.

"What did you call me?"

"You heard me. You think *you're* nervous? What about her?! Meeting a guy like YOU all over again? When she's worried about how she's not still some ungodly pretty, perky, thin little thing anymore, all bouncy goods and no wrinkles? She's probably had a few kids and a life that's busier and harder than you can even imagine. The fact that you're on her mind for even a few *minutes* let alone hunting you down for coffee out of the blue is saying something! So don't be nervous. At least not more nervous than she is."

"Huh. I hadn't thought of that. Um... thank you. For all the advice. And for taking the flowers off my hands. Saved my life, I think." She smiled and nodded. A shuttle with a low walk-in door pulled up to the curb, obviously her ride. She tried to stand, in obvious pain, and I offered some help. She took me up on it.

"Holy moly, what are you worried about?" she exclaimed, patting my arm, "Just carry her across a puddle! That was always my trick to know how strong a fella was!" She cackled as I picked up the tulips and tucked them into the tote bag on her walker. The driver looked us over as she hobbled forward without me.

"Everything okay, ma'am?" she asked with polite concern.

"Oh yeah!" the crone warbled, moving glacially away from me and towards the bus, "Just saying goodbye to my cute new boyfriend here!" My serendipitous advisor was leaving, and I started to panic again.

"What would you want me to say to you, if you were her?" I said. She paused and looked over her shoulder at me.

"Nothing," she said plainly, "I'd want you to listen. I'd want you to be yourself. What's the point, otherwise? Just make sure she doesn't feel like she made a mistake or wasted her time meeting with you, and you'll do alright."

***

The brass bell above the cafe's door frame jingled as I walked in. It started to remind me of something, somewhere, somewhen else before I forced myself to be in the moment. I searched around, probably looking over-eager, definitely looking nervous. I didn't see anyone that looked like her anywhere. I checked my phone for the time. We hadn't swapped numbers or recent photos of ourselves. The few messages we'd exchanged had been entirely by email, up to a week apart; like writing actual letters, like we did when we were racing each other towards what felt right. I could understand why she wanted it that way, even though it was turning me into a walking heart attack at that moment.

All she'd told me was that her hair was still curly and she'd be wearing some kind of pin on her blazer. She already knew what I looked like, thanks to me writing a goddamn tell-all pile of smut that included a recent description of me. Jesus Christ, what a catastrophe I'd made of things. Still... I couldn't stop thinking about how we'd both agreed not to look each other up at all. Why did she suggest it? Why did it make sense? Why did it feel so right?

I took a deep breath. Okay, so maybe she was a little late. That was alright. Normal, even. I was fine. Completely, totally fine. I stood in line for the ordering counter, pretending to read the menu, trying to resist the urge to glance back at the door at every sound. For one, I'd look as anxious as I felt, and for another, there were a hell of a lot of sounds. The cafe's doorbell blinged a few more times and the noise swelled as a crowd of new customers came in, and I heard wheels from some kind of suitcase loudly rolling and clacking. I instantly despised whoever was making that singularly painful racket.

There was a sudden crash near me and I about jumped out of my skin. A young server was staring open-mouthed at the tea set they'd dropped, broken and scattered all over the floor.

"You okay?" I asked, automatically kneeling down to help.

"Fine! Fine. Thanks," the server exclaimed. They looked chagrined, and I quickly helped pick up the biggest shards. I was shooed away with thanks once the manager came over with a broom and a pan, and I went back to my place in line, which a kind couple with a crying baby had held for me. I was sure everyone in the shop had seen me get flustered over a simple broken pot. Figures.

The noise soon picked back up. People throughout the cafe were talking loudly to be heard over one another. The whoosh and clamor of the espresso station was jarring rather than comforting. The baby was crying. The smells of coffee and tea and baked goods and cleaner fought with the scents of so many people and a damp dog laying under someone's feet. A phone was going off and there was some kind of jazz playing on the sound system because of course there was. I was overwhelmed in seconds, even though I'd found a wonderful home in that exact experience all through college, so many years earlier. That kind of thing depends on what you look at, obviously. But even more it depends on how you perceive it.

"Hi, what can I get you? Thanks for helping pick up the pieces for Summer earlier, by the way," the barista said when I got to the front of the line.

Summer? Was that the other barista's name? A little ironic. Wait, was it? Did I mishear them? Or was I just pawing around blindly for meaning? Who cares? The baby was still crying. The father, probably ten years younger than me, bounced and rocked his child and started to sing under his breath. He seemed so tired and yet so singular in focus, so clear in purpose, and I felt a familiar sadness.

The barista behind the counter was still waiting patiently, but growing concerned about my mute response. I was stuck, and had the panicked thought that I should just get out of line. Maybe Erin would arrive by the time I got back to the front. Yeah, that could work. Maybe I should get a cookie first, though; that sounded good. I could at least have a cookie in a nondescript paper bag if everything went to hell. Where had that thought come from? Why was I having deja vu?

There was that goddamn rolling-clacking again, getting closer. I couldn't think.

"Sir? You okay?" the barista said, looking increasingly worried that I might be having a medical issue. I tried to say something, but nothing came out. I was frozen. I gathered myself for one more try before I'd have to step out of the way.

"Medium coffee, black, and a croissant, please. For here. Same for me. And don't worry about him; he's just awkward."

My breath caught, and time stopped as I slowly looked down and to my right, towards the small, direct, intelligent voice that had answered for me.

***

At first, all I saw was a pile of vaguely blonde curls in profile.

She wore her hair longer than before, going a little past her shoulders, and instead of being dyed to sunshine-yellow it was a more natural-looking collection of light hues; a slight copper and nutmeg sheen giving everything a warm glow; a scattering of grays here and there adding sophistication and magnetism. Even with such a wealth of color and experience, it was achingly lustrous and healthy, each curl trying to overcome its sisters. Her hair reminded me of a high meadow; wildflowers in the wind, defiant in the face of oncoming snow.

I could see a pair of smart, trendy glasses, small pendant earrings, lipstick just a shade or two off from her natural lip hue, and subtle touches of makeup. She wore an outfit that most would probably see as flexibly professional but that was casually breathtaking to me, along with a flat metal-and-enamel pin on the lapel of her blazer. It was an orchid.

While still petite and vaguely athletic, of course she wasn't slender and girlish anymore, having matured and become womanly, and no matter her shape she continued to radiate sleek dynamism. I guessed she went to some kind of class a few times a week. I was drawn to her broader, softer hips and less-taut waist, her marginally bigger and less perky bust. I felt my heart race when I saw still-svelte yet slightly thicker and fuller thighs and backside, all of which her knee-length skirt emphasized clearly yet elegantly. And then there were the impressively strong, corded, toned calves below that told a lot about the rest of her for anyone with the eyes and experience to see.

There were subtle new lines on her face to go with the endless fireworks display of small freckles, especially at her temples. I noticed her hands looked different too, the skin thinner and the knuckles slightly wrinkled and larger. Still, every movement was as graceful and controlled as I remembered, even when tapping a credit card to the pay station and quickly tucking her hair behind her ear, then tugging at her jacket.

Her nails were somewhat short, and her manicure was immaculate yet understated. She wore a woven bracelet and a ring or two, but nothing in the place I checked first. On one arm was an even more expensive purse than she'd carried when I'd first met her, and next to her was a worn carry-on suitcase with battered wheels that I realized must have been the source of the singular sound earlier. She still wore short kitten heels.

All of that in the few seconds when my mind still worked.

Finally, she half-turned to face me and I saw her hazel-copper-gold eyes again. I'd known it was her in an instant, but I didn't *know* until then. My memory had done them no justice. I briefly wondered what she saw when she looked at me. The worst Middle Aged Guy version of myself immediately popped into my head. How could I possibly measure up?

I hunted around in my mind for anything to say. The old woman's parting advice to me had evaporated. I had nothing.

"But you like lattes," I said stupidly. I'd ordered them for her so many times at so many coffee shops.

"Lactose and calories, Luke. We're old now, remember?" Dear God, it was that lilting, dancing, golden, mocking, warm, honeyed, foxy voice. She cocked her head slightly, an expectant and playful look on her face, apparently waiting for me to rally back or laugh at her joke.

When I only stared at her, unmoving, I saw her eyes flicker over my face, her smile falter.

"Uh, Luke? Hello?"

Say something, I begged myself, anything. Don't... don't shut down. Please. Not now. Not with her.

The moment stretched on and on. The simple coffee and croissant order was called out on the far end of the counter.

"Hey, come on, Mister," she half-teased, half-pleaded, "That was at least kinda funny. I... Um... I... I know I look a *little* different. But... What's the matter? You're... glad to see me, right? Cat... cat caught your tongue?" She tried to give an encouraging laugh at that, but it came out with a bruised, aching sadness.

Her expression had become worried. Actually, worse than that; she had become guarded and hurt and unsure. She even began to glance down and away from me. She took an unconscious half-step back, and I felt powerless to stop the disaster from playing out.

"No," I said vaguely, not really knowing what I was saying until I already had, "Kitten caught my tongue."

Whether it was my lost tone, my accidental turn of phrase, or the expression on my face, she must have finally realized that I wasn't being cold or stupid or uncaring; I was in shock. Her eyes widened slightly. Erin glanced me up and down. Her lips pressed together, and thankfully worked their way back into a slow, vulpine smirk. Her expression relaxed.

"You, um... you might have to play fetch again," she said quietly, stepping slightly closer again, "So come on. I'm right here... what are you waiting for?" I felt her fingertips at my elbow. I sensed the tiny warmth of her, nearby and waiting. The gentle teasing, the fond memory, her sudden and encompassing nearness beckoned me to follow her words back to the real world.

"I... Erin?" I said quietly. She gave a small, encouraging nod, still watching me, her hopeful expression growing by the second. Those half-tearful eyes gave me my voice back, let my joy burst from me.

"Oh my God! Erin!"

She made a girlish sound and suddenly she was in my arms again, her feet well off the floor, clinging to me like nothing else in the world.

It was the feel of her, the scent of her that finally, truly did it. One not forgotten, only lost. Not false lilacs either; just her. From that special, unique thing that was like her true name, a cascade of sense-memory began to engulf me, threatening to drown me if I didn't control it. It was my instinct to bottle it up. That instinct meant nothing to the scent of Erin, and I let it crash over and through me without any attempt to stifle or control it. I couldn't do that to myself again. Never again, I vowed.