One Fine Fireman by Jennifer Bernard

work?”
    He blinked behind his horn-rims, like a blond, bland owl. “Your work?”
    “Not my waitressing skills. My photography. What do you think, really? Your honest opinion.”
    “Not bad, if you like that sort of thing,” he answered promptly. “Pretty good, in fact. Not my cup of tea, but I’m not ashamed to be marrying the creator.” He offered a conspiratorial smile.
    Not ashamed  . . . hadn’t she read about this in a psychology book? If he came up with the word “ashamed,” then he was ashamed, no matter what he said. Or had been. Maybe he’d convinced himself he wasn’t.
    “Define ‘that sort of thing.’”
    “Excuse me?”
    “That sort of thing. The sort you don’t like but maybe other people do. What sort of thing? Come on, Dunc, it’s not difficult.”
    “What’s gotten into you, baby? You’re not usually like this. And where did you go when you stormed out of the restaurant like that? I’ve been waiting for hours.”
    “Diversion tactic.”
    “What?”
    Never had she been so grateful for her obsession with parenting books. Not that she’d ever imagined she’d be using her knowledge on Duncan.
    “I’m not falling for your diversionary tactics. What sort of thing is it that I create?”
    “Sweetie, it’s not such a big deal. I like photographing people. You like nature. I find nature clichéd. But did you ever think it might be a good thing we’re not in the same field? We’re not competing against each other.” He laughed, as if the entire idea of the two of them competing was, well, laughable.
    She turned away, mostly to avoid throwing something at his smug face. Instantly he was out of the bed and striding to her side. He put his hands on her shoulders just the way Kirk had, but the shivers Duncan inspired felt more like spiders skittering up and down her arms. Time was, he’d been like a meteor streaking through her life at unpredictable moments. Where was all that dazzled, starstruck awe he used to inspire?
    “Come on, baby, let’s table this for tonight. I love you. I want to marry you. Still do, even though you walked out on a fabulous raspberry terrine.”
    “You stayed for dessert?”
    “Ran into an old Exeter friend of mine. We hung out for a while and caught up on old times. What was I supposed to do? Crawl home and hide under the blankets? Watch Lifetime and gorge myself on Haagen-Dazs?”
    She pushed his hands away. The very sight of him, sandy-haired and self-satisfied, his mouth quirked to produce his supposedly witty quip, made her gag. “I’m going to check on Pete.”
    “Honey, we can get through this. After six years together, we can get through anything. Right?”
    But as she gazed at the sleeping lump of her son, she wondered if they’d ever really been “together.” He was never around when she really needed someone, and she’d never asked him to be. He’d been more of a glamorous god occasionally descending into her life. Never a partner or a helpmate.
    Was that a basis for a marriage?
    But the next morning, after a restless night sleeping next to Duncan, who kept trying to throw his leg over her thigh, she knew she wasn’t ready to take any drastic steps. She needed to think things through before she made any irrevocable decisions.
    Around nine, while she was making banana pancake batter, her phone rang. Electric thrills ran through her at the sight of Kirk’s number. Duncan, still in his silk pajamas, was immersed in a new series of text messages and barely noticed when she answered, breathlessly, “Hello?”
    “Maribel, it’s Kirk.” His voice, deep and resonant, brought to mind a quiet wind rustling pines in the forest. Her heart felt as if it would burst out of her throat, it was pounding so hard.
    “How are you?”
    “Embarrassed. Apologetic.”
    “No need. Really.” She shot Duncan a surreptitious look, but he was muttering furiously at his iPhone. “I’m the one who should be.”
    “I . . . uh . . .” He cleared