Heat Above the City

Regina Reyes was twenty-eight years old and lying flat on her back on a warehouse roof in the middle of July, and she was thinking about her ex-boyfriend. Again. Some things didn't change no matter how many tar buckets you hauled up a ladder.

Clay had been gone three months now. Six years down the drain, and he'd left her for a woman who worked at a bank. A bank! Regina made more money in a month than that woman made in two, and she fixed roofs with her bare hands while Clay's new girlfriend filed paperwork in air conditioning. So why did it still sting?

"Because he took six years of your life and then told you to relax more," she said out loud to nobody. The nobody didn't answer. The sun did its thing instead, beating down on her shoulders like it had a personal grudge.

She spread the patch with the squeegee and pressed it flat. The tar was black and glossy and smelled like money, the good kind, the kind she charged by the square foot. Up here nobody asked her if she was okay. Up here nobody texted her at eleven at night asking if she'd eaten. Up here it was just her, the heat shimmering off the brick walls of the Meridian District, and a pigeon that kept giving her a look like she owed it money.

"This is fine," she told the pigeon. "This is totally fine. I'm twenty-eight and I live alone and I talk to birds. Totally fine."

The pigeon flew off. Even the pigeon had somewhere better to be.

* * *

Back down on the ground, Anne Weaver was waiting by the van with two bottles of water and the exact expression Regina had been dreading all day. Anne was forty-three and had worked roofs since she was twenty-two, and she had the annoying superpower of reading Regina's whole mood from thirty feet away.

"You did it again," Anne said, handing her a bottle.

"Did what?"

"You talked to yourself on the roof. Ronnie heard you from the next building over. He says you were going on about a bank."

Ronnie was a liar and a gossip and Regina was going to have words with him. "It was a pigeon conversation, and it was private."

"Oh, a pigeon conversation. Well, that's totally normal then." Anne cracked her own bottle and took a long drink. "Girl, when's the last time you went on a date?"

"Why does everybody ask me that?"

"Because everybody's worried about you! You come to work, you fix roofs, you go home, you microwave something, you watch those dumb house shows, you sleep. That's not a life, that's a rotation."

"That is a life. That's a great life. That's a life people aspire to."

"Name one person who aspires to that."

Regina opened her mouth. Closed it. Drank her water instead, which was a classic move and got her nowhere, because Anne just stood there with her hip cocked and her eyebrows up, waiting like a toll booth.

"Okay, fine," Regina said. "It's been a while. Since before Clay even, honestly, because he hated when I went out with friends. Happy now?"

"Ecstatic. Not happy for you, mind, but the point stands." Anne dug her phone out of her back pocket. "So here's what you're gonna do. You're gonna download one of those apps."

"Anne."

"I'm serious! What's the worst that happens? Nothing matches with you and you delete it in a week and nobody ever knows."

"And what's the best that happens?"

"Best case? Some nice roofer-adjacent man with his own truck buys you dinner and you remember you're a person." Anne wiggled the phone at her. "Come on. Right now. While I'm standing here. I'm not leaving until you do it."

"You are the worst."

"I am the best, and you know it."

So Regina, sweating and defeated and secretly a little curious, pulled out her phone and downloaded the app right there in the parking lot next to the tar buckets. It felt like admitting something in public. She made her profile with all the enthusiasm of filling out a permit form. Name, age, a photo of her from the work picnic where she actually looked decent in that green shirt. Occupation: roofing contractor. She typed and deleted three different bios before landing on "I fix roofs and I will not fix yours."

"That's the one," Anne said over her shoulder. "That's got personality. Now swipe around, see who's out there."

"Can we go home first? I have tar in my hair."

"You absolutely have tar in your hair. Fine. But you swipe tonight and you report back tomorrow. Deal?"

"Deal. Now get off my van!"

* * *

That night, back in her apartment with the fan going full blast and the window open to the city heat, Regina actually did it. She sat on her couch in shorts and an old band shirt and swiped left on what felt like two hundred men holding fish. Why did they all hold fish? Was there a memo?

Then she hit a profile that stopped her thumb.

No photo. Just a dark square where the picture should be, and a name that read J. And one line of bio, sitting there alone like a man on an empty bus.

I like high places.

Regina stared at it. She laughed out loud, alone in her apartment, which was also totally fine and normal.

"High places," she said to the ceiling fan. "Sir, that is a red flag or a roofing contractor or a serial killer, and honestly it could be all three."

But she tapped on it anyway, because at this point what did she have to lose. The profile said his age as thirty-two. No other photos, no other details, no job, no school. Just that one line and a name with no last name. This was either the most boring profile on the app or the most interesting one, and boring had not been doing it for her lately.

She typed before she could talk herself out of it.

So you like high places. Like a bird? A mountain goat? A guy who stands on chairs at parties? I need specifics, J.

She hit send and immediately put the phone face down on the couch cushion, like it was hot. Which was ridiculous, because odds were good the guy was fake or dead or had made that profile in 2019 and forgotten the password.

The phone buzzed before she'd even finished her glass of water.

She scrambled for it, and hated herself a little for how fast she scrambled, and read the reply.

A guy who stands on chairs at parties. Also rooftops, when I can manage it. You're the one who fixes roofs, if I read your profile right.

Okay, so he could read. Promising. She typed back.

That's right. Regina Reyes, Meridian Roofing, best patches in the district. And you're avoiding the question. What kind of person puts "I like high places" on a dating app with no photo? Are you in witness protection? Are you a ghost?

Three little dots appeared, then stopped, then appeared again. Like he was actually thinking about it, which most guys on the app did not do. Most guys had a routine and a wink emoji ready to go.

Not a ghost. I just don't take great pictures. And rooftops are where the interesting things happen. Don't you think? You must see the whole city from your work.

Regina thought about the warehouse roof that afternoon, the heat shimmer, the pigeon, the way the whole Meridian District looked from up there, all rust and laundry lines and brick going soft in the sun. She did love that view. She'd never said that out loud to anyone because what kind of weirdo loves a roof?

Okay, weirdo, she typed. You got me. I do like the view. But you still owe me a photo, because I'm not meeting a blank square on a fire escape at midnight. Anne would kill me. She's already mad I didn't swipe more.

The dots came back almost instantly.

Fair. What if I skip the photo and just show you the view instead? Tomorrow, dusk, the corner of Slater and Ninth. There's a fire escape on the brick building there with the green awning. Best spot in the district, and I can prove it.

Regina sat up straight on the couch. That building was eight blocks from her apartment. That fire escape was on a route she walked twice a week.

You want me to climb a fire escape with a stranger, she typed. That's either the best or worst first date idea I've ever heard, and I once had a guy take me to a parking garage.

Who won? The parking garage or this?

She laughed again. Two laughs in one night, and it wasn't even ten o'clock.

Neither yet. But fine. Slater and Ninth, dusk, tomorrow. If you're a serial killer I want you to know I carry a crowbar for work.

I'd expect nothing less, Regina Reyes, best patches in the district. See you at dusk.

She put the phone down and looked at the ceiling, grinning like an idiot. Tomorrow she was going to climb a fire escape to meet a man with no photo who liked high places. Anne was going to lose her mind.

She went to bed smiling anyway.

The next day dragged like wet tar. Regina did two patch jobs, argued with a supplier about shingles, and drank half her water bottle before noon because the heat off the bricks was brutal. All day she kept checking her phone like it owed her money.

"Who are you texting?" Ronnie asked, leaning on the ladder.

"Nobody."

"Your thumbs say somebody."

"Mind your own business, Ronnie."

He grinned and went back to his side of the roof. Anne just looked at her over lunch and said, "So? Are you meeting him or not?"

"Tonight. Dusk. Slater and Ninth."

"On a fire escape."

"It's a good fire escape, Anne. Solid bolts. I checked it last month."

Anne put down her sandwich. "You checked the bolts on a date spot."

"I'm a professional."

"You're a lunatic is what you are. Take the crowbar."

At six forty she packed up, went home, showered, and stood in front of her closet like it was a math problem. She was twenty-eight and had been out of the game so long she didn't even know what the game was anymore. Finally she just put on jeans and the green shirt from the picnic photo. If he couldn't handle the green shirt, he wasn't worth a fire escape.

She walked the eight blocks with her crowbar in her bag, which made her feel better and also slightly insane. The sun was going down and the whole district glowed orange, heat still pouring off the brick walls like the buildings had been