Reluctantly, I turn around. “Chief,” I greet, adjusting my backpack strap over my shoulder, switching my weight back and forth in my work boots. I changed out of my station wear after I showered, having had time this morning for a run on the treadmill and lift at the station gym. The warm May morning is bright, the brisk breeze causing locks of my damp hair to fall over my forehead.
“How was your first shift back?” he asks, his hands on his hips. The Northshore fire chief looks about ten years younger than his 55 years. He’s tall and solid with a square jaw covered in gray and white stubble with deep-set eyes, sharp beneath a furrowed brow. His salt and pepper hair is neatly combed, and I can’t help but see my future when I look at him.
Or the future I used to picture for myself.
“Good,” I answer, not feeling the need to elaborate. I’m sure Anderson will give him a full run-down if he hasn’t done so already. I open the truck door, throwing my backpack on the seat before closing it and leaning back against it.
“Glad to hear it,” the chief says with a nod of his head. “Well, listen. Before you head out, I wanted to remind you about those therapy sessions. Have you?—”
I cut him off. “Sorry, Chief. I got to go. Can this wait?”
Chief Sanders furrows his brows as he watches me carefully. Waiting for his answer gives me a feeling of unease—the way he looks me up and down, cataloguing my current state, adds to my discomfort.
“We’ll talk Friday,” he finally says. “My office, after the shift change briefing before you leave. Don’t be late.”
He turns to head back into the station, and my shoulders drop in relief as I exhale the breath I was holding.
Yes, the therapy sessions were non-negotiable when I came back, but Ijustgot back. I’m not ready to walk back to that office and watch that stupid candle burn and listen to the stupid grief analogies and talk about stupid shit as if it’ll actually change anything.
Therapy is for people who can’t handle their own problems—I’m not about to sit in a room and cry to some stranger like that’s gonna bring anyone back or change what happened.
I got through my first shift with routine calls—riding into a scene with the lights and sirens got easier as the hours ticked by, but talking won’t make the threats of the panic attacks go away.
It won't make having to suit up and head straight into a fire—the job I was trained for yet can’t even think about for more than five seconds without feeling like I’m having a heart attack—any less terrifying.
CHAPTER 16
RUMI
Waking up this morning,the scent of berries and sugar literally pulls me out of bed and toward the kitchen.
“Good morning, sleepy head,” Ava sing-songs over the audiobook she has playing from her phone as I walk out of my bedroom, having just grabbed Evee from her crib next to my bed. She presses pause on her phone. “I’m making your favorite.”
“What’s the occasion? You haven’t made me blueberry muffins since my birthday last month,” I say, setting Evee down in her high chair. I can’t help the yawn that escapes as I sit, having been more tired than I thought after an open-to-close shift and theexcitementof last night as Ava called it when I filled her in after Jack left.
“Don’t you think your hot firefighter will be hungry after fixing our new door?” she asks, grabbing fresh blueberries from the colander next to the mixing bowl and throwing in a few handfuls before setting some down on Evee’s high chair tray. “I hope he doesn’t mind the vegan version. They’re definitely not as good as my original recipe,” she teases—trying to get a rise out of me when I’ve barely opened my eyes—the raise of her brows andthe too-big grin on her face gives her away. “And we learned last night that you and the oven need some distance.”
“You’re hilarious. Has anyone ever told you that?” I deadpan, reaching for the mixing bowl and pulling it toward me, taking over the stirring of the batter.
“I figured you deserved a treat after your night of self-care was interrupted.” She sticks her finger in the batter, sweeping some off the side before giving it a taste.
I swore I was going to take the wholemasturbating in the bathtub and almost setting my house on firedebacle to the grave, but Ava saw right through me when I said I was in the shower too long and forgot to set a timer for the cookies.
You may have fooled Jack, but you’re not fooling me, she said.
“We’re not talking about this anymore,” I say, focusing on mixing the batter as Ava starts putting liners in the muffin tray she pulled out. “And he’s not my ‘hot firefighter’. He’s my friend, thanks to you I should add.”
“I’ll tell you what, Rue. When I said I wanted you to make a friend on Tuesday, I thought it would be Drew, Mia, or even Annie. Color me impressed that it ended up being Jack of all people.” I shake my head, passing the mixing bowl to her, so she can start pouring it into the tin. “And who knows where that kind offriendshipcan go,” she adds.
I groan. “Please don’t start this again,” I complain. “I did what you asked. I made a friend. Now, leave me alone.”
“Okay, okay.” Ava puts her hands up in surrender. “But you can’t blame me for being invested.”
Before I can tell her there is nothing to be invested in, there’s a knock on the front door.
Both Ava and I look toward the sound and then back at each other.
“Speak of the firefighter,” she says, nodding toward the door. “Go answer it.”
