Page 9 of Falling for My Grumpy Fireman

"Sit. Eat. We'll talk after."

"Talk about what?"

"After, Owen."

The twins come through the kitchen like a two-man hose team, all elbows and volume. One of them stops long enough to look up at me.

"Boys, this is your Uncle Owen. He knew your daddy back when he had hair."

"Are you the fireman from the TV city?"

"I guess I am."

"Daddy says you used to throw up on the Tilt-A-Whirl."

"Your daddy threw up first."

The kid nods like this checks out and runs off. From somewhere down the hall his brother hollers, "MAMA. HE CONFIRMED IT."

Tater doesn't even turn around. "That's slander in my own house."

Dinner is loud. I forgot dinners could be loud in a good way. Debbie loads my plate twice without asking. The twins fight over a roll. Tater tells the story about the Route 9 fire like I hung the moon out there instead of pulling a hose line and getting eleven stitches for my trouble.

Eleven stitches. My forearm itches under the bandage and I think about the nurse who put them there. The eyebrow. The mouth on her. A Labrador who thinks he's a doctor.

And it's not the mouth I'm stuck on. That's the problem. It's the rest of her. The way she leaned across me to set the last stitch and I forgot what my arm was for. There's a shape under those scrubs, and I noticed it, and I've been mad at myself about the noticing ever since.

I stab a piece of brisket harder than it deserves.

"You okay?" Debbie asks.

"Fine."

She looks at my plate. Looks at my face. Says nothing, which from Debbie Sue is louder than a siren.

After, the twins get sent to the bath and Debbie disappears with them, and it's me and Tater and two cups of coffee on the back porch. The sky out here still does the thing I forgot it does. Goes purple at the edges. Stacks up stars like it's showing off.

Tater lets the quiet sit a minute. Then he sets his mug down.

"Here's the deal."

"There it is."

"Department's short. Bad short. Hendricks moved to Lubbock, Ramos blew out his knee, and I got two kids fresh off probation who couldn't find a hydrant with a map and a prayer." He rubs the back of his neck. "Engine's twenty-six years old, Owen. Held together with baling wire and the good Lord's patience. That's what the fundraiser's for, but a new truck don't drive itself."

"Tater."

"Your certifications transfer. I checked. Already talked to the chief."

"Tater."

"Ninety days. That's it. You said yourself you're here for the summer. Ride with me like the old days, keep my green kids alive, and go back to Chicago in October if that's what you want."

If that's what you want. Like there's a question in it.

"I'm on leave," I say. "You know what that means. It means Chicago doesn't want me on a truck right now."

"Chicago doesn't know you."