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“Makes sense.”
He watched me for a moment before asking, “Are you okay with this news?”
I chose my words carefully, which was a lot different than my usual approach of blurting out anything that came to mind. “I’m going to miss you for sure, but it’s not like you’re going very far. We’ll still see each other all the time.”
“Definitely.”
I put the cocoa on the coffee table and got up as I said, “I need to visit the restroom. I’ll be right back.” Then I calmly left the room.
Once I was in the bathroom with the door shut behind me, I exhaled slowly and worked on not crying. Casey and Theo didn’t need to see me upset. Those two were an amazing couple who absolutely belonged together, and I really was happy for them.
It was just that I always had a hard time with people I cared about moving on and leaving me behind. A few years back, I’d dated a smug college student who was majoring in psychology, and he used to love to analyze me. According to him, about ninety percent of my personality was a response to my massive abandonment issues, from when my parents disowned me and almost everyone else in my family turned their back on me.
Ninety percent was an exaggeration, but the rest of it rang true. If it was up to me, I’d gather up all the people I loved and keep them with me forever…not like, locked in the basement or anything. That kind of made me sound like a psycho. I probably wasn’t a psycho though, because if I was, that smug college dude definitely would have told me.
After a few minutes, I flushed the toilet to sell the idea that I’d really been using the bathroom, instead of hiding and trying to get it together. I paused to look in the mirror and frowned at my reflection as I pushed the unicorn hood off my head. Then I tried to smile as I went to join my friends.
9
Dylan
I felt awful about running off after Lark and I shared a kiss. That obviously hadn’t been the right thing to do, and I owed him an explanation.
But how could I explain suddenly finding myself overwhelmed and confused, because I’d felt a spark and that had never happened with anyone other than my husband? How could I tell him I was racked with guilt about that, because I felt like I was cheating on a man who’d been gone for years?
That was too much to put into a text. It was also way too much to dump on a virtual stranger, just a couple of days after meeting him.
I had to say something, though. He needed to know I was the person he’d kissed, and I wanted to apologize for leaving without saying anything. I’d logged on to send him a message when I got home from the party and discovered he’d already messaged me. He’d even randomly mentioned the kiss he’d shared with a stranger, who’d then disappeared on him. How weird was it going to seem to him when he found out that was me?
I’d started to write a reply, but it turned into a jumbled mess so I deleted it. In the morning, I tried again. I was about to leave for work, and at this point I just needed to say anything, so he didn’t think I’d ghosted him.
I decided to keep it simple. Even though there was a lot I needed to tell him, it would be so much easier to have an actual conversation at some point, instead of trying to write it all out. The message I ended up sending said: Hey, Happy New Year. So, funny story. You know that guy you kissed at midnight? That was me. Sorry I left without saying anything. I’m on my way to work, but I’d like to talk to you sometime soon. By the way, my name is Dylan Hawkins.
I reread the message and decided it was better than nothing. Then I stuck the phone in my pocket and checked my reflection in the mirror inside my closet door. I was dressed in dark blue work pants and a matching T-shirt, with the fire department logo on the left side of my chest. We also had dress uniforms, but this more casual uniform was what we normally wore at the station when there were no special events planned.
After I tightened the laces on my black work boots, I pulled on a department-issued windbreaker and picked up my tote bag. Time to shift back into work mode. I took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, and then I straightened my posture and left the apartment.
Our shifts began and ended at eight a.m., but most of us usually got to the station about twenty minutes early. That gave us time to gather in the kitchen and chat over coffee, along with some of the outgoing crew.
Then at eight sharp, we sat down with our coffee around the long kitchen table, and our shift leader delivered the morning briefing. This was a time to discuss any special events or scheduled visits to the station, tasks that needed to get done that day, and our individual assignments.
Usually, the briefings went off without a hitch. But this time, we didn’t even make it five minutes before the alarm sounded. It was always jarring. My heart started pounding and my adrenaline surged as all of us leapt to our feet.
The next minute passed like a choreographed dance, each move practiced countless times—rush to the ground floor, pull on our waiting fire equipment, board the ladder truck, go, go, go. The door at the front of the bay rattled open automatically, and we put on our headphones to shield us from the piercing siren as the huge vehicle lunged forward.
We shot through the city streets, surging up and over the hills, blaring the horn at intersections to avoid a collision. We were responding to a call for a possible structural fire, but there was no way of knowing what we’d find until we got there. I clutched the grab bar beside my seat, weighed down under my heavy helmet and fire suit, and concentrated on my breathing as I tried not to think.
We arrived on the scene in a matter of minutes and scanned the building as the truck came to a stop. There was no visible fire or smoke, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything.
As we piled out of the truck, we were met by a skinny guy in boxers and a tank top. He waved his arms and yelled, “Sorry, false alarm! I’m the one who called, because I smelled smoke and heard a fire alarm going off. Turns out it was just my neighbor, who’s a complete moron. He put some leftover pizza in the oven for breakfast, then forgot about it and went out to walk his dog. He’s back home now, and the pizza’s burned to a crisp, but there’s no actual fire.”
We still had to go into the building and perform a thorough sweep, because that was protocol. It turned out to be exactly what the guy in his underwear had said, and as we trudged back to the truck sometime later, Malone muttered, “It’s going to be one of those days.”
Unfortunately, he was right about that. We went out on five more calls over the next few hours, two of them back-to-back. Some shifts were just like that, while others might not result in a single call.
They all proved to be either false alarms or things we could easily handle, but they still took their toll. Every time our alarm went off, there was that accompanying shot of adrenaline, which carried us through the call. We could barely recover from one adrenaline surge and the crash that followed before we were bombarded with another.
Malone and I were assigned to kitchen duty—by choice, since we actually enjoyed cooking—and we ended up getting a late start on dinner after returning from yet another call. My friend was running on a hell of a lot of caffeine at that point, and he was loud and animated.
