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Not that I was above that or anything, but there was a time and a place for being super thirsty, and his workplace wasn’t it.
My phone buzzed, and when I pulled it from the pocket of my pajama pants I was surprised to see a text from Dylan. It said: Thank you for coming by the firehouse. That was the best thing that happened to me all day.
I told him: It was the high point of my day, too.
He wrote: Here’s my address as promised, for tomorrow night. That was followed by a street address, apartment number, cross streets, information about where to park, and a link to a map of his neighborhood.
It was so thorough that it made me grin. I replied: Thank you. What are you doing right now?
Dylan’s next text said: I’m sitting in the lounge with some of my coworkers. They’re watching a movie, but it’s not holding my interest. I keep expecting the alarm to sound again at any moment. After all those calls today, I feel like it’s inevitable that we’ll get another one this evening, although there’s no actual way of predicting that.
I wrote: I’d be tense all the time if it was me, waiting for an alarm to go off. I don’t know how you do it.
A few moments ticked by, and then another message popped up. The rest of my crew is used to it. I guess I used to take it in stride too, before my anxiety became an issue.
I asked: Have you been a firefighter a long time?
His answer surprised me: Fifteen years. I applied as soon as I turned 19, then went through training for several months and started working when I turned 20. Those are the minimum age requirements for the SFFD. I’m almost 35 now.
I wrote: I’ve never met someone who’s always been on such a clear career path. How did you know that was what you wanted to do?
His reply was spread over several texts: When I was eight years old, our next door neighbor’s house caught fire. It was the middle of the night, and my parents grabbed my sister and me and brought us outside, because they were afraid the fire would spread to our house. It was terrifying. Our neighbors stood with us, crying as they watched their house burn, and we all felt so helpless.
The houses were really close together, and it was just a matter of time before the only home I’d ever known went up, too. But then, the Oakland Fire Department arrived in this huge truck with a screaming siren. This crew of men and women jumped off the truck, and they went to work without fear or hesitation. They put out the fire and saved our house, and from that moment on I knew there was nothing else I could possibly do with my life that was more important than what I’d witnessed.
I replied: Wow, talk about a defining moment. Do you ever wonder what you would have done for a living if you hadn’t witnessed that fire?
Dylan answered with: I think I might have done what my parents wanted me to. They’re both college professors, and they pushed my sister and me toward careers in academia, since it’s been so rewarding for both of them. I did go to college for a semester, before I turned 19 and was able to apply with the fire department. I liked it well enough, but I couldn’t see myself locked away in academia long-term.
I said: Your parents must be so proud of you for the career you ended up choosing.
His next text said: They are, but they worry about me, too.
Before I could reply, another text popped up: I’m going to try to get some rest. Good night, Lark. See you tomorrow.
I replied: Sweet dreams, and waited to make sure he didn’t send anything else, but it seemed he really had gone to bed.
I shone my phone’s flashlight at the ceiling over my bed before turning off all the lights. Then I settled in, stuck my hands behind my head, and stared at the glow-in-the-dark plastic stars above me while I thought about a gorgeous guy named Dylan Hawkins.
11
Lark
I ended up arriving early for my dinner date. After my Lyft drove off, I stood on the sidewalk and looked up at Dylan’s apartment building. Russian Hill was a pretty swanky neighborhood. This four-story building with its dark brown shingle exterior was understated, but there was no question living here must cost big bucks.
What made it obvious was what I liked to call the topiary tipoff. If a building’s front door was framed by a pair of fancy little trees in pots, it was expensive. This particular entryway featured two tall, skinny plants trimmed into perfect spirals, like Dr. Suess trees. That usually meant the landlord could tack on an extra couple of hundred bucks a month to the already jacked up rent.
When a woman with a purse dog left the building, I hurried up the steps and caught the door before it closed. Then I slipped into the lobby and took a look around. There was a seating area with a dark green sofa and chairs on a fancy area rug, stone floors, and a dull landscape painted directly onto the wall. It was definitely posh, but again, it was understated. This was a place for successful people who didn’t want to flash their cash.
I wondered how much firefighters made. Then, because I was nosy AF, I looked it up on the SFFD website. It definitely paid a comfortable salary, but this was one of the most overpriced housing markets in the country. Maybe this building meant Dylan had family money—not that it mattered. I was just curious about him.
At one minute to six, I crossed the lobby to the elevator and pushed the button. While I waited, I checked out my reflection in the highly polished metal door. After a lot of debating, I’d gone with what I jokingly called my boy costume for this date. I was wearing jeans, sneakers, and an oversized hoodie, all in shades of blue. To truly sell the look, I’d even put on a backwards-facing baseball cap. But then, because I was me, I just had to mix it up with my unicorn backpack, which looked like a chubby stuffed animal. Plus, the T-shirt I wore under the hoodie was cropped and mesh, but that was a surprise for later.
I rode the elevator to the top floor and knocked on the door to Dylan’s apartment at six sharp. Nothing happened, so I knocked again. Then I did that a third time.
Maybe I shouldn’t have skipped the buzzer outside the main entrance. I sent Dylan a text letting him know I was here and knocked one more time. Still no response.
Had he gotten called away? Actually, I doubted it. Dylan definitely seemed like someone who was polite enough to send a message if something came up.
