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“I really don’t know when we’re doing this,” I say. “She never answered my question.”
“Dude, it’s today,” he says. “The schedule? On the fridge?”
I stare blankly.
“It has your name on today's date and under that it says ‘on location.’”
I slowly turn. “I don’t even want to know what that means.”
He shrugs and slaps me on the arm. “You’re gonna find out, big guy.”
As he walks away, I mutter, “Can’t wait.”
Then it hits me that Emmy will be there.
Maybe it won’t be so bad.
Thankfully, for the next few hours there are calls that come in that I have to take care of.
Two minor incidents, one involving an old woman who locked herself out of her house and another involving a cat and a bucket.
I’d gladly trade my current situation with the cat.
When I get back to the station, I’m instructed to come back to the common area, and when I do, I find Liz, the photographer, and no Emmy. It hits me that I might’ve actually been looking forward to seeing her, because when I walk in and she’s not there, I’m disappointed.
And then, Liz tells me we’re going over to Book Smart for our photo shoot. “We saved the best for last.” She grins. “Do you want a ride, or do you want to meet us there?”
“Emmy knows we’re coming, right?”
She laughs. “Of course! We sent her a hair and makeup person an hour ago.”
“Really?” I ask. “And she went for that?” Emmy is the least fussy person I know. Knowing they’re going to do her hair and makeup doubles my surprise that she even agreed to do this in the first place.
“What girl doesn’t love to play dress-up?” She picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. “So. Riding with us or. . .?”
“Thanks, but I’ll drive.” This feels like a situation that calls for an exit strategy.
“Don’t skip out on us, Mr. Larrabee.” She points at me, chuckling like she’s joking, but I’d been considering faking a stomach flu or a bomb scare or a sudden emergency hip replacement ever since this morning.
But I’m not about to skip out on Emmy.
Odds are she’s going to feel as awkward about this whole thing as I do—and strangely, that relaxes me a bit.
When I reach Emmy’s shop, Liz is already bustling people out, switching the open sign over to closed and just generally taking charge. I step inside and Marco’s standing there, eyeing me as Ernie packs up their Scrabble board.
John spots me and walks over. “Don’t think we don’t know what you’re up to.”
“I’m not up to anything,” I say. “I’m here for work.”
Ernie scoffs. “Your ‘work’ is trying to turn our Emmy into a harlot.”
Mr. Ridgemont, who is apparently the only sane one of this bunch, pushes Ernie out. “Have fun!” he says, chuckling to himself because I’m pretty sure he knows that nothing about posing for photos is going to be fun. Not for me anyway.
There’s a lull. And I hate small talk—but I feel like I should try to make the best of it.
“Have you, uh, ever been in a photo shoot with the captain, Mrs. D.?” I ask, as I take a seat at the coffee counter.
She gives me a “who me?” laugh of false humility. “Oh, no, Owen. I just organize. No non-firefighters in the calendar. Come to think of it, this is the first time we’ve ever asked someone outside the station to be a part of it!”
