“Now do it again.”
I untie, then do it again.
Ten more times.
The other pairs have already thrown their ladders against the wall and are standing around, laughing and chatting. Get your head in the game, Sullivan.
The siren goes off with the mechanical voice calling out the specifics: “Engine 6, Ambulance 59, RTA on Division and Cicero.” Everyone goes on alert with Roman calling out instructions.
“All right, move it!” And then to me, “You stay here, Sullivan, and practice your clove hitch.”
I open my mouth to respond but the crew is already bustling toward the equipment bay, except for Danny who quickly throws the ladder against the wall. Then he’s on his way with a smile and a shrug. He seems like a nice guy, and while his gabbiness distracted me, that screw-up was totally my fault. I need to focus more and put thoughts of Diner Dude out of mind.
I follow the crew back into the bay. They’re grabbing jackets and stepping into their boots, an efficient ballet of movement and coordination. My gear is ready—I checked it myself less than thirty minutes ago. “Lieutenant?”
Roman looks up, his foot halfway into his boot, those cool, hazel-green eyes assessing me.
“Yeah?”
“I—I want to go on this run. I shouldn’t be stuck here where I can’t learn anything.”
It’s completely the wrong thing to say. His expression turns stormy, those eyes dimming to a blackness I feel shriveling my internal organs.
But when he speaks, it’s like I imagined that look.
“Yeah, but we’re already heading out.” His tone is patient, measured. “Listen, walk back to the admin office and ask for Billy. Tell her I sent you. We’ll talk when I get back.”
Okay, so that’s not too bad. I’m not on the run but at least the LT isn’t mad at me for speaking out of turn. I just want him to know I’m ready for this. Within sixty seconds, the crew is on the truck, heading out. Poetry in motion.
An eerie quiet descends on the station now that the crew has left. I head toward the administrative offices, stopping at the Wall of the Fallen on the way. There’s another one at the Fire Academy, also known as the Quinn, honoring all the heroes lost in the line of duty since the founding of CFD, but this one at Engine 6 is more personal.
This was my mom’s house—and now it’s mine.
“Hey, Mom, I’m here,” I whisper. “I wish you could see me, though maybe not today when I’ve not been at my best. But I promise to make you proud.” I kiss my fingertips and transfer it to her photo. A whisper of cool air hits my neck—perhaps a door opening farther down the corridor—but ever the sentimentalist, I interpret it as a message from the beyond.
The administrative suite is around the corner from the lieutenants’ offices. I poke my head past the door and spot a dark-haired Black woman about my age sitting behind a desk.
“Hey, I’m looking for Billy.”
“That’s me.” She looks up and smiles a sun blast of a grin. “Billie with an e. You must be Candidate Sullivan.”
“The very one.”
“Heard you hurled this morning. How are you feeling?”
“Better, thanks. Anyway, the lieutenant said I should stop by.”
She narrows her eyes, that bright smile a thing of the past. “What exactly did he say? Word for word.”
Unfortunately the shape of his lips are embedded in my brain, so I remember it verbatim.
“‘Ask for Billie. Tell her I sent you.’”
Her mouth twists in a grimace. “You must have really pissed him off.”
“What? No, he was fine. Just told me to … uh, talk to you.”
She stands, smooths out her short skirt—a super cute tobacco-colored suede—and takes a deep let’s-do-this breath. “Come with me.”
Confused by her reaction, I trail her to a door further down the corridor. She opens it to reveal a utility closet with a mop bucket and cleaning supplies.
“If you get started now, you might have it done by the time they get back from this run. The RTAs don’t usually take as long as fire suppression calls.”
A chill rolls through me. “Get started on what?”
“Latrine duty. You’re it until the LT says you’re not.”
“But I didn’t—wait, what?”
She smiles in pity. “I’m guessing you backtalked or disobeyed an order?” She doesn’t even wait for confirmation. “If he tells you to come see me, that’s what he means. You’re it.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. See you on the other side.”
Nine
Roman
“You going on another date, Daddy?”
I eye the reflection of the questioner in the mirror. The query might sound innocent enough but even an eleven-year-old knows how to yank my chain.
“Nope. Decided there’s only one girl for me.”
“Who? Aunt Chiara?”
I pull my daughter—the only girl for me—into a bear hug, which results in “No, Dad! Let me go!” and then a flurry of giggles. She’s still my little girl even if she’s growing like a weed before my eyes.
The last three months have been tough but she appears to be settling. Doing okay at school, making friends, finding her place. I’ve tried getting her to talk about her mom but she always changes the subject. That worries me but I don’t want to force her into dad-daughter therapy sessions that would just upset the delicate balance we have right now. I know she has to be hurting. Her mother essentially gave up custody without a fight.
“Did your aunt put you up to this?” My sister’s been angling for more information about the other night. Had I called? When was the next official date?
I’d kept it zipped. No more thinking about it, either, though it’s easier said than done. As much as I try to expel Abby—Candidate Sullivan—from my mind, it’s hard not to think about the first woman to light my fire in years. The bitch of a universe must have it in for me.
I hold on to Lena as we head down the stairs. She relaxes in my arms and I let myself absorb her soft body and sweet breath against my neck.
“You do your homework?”
A moment’s hesitation I recognize all too well. “Yes.”
“What do you have left to do?”
“Her math problems.” Chiara appears at the bottom of the stairs.
“I won’t be gone long, just a round or two.” I place Lena down. “Math homework better be done by the time I come back. I’ll check.”
Chiara and Lena laugh evilly.
“I didn’t say I’d know what I’m looking at but I’ll know if you did it. I always do.”
“Sure, Dad,” Lena says as she heads to Chiara’s kitchen. She likes to do her homework there while her aunt fusses about. “Good luck finding my new mommy.”
“Cheeky.” But she’s already gone.
“Those firefighter bars are probably crawling with women,” Chiara comments. “Hell, if I wasn’t loved up, I’d be headed down there looking for a many-muscled queen for myself.”