The air is charged, electric with something I can’t identify.
Well, I can. It’s sex but more. It’s connection.
“Well, I’m not sure how much the crew loves me, my sister most definitely does not adore me, but my sweet girl? I hope she still likes me. I’ve got to appreciate this time with her before she figures out it’s cooler to hate me.”
“Just be there for her. That’s what she needs.” She returns to the truck, sponge at the ready, only now she’s attacking the paintwork with even more vigor. There’s emotion fueling that cleaning action.
“You talk to your dad lately?”
The sponge pauses. “He left a message the other day, asked me to call him.”
“And?”
She shrugs. “I didn’t. He barely spoke to me at my academy graduation and two weeks later he gives me a call?”
“Maybe he’s had a change of heart. Dads do that all the time.”
“You’re taking his side?”
“Never.” Her smile ignites something inside me, something I haven’t felt in forever. Maybe never. Every time she flashes it, my heart flutters in recognition.
Damn universe.
Damn Chiara.
Fifteen
Abby
Sunday dinner at Aunt Kathleen’s in Bridgeport on Chicago’s South Side is a tradition I leaned into during my academy training, once Dad and I were on the outs.
My besties have leaned into it, too. One day I invited Jude and Sam over, and quicker than you can say corned-beef-and-cabbage, the boys had earned regular spots at my aunt’s table with knee-melting smiles and enough charm to fell a middle-aged Irish woman who should really know better. Now they visit, even when I’m not around.
Today is the first Sunday we all have off, so we’ve come to pay homage to the Queen of Bridgeport in exchange for an excellent home-cooked meal, Harp lager, and Portuguese egg tarts from a Hong Kong-style bakery in Chinatown (a Jude discovery). I’ve been hoping for some easy downtime with my nearest and dearest, an opportunity to forget about my inconvenient attraction to one hot-as-Hades commanding officer.
Fat chance. All anyone wants to talk about is Roman Rossi, given that he’s a “foreigner” (“all the way from New York,” per my aunt), a blow-in (“whose dick did he suck to get that promotion?” in the wise words of my cousin Jackie’s husband, Johno, he of the shamrock-tattooed ass), and a stone-cold fox.
I didn’t say that. Jude did.
Jackie, who got a good look at him in Dempseys’, is in full agreement.
And now my aunt, who’s looking at his finally-posted photo on the CFD intranet, is making her own pronouncement: “Wouldn’t throw him out of bed for eating Taytos.”
Taytos are Irish potato chips. We’re in the living room, hoovering them up through our chip-holes while we wait for the roast to be done.
You’ve got to give it to the CFD official photog—they sure know how to make an already hot prospect look even more enticing. In his firefighter dress blues, Roman’s grumpy-seriousness is on perfect display, made all the more attractive by that crease at the bridge of his nose, the one I want to rub so I can smooth away the stress that’s buried there.
Those sparks of connection between Roman and me, the embers I’ve tried to douse with water, were healthily glowing while we cleaned that fire truck, and when he pushed that strand of hair behind my ear, I almost combusted.
I wonder if he’s home with his family—“my girls” he said, be still and all that—ready to tuck into a Sunday meal. Maybe Lena baked something and they’re chilling. Seeing him with his daughter a couple of nights ago melted something inside me. Then hearing about his ex and how she bailed on motherhood was hard. I can’t judge a woman I don’t know but I can sympathize with a man who’s trying his damnedest to do right by his daughter.
Bonus feels: It makes me miss my dad.
“He’s already managed to piss off Chuck,” Johno says after a swig of beer.
“Wouldn’t be hard.” Kathleen eyes me. “You spoken to your dad?”
Great, my other no-go topic. “I left him a message on Friday. I haven’t heard back.” Roman had observed that my dad might have had a change of heart, so I returned the call, and now he’s it. My gaze strays to the mantle, where my aunt has a zillion photos in frames. My mom and dad look so happy on their wedding day, her long red hair cascading down her back, him gazing at her with such ardent love. She was already three months gone with me, but there was nothing shotgun about it. No one doubted their commitment to each other.
“It’s hard for him,” my aunt says. “You know that.”
“Ma, stop blaming the victim!” Jackie rolls her eyes at me and gives the “hark at her” head tilt I know like the back of my hand. “It’s not Abby’s fault that Uncle Chuck is such an asshole.”
“Less of that language from you. I’m not blaming her, I just want you all to get along. And I don’t want to lose any of my kids. I agree with your uncle there!”
“You’re not going to lose anyone,” Sam soothes while my aunt shakes her head and runs a hand through her graying red hair. My mom probably would have looked like her if she lived. These moments with her are always bittersweet.
At Sam’s querying look for me to keep the peace I didn’t even upend, I launch into the usual platitudes about my safety. “So far I haven’t seen any dangerous action. It’s all little old ladies who can’t get up and bad drivers.”
“You used the Hurst tool yet?” Johno asks after a particularly loud burp.
“No, not yet.”
And he’s off, soon joined by Sam and Jude, who, of course, have both had multiple opportunities to rip open cars with the Jaws of Life. Not that I want anyone to be in significant danger on my shift, but it would be nice to see more variety.
Feeling left out, I follow my aunt into the kitchen and watch as she bastes the roast. I could offer to help but she’ll only shoot me down. Once, while setting the table, I put a fork three millimeters too far to the right and she turned into Carson from Downton Abbey telling one of the footmen what a failure he was.
When she stands and shuts the oven door, I hug her from behind. “You okay?”
“Of course I am.” But she relaxes into me all the same and pats my clasped hands. “I told him he needs to get that Halligan out of his ass and call you.”
“Well, he did and now we’re playing phone tag.”
She turns in my arms and cups my face fondly. “He’ll come around. Jo would be so proud of you.”
“I hope so. I feel her at the firehouse. Or I think I do.” I shoot a look over my shoulder to ensure we’re alone. “I talk to her photo at 6 when no one’s around.”
“Of course you do. I talk to her as well. And you know what she says?”
I have my suspicions but I wait expectantly all the same.
“When is my Abby going to settle down?”
Jesus, I’m twenty-five. Of course, my mom was married at twenty-four and dead by thirty. “My mother talks to you from the grave and that’s her big concern?”