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“That’s why she’s not here tonight,” Ollie calls, “she’s at a casino, fleecing tourists.”
I snort, and for a second, the ache in my chest loosens. I remember those nights—Camdyn’s laugh echoing off these greasy tiles, trying to distract us with stories while she stacked the deck, making this place feel like more than a firehouse.
The conversation shifts to who’s on shift next holiday and whether Jay set the bread on fire last Thanksgiving (he did), but every so often, Dad catches my eye. He’ll wait. He always does.
Probie tries for another breadstick, only to get swatted by Finn, another firefighter, with salad tongs. “Sorry, kid—those are for winners.”
I lean back, room buzzing with laughter and stories, and think: If Camdyn were here, she’d be rolling her eyes and stealing the last breadstick anyway.
One day, maybe she will be again.
The table’s chaos—someone’s dumped garlic bread straight onto the table, and the spaghetti comes in a stock pot that looks like it’s survived a few fires.
“Hey, Probie, you forgot to strain the noodles,” Owen says, holding up a spaghetti strand that’s basically soup. “We eating pasta or swimming in it?”
“Just building your immune system,” Probie shoots back, grinning. “Hydration’s important.”
Somewhere, Jay dumps an entire bottle of parmesan onto Probie’s lap, and when he stands, a white dust cloud erupts.
“You look like you crawled out of a flour mill,” Dad teases, earning a round of hoots.
When dessert shows up—a lopsided pan of brownies—there’s an immediate standoff. “Nobody touch these till we ID whose hair that is,” someone says, peering at a suspicious strand.
The laughter is loud, genuine, and for the first time in days, I let myself get swept up in it. The guys keep it going, trading stories about calls gone wrong, glitter bombs in helmets, and a story about me being conceived on the truck. There are plenty of stories that both me and my sister were conceived here. We laugh it off—honestly, it’s probably true.
Every now and then, a pang cuts through the noise—Camdyn and I used to come here all the time. We’d squeeze around this table, try to outdo each other with breadstick stunts, sneak cookies when no one was looking.
Now, it’s just me.
The guys start clearing out—Jay and Finn arguing over whose turn it is to do dishes (Probie loses, obviously).
The kitchen empties, noise fading like a dimmer switch, until it’s only me and Dad at the table, surrounded by empty plates and the lingering smell of garlic.
Dad leans back, coffee mug in hand. The same mug he’s had since I was a kid, Seattle FD logo faded to nothing. He doesn’t say anything, just waits. Classic Dad move—the silence that makes you want to fill it.
I trace a water ring on the table with my finger.
He nods. “You know I’m here for you.”
“I know.” I scrub a hand over my face. “Not really in a talking mood lately.”
“It might help.”
I let out a breath. “Yeah.”
The station’s quiet now. Only the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant crash of Probie dropping every pot in the kitchen.
Dad sips his coffee, studies me over the rim. “You know, your mom and I broke up before I could step up to the plate.”
I look up. “Really?”
“Yeah. I wasn’t ready for a relationship and couldn’t handle drama or myself. And her dad hated me.”
I laugh. “Grandpa Wes seems so chill now.” I could—though I haven’t seen it—imagine Weston Wellington as a hard-ass. He owns a bunch of hotels, but I’ve only seen the guy who sends me fat “college cash” checks and has my last high school home run ball in his office.
Dad stares at his coffee. “He didn’t think I was good enough for your mom, and I wasn’t, but it didn’t stop me from loving her.”
I eye his chief’s uniform and slump in my chair. “This is different.”