Page 20

JACK

I knew I wasn’t going to get too good of sleep at the station last night—I don’t remember the last time I slept more than three or four hours or wasn’t woken up by a fit of nightmares that left me breathing heavily, a sheen of sweat over my skin.

Plus, I was on call.

But last night was the first night my lack of sleep wasn’t because of the past that seems to be haunting me no matter how much I try to forget it. Instead, it was because I was stuck thinking about two sets of pretty blue eyes, the smell of vanilla and orange, and a blushing smile.

My new friend is dangerous—I knew that from the second I found her behind the counter at Hey Honey’s and again at the bar at Lenny’s.

But it was further confirmed last night when pure chance brought us together.

Or, more accurately, a burnt tray of cookies.

I think Bennett would be laughing his ass off if I told him I was up all night thinking about a girl when I’m as emotionally available as rock, but I think he’d agree with me that there was nothing wrong with a harmless friendship.

A harmless friendship with a woman whose life was in my hands almost a year ago, the same woman I thought about almost every day as a way to keep my mind off my best friend, the same woman whose scream made me rush into a potential fire without a second thought—something I never thought I’d be able to do again.

But thinking that Bennett would be on my side of this masochistic decision doesn’t help my case in the least bit. Not when he was as dumb as me when it came to this shit.

My 24-hour shift ended a few minutes ago—we just finished our briefing with the crew coming on for the next shift—and I’m walking out to my truck to head to the hardware store and then over Rumi’s.

I wasn’t kidding when I told her that I didn’t want to leave her with a fucked up door longer than necessary—and I can’t lie and say my lack of sleep was also from not wanting to miss if she called me.

I unlock my truck, reaching for the passenger side door to throw my stuff in, but my name rings in the air.

“Hasting!” The loud, assertive voice causes my arm to freeze midair, ripping me from my thoughts of which hardware store is the closest and needing to stop at my mom’s and grab my old toolkit from the basement.

I thought I’d get lucky and make it through my shift without running into Chief Sanders, but I should’ve known it was too good to be true.

Reluctantly, I turn around. “Chief,” I greet, adjusting my backpack strap over my shoulder, switching my weight back and forth in my work boots.

I changed out of my station wear after I showered, having had time this morning for a run on the treadmill and lift at the station gym.

The warm May morning is bright, the brisk breeze causing locks of my damp hair to fall over my forehead.

“How was your first shift back?” he asks, his hands on his hips.

The Northshore fire chief looks about ten years younger than his 55 years.

He’s tall and solid with a square jaw covered in gray and white stubble with deep-set eyes, sharp beneath a furrowed brow.

His salt and pepper hair is neatly combed, and I can’t help but see my future when I look at him.

Or the future I used to picture for myself.

“Good,” I answer, not feeling the need to elaborate. I’m sure Anderson will give him a full run-down if he hasn’t done so already. I open the truck door, throwing my backpack on the seat before closing it and leaning back against it.

“Glad to hear it,” the chief says with a nod of his head. “Well, listen. Before you head out, I wanted to remind you about those therapy sessions. Have you?—”

I cut him off. “Sorry, Chief. I got to go. Can this wait?”

Chief Sanders furrows his brows as he watches me carefully. Waiting for his answer gives me a feeling of unease—the way he looks me up and down, cataloguing my current state, adds to my discomfort.

“We’ll talk Friday,” he finally says. “My office, after the shift change briefing before you leave. Don’t be late.”

He turns to head back into the station, and my shoulders drop in relief as I exhale the breath I was holding.

Yes, the therapy sessions were non-negotiable when I came back, but I just got back. I’m not ready to walk back to that office and watch that stupid candle burn and listen to the stupid grief analogies and talk about stupid shit as if it’ll actually change anything.

Therapy is for people who can’t handle their own problems—I’m not about to sit in a room and cry to some stranger like that’s gonna bring anyone back or change what happened.

I got through my first shift with routine calls—riding into a scene with the lights and sirens got easier as the hours ticked by, but talking won’t make the threats of the panic attacks go away.

It won't make having to suit up and head straight into a fire—the job I was trained for yet can’t even think about for more than five seconds without feeling like I’m having a heart attack—any less terrifying.