Page 7 of I’ll Paint You a Sunset Someday
January 2045
Dean
Dispatch sirens sound throughout the station. In under three minutes we’re halting traffic in our midst, speeding toward the first fire since completing our new-year training. Our fire chief, Chief Boswell, has the luxury of remembering his crew, being a government official and all.
“You are fully capable and equipped,” he swears, but they need to redefine “equipped” if only a few days of training is the current accepted standard.
Despite the circumstances, it’s nice to be driven beyond the invisible borders I created during my first few outings. Before this moment, I’ve stayed within those borders and settled into the daily routine of returning to The Marmotte. Seeing familiar faces is comforting somehow. Being a regular feels like the beginning of rebuilding a life— my life.
Racing through town, we fly by a couple grocery stores, too many Starbucks to count, a few fast food chains, and the strip of bars Hudson begs me to go to every other night.
“Come on, man. No memory, no breakups. There’s never been a better time to shoot your shot,” he’s insisted, always pretending to sink a three-point shot.
After the fourth time, I decided he’s trying to convince himself rather than me. Settling in looks different for everyone; let the man live a little. The job we do is heavy, and Boswell continuously reminds us to celebrate life outside of our taxing work. That’s all Hudson is doing—coping by celebrating.
Our training transforms into reality as the truck races around the corner. Releasing our held breath, the crew shares a sigh of relief at the still-standing strip mall. Seeing the streams of smoke pouring out of the shattered windows makes me clench and unclench my sweaty hands. I’m not ready to lose someone.
Never will be.
Boswell’s the first to make it to the building. Not surprising, considering he is the most experienced. His yell overpowers the ringing in my ears as he breaks in the door with one swift kick. “Stick to your assignment, stick to the plan!” Like dogs on a scent, we follow him closely inside.
It’s either the best news or the worst news that there’s no sign of civilians, just tables and chairs thrown every which way. Without hesitating, the crew begins to extinguish the flames swallowing the booth seating, and I head out to search for any wounded escapees. For a moment, a steady calm overpowers the chaos, but with one sharp inhale, I double over and empty my stomach.
“Adrenaline gets the best of you every year,” Boswell admits, sighing as he rubs my back.
How much of this has happened before?
“Don’t they need you?” I ask, gesturing to the team inside.
“They’ve got it. My first priority is my crew. Your first priority is the fire, and this was an excellent first one to get called to. I’m never thankful for being needed, but I’m always thankful when we can fill the need at hand.”
For a moment, his hard features soften.
“Thank you,” I whisper, regardless of how weak it sounds.
“You’re a good kid.” Turning his face back to stone, he takes off to help the others, running like a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders.
It must be a long, hard life to remember all of the loss and destruction. This fire is minor compared to what we’ve been trained for, and I still can’t stomach it.
Thank God I’ll forget—it’s the best gift I’ve ever been given.
Hallee
“Happy one-week Bookday-versary!” Miles shouts as I walk through the doors, right on time. Still can’t believe I was late once—even that is one time too many. He insists I’m too hard on myself, but something inside me isn’t as forgiving as it should be.
“Thanks, book bestie!” I call back, grinning from ear to ear until a small flame rises above the romance shelf. “Oh my gosh!” I gasp. “Miles! Fire!”
“Surprise!” Marlowe and Avery yell, popping up from behind the checkout counter.
“Happy Bookday to you,” they sing. “Happy Bookday to you! Happy Bookday dear Hallee . . .”
“Happy Bookday to you!” Miles joins in, concluding them like a well practiced choir.
The potential for disaster widens my eyes. “Move the flames away from the shelves! Jesus Christ, we work in a bookstore!”
“My name is Miles, not Jesus Christ, and if you want the fire gone so badly, make a wish on your Bookday cake and blow out the candles!”
What do you wish for when you don’t know what you’ve had?
“Bookday cake. Clever,” I say with a chuckle.
Eyes closed and empty-handed, I blow them out. Maybe by my birthday I’ll think of something worthy of a wish.
“Yay!” Marlowe cheers, rushing in for a hug.
“Happy Bookday, Hallee.” Avery smiles, gently patting my back. She still hasn’t hugged me. Doesn’t seem to be the physical touch type, but that’s okay. We all have our own ways of showing love.
“You guys! Don’t you have to be at work or something?”
“Yes, Miss Picture-Perfect Punctuality ,” Marlowe answers, rolling her eyes.
“Being late doesn’t matter when the attendance record is erased.” Avery blushes.
She doesn’t like disappointing people. I know, because I recognize the look on her face when she thinks she has. Will anything actually happen if we do?
“This was such a special surprise!” I say. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’m so thankful for our little family.”
Immediately, my stomach jumps to take back the f-word, and Avery’s shoulders flinch as her eyes fall to the floor. There was no mention of family in any of our books. The government only included our concrete personal information. Apparently efficiency doesn’t include the intricacies of families. Details like last names, marriages, or gaining and losing family members are too fluid and have been discarded as “expendable.” If you had a great family, then you suffered a great loss, but if you had an awful one, you gained an awful lot of freedom.
To live without boundaries—that’s the gift. Mostly, I’m thankful to not have anyone to disappoint. Pretty sure Avery feels the same.
“Let’s cut this cake!” Miles cheers, raising the knife high before plunging it into the middle. Strawberry, with real fruit and buttercream icing—the girls must’ve told him about New Year’s Day.
After using up all our tears, I had turned on the TV and immediately clicked on the picture of a cake, because what could be better for three emotionally unstable strangers? Everyone’s a dessert person, and if they say they aren’t, then I’m not a them person.
Thus, our first roommate binge-watch began with the baking competition. One of the bakers, Peter, insisted you can hear when cakes are done. We shared a good laugh watching him lean in and listen, and promptly ate our words when the judges crowned him star baker. Listening to cakes went from crazy to cute in about two seconds.
“Did you attempt the Peter method here, Miles? I’m not sure you have the same ear he does.” Marlowe holds back tears in silent laughter.
The cake is beautiful, but atrocious. The strawberries have outed Miles as a rookie baker by all sinking to the bottom, and the middle is . . . stodgy, as one of the judges would say.
“Okay, Magnificent-at-Everything Marlowe, next time you get to try and find out how good you are at listening,” Miles counters, and Happy Bookday fills with the wonderful sounds of memories being made and life being lived to the fullest.
My friends took the risk of looking silly to make an ordinary day a great one, all for little old me. This kind of living—it’s contagious. It’ll catch on like wildfire, calling to others to dare to live more. More intentionally, more wholeheartedly, and more courageously. This is exactly the gift the government intended. It’s a relief, really, and I’m happier than ever to accept it with open arms.