by Piper Malone
He fields questions about coverage, compensation, and comp time. I’ve always liked McNichol as a chief. He’s cool under pressure, smoothly offering answers to all the questions asked. He knows how to help the Rhode Island stations without compromising our duties. I also know what I need to do.
Chief pulls a pen from his pants pocket, making it click loudly. “Now,” he looks around the room, “who is willing to act as manager for the receiving unit responsible for organizing the volunteers and helping the teams?”
Before I can think too much about it, my arm is in the air. “I’ll go.”
Going into that inferno will be slightly easier than living in this hell without Kat.
Chapter 30
Kat
You know those movies where a group of people are traveling somewhere by horseback and one of the horses gets stuck in deep mud? Everyone tries to get the horse out but the more it struggles, the deeper it sinks. The animal has that terrified look in its eye as if it sees death waiting just beyond the line of humans watching the scene unfold with sad resignation lining their faces.
I am that horse.
I think someone needs to shoot me and end this misery.
Three weeks after my tantrum, I’m still on a two-line-text ration with Blake. Mostly it’s a hello accompanied by a brief review of the day. All of the questions about how the other is doing results in a quick answer that, given the pain felt when reading or sending the text, is a big fat lie. There hasn’t been that moment where the gates open and we have the talk or we just stop texting each other. We both hang on. To what, I’m not sure. But today, I can’t avoid him.
The Daily Five Alarm press conference has been the buzz of the office for weeks. My colleagues have been running nonstop for the past few days to ensure the local press outlets are present, that family members of the firefighters are attending, and that elected community officials RSVP. Greg has been a saint, making sure to have all the last details ready. I heard him get snappy with the design crew over the background drapery. It was cute and he was totally right.
I’ve been prepped, primped, and my speech is coded on cards. The reception hall at the firehouse is decorated in grand style. Flowers in the deepest red and brightest yellow adorn the high tables. The food smells magnificent but makes my anxious stomach roll. I was a bitch about the catering, sending surveys to the firefighters to ensure that their favorite food was on the menu. There is even a steak for Brutus, the firehouse dog. Brutus got his own month, so he gets his own meal.
Standing next to the podium, I watch the excitement of the moment unfold. Community members are dressed in posh style. The board members mill about. The firefighters dressed in suits are wearing matching ties, keeping them in uniform. The women have taken a fabulous flair to the unifying accessory, morphing it into a scarf that matches the color of the men. Caleb and Reagan are tucked in a far corner with Ax and Chloe hovering nearby. Caleb engages several of the firefighters, obviously familiar with them.
I scan the room as nonchalantly as I can looking for Blake, but he’s nowhere to be seen. Reagan catches my eye from across the room and gives me a saucy wink. A soothing wave of calm comes over me with her little nonverbal high-five. She likes my outfit. The simple red dress gathered at the hip was the perfect choice for today. Sky-high leopard heels were the best way to ensure Blake would love it. I can only hope that after the conference I can apologize and we can talk about starting over.
Taking a quick look at my phone, a nervous habit I’ve developed over the past week, makes me heart fall. I keep watching for texts from Blake or a call from Melinda about the house. Why I decided to bid on the walk-up this week is beyond me. It could have waited but I needed something good to happen. I wanted to try to make this right and move in a positive direction.
I wonder if something is wrong with my phone. I don’t understand why Melinda hasn’t gotten back to me yet.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Mr. Achenbach’s happy voice brings me back to the present and forces me to straighten my back, “I want to start by saying thank you for coming to this event. We are so proud to unveil our company’s latest endeavor, to support and raise up the city of Boston.”
The applause is overwhelming. In the time it took me to obsess about Blake and the house, I didn’t see that more of Blake’s station buddies arrived. They are a sea of matching ties. One of the firefighters is holding up his iPad, videoing the event. Again, I look into the crowd but he’s not there. My heart falters at the idea that he might have chosen to stay back.
“Today we have the great pleasure of unveiling the creative work of Katya Boytsov, our top executive. I will share that Kat and I spoke about her struggle to find inspiration for this project but, as you will see, she found her muse was right under her nose.” The audience tingles with cheeky laughter. “We will unveil Kat’s ideas in a moment, but I would like to give her the opportunity to say a few words.”
I nod to Mr. Achenbach and take the podium. Public speaking has always been an out-of-body experience for me. I get in front of the crowd and zone out. The words somehow flow. Today is no different. I can’t focus on the fact that I hurt one of their own, that I’m too selfish to get over my own shit, that I am a mess. I need to focus on the good. I have my speech written, all I need to do is say the words.
The brief history of how the station has supported the community is reviewed. I present my observation of the camaraderie and support for not only each other but also those the firehouse serves.
I can hear my voice speaking. I’m good. Paced. Professional.
Until I start to discuss the integrity of an individual willing to walk through a fire to save a stranger.
When I launch into my passion for the team of strong, determined men and women whose sole purpose in life is to keep others safe, my voice cracks, tears clinging to the edge of my eye. From the side, I see movement coming toward me.
Blake.
My heart crumbles when I see Reagan and Caleb move in, each taking a side of the stage.
“I’m sorry, folks,” I try to laugh through the awkward moment, “this project is very close to my heart.” That horrible feeling of my jaw quivering under the pressure of emotion stops me. I inhale, paste on a smile, and thank them for their selfless dedication to the community before leaving the stage on wobbly legs.
Reagan’s arm is around my waist the instant I am off the stage. “You are white as a ghost,” she whispers.
Her observation is endearing, but I’m pissed that I might look like hell. “Then I probably shouldn’t be standing next to you, Miss Hawaiian Tropic.”
“Not the time for snark, kitten,” she says with a plastered smile on her face.
“I thought you were going down in a heap.” Caleb shoves a glass of water in my hand. “Here.”
I nod my thanks as Chief McNichol takes the podium.
“Good afternoon, I am so grateful for the ingenious efforts of Miss Boytsov and her desire to help us enhance our presence in the community. We have, as many publicly funded community-based organizations, suffered from budget cuts and rely on volunteer donations and time. This fund-raising event will not only bring much needed resources to our station but also help with outreach and fire prevention programming. So, without much preamble, I’d like to recognize Miss Boytsov and her good will and large heart.”
The applause is deafening. I acknowledge them with a nod and thanks. The wild part of my brain that always has a sassy retort questions what Chief McNichol would think if he knew my pitch was based on his employee’s lickable abs.
“Now, before we unveil some of the preliminary shots of the calendar, I need to make an additional request.” Silence blankets the crowd as Chief McNichol squares himself, and leans into the podium. “Several days ago we were called to send a group of men to assist with a large fire in Rhode Island. I am happy to report they have arrived safely, been debriefed, and are helping to maintain stability in that community. While today is a bright and joy
ous celebration, I ask you to keep them in your mind and prayers.”
My body sways in the current of his words. I feel the grip of Caleb’s hand on my arm. “It’s okay, Kat. He texted me this morning.”
“He’s there?” The words fall out of my mouth, my eyes trained on nothing.
“Yes.”
My mouth becomes instantly thick, my tongue sticky against my cheeks.
Mr. Achenbach and McNichol share a manly handshake, the applause and chatter from the crowd is deafening.
He’s gone. He left and didn’t tell me.
“Now,” Mr. Achenbach claps his hands, “part of the fun of this project was making sure Kat was able to have a surprise as well. We took the proofs from the photo shoots and allowed the station to choose who would be used for the reveal today.” Mr. Achenbach glows with excitement. I try to smile, but I feel like I’m paralyzed.
“Please,” Mr. Achenbach hands a long cord connected to the opaque sheet covering the image to the chief, “do the honors.”
The countdown begins. I hear the numbers tick away. I feel the pressure in my chest. Glancing at Ax, his eyes are trained on me with a predatory glare. Caleb and Reagan look at me with pained concern. I feel beads of sweat prick the edges of my hairline.
“Three…two…one!” the crowd chants.
The large poster that has been stowed away in Mr. Achenbach’s office is revealed with a hearty yank from McNichol.
In black and white, a towering image of Blake reclined to show off his stellar chest and abs consumes the wall. His skin, smudged with soot gives him a rugged, sexy look. Blake’s face is obscured by his helmet and downcast gaze, but I would know that jawline anywhere. He is beautiful, purely masculine, and larger than life.
And he’s miles away.
I can’t apologize. I can’t fix this.
What if he’s hurt? Or killed.
I can’t beg for his forgiveness.
I can’t tell him I love him.
I can’t feel my legs…
Through the sound of rushing blood pumping in my ears, I think I hear Reagan’s voice yelling my name.
*
“I’m fine.” The words are garbled, but at least I can form a coherent sentence.
“Your face nearly bounced off the tile floor in there, Kat. You aren’t going to convince me that you’re okay.” Reagan’s agitation is rare. The irritation comes from a place of love; the frustration stems from my stubbornness.
“I’m not going to the fucking hospital.” I give her the glare that means business and she turns her back, hands thrown up in resignation.
“You’re your own worst enemy, Kat. What if something is wrong with you? What if you’re sick?” She’s past the point of gentle prompts with me. Reagan is clearly upset.
“Pregnant?” Caleb offers, from his seated position across the room. How we got into this conference room, I’m not entirely sure, but it seems I have a host of caretakers. Ax is leaning against the door, keeping anyone from coming in and barring any of us from leaving.
“I’m not pregnant, you ass.”
“Many people don’t think they are but there are ways these things can happen.”
“I think she’s fine, guys,” Ax offers passively. “The moment just got to be too much. Ten bucks says she didn’t eat this morning and drank half the city’s allotment of Starbucks.”
At his spot-on assessment, I wrinkle my nose. Know-it-all motherfucker.
“And with that ultraclassy glare, I think I won the prize,” he chirps. “Just give her a sandwich and some time and she’ll be back to normal.”
“No way.” Reagan putting her foot down is a little funny; she’s not easily razzed. “Did he tell you he was going to Rhode Island?”
I liked the conversation better when we were talking about my face eating the floor. I shake my head, worried that our poor communication means I no longer have a boyfriend. The fact that he is pulling the plug on my bullshit behavior sours my stomach.
“Did you know they were going to use him as the reveal today?”
“It was a surprise. I wasn’t at all the photoshoots. I got to see some of the proofs but they’ve been with the digital design guys for the past two weeks. I figured I would see them and give them the final authorization to print after we did the press conference.” My voice is still shaky and I feel like a dishrag. Ax is right; I can’t remember the last time I ate. I had three coffees before one o’clock today. “When did he leave?”
“A couple days ago,” Caleb responds firmly before softening ever so slightly. “He asked me to keep an eye on you.”
“You’re doing a stellar job, Dunn,” Ax mumbles. “He’s going to love it when he hears she was two seconds from a concussion.”
“I don’t understand why he would care one way or another.” I’m pissed that Caleb is babysitting me. Why would Blake care if anything happened? Clearly, I’m not allowed to know if he’s in a potentially bad situation. “Well, Blake doesn’t think I need to know where he is. He could be anywhere, dealing with anything, or he could be hurt—” The words tighten my throat, forcing me to swallow down the fear that this wound will never heal.
“He’s good at what he does, Kat. He’ll be home soon,” Ax offers from his post.
“And then what, Ax? I go back to worrying about this very moment happening again and again?” When he shrugs, the fear that he knows this pattern sinks in. She’s a mess. He tries to help. She can’t get her shit in line. He runs from the disaster like a man freed from a life sentence. I haul myself up from the sofa and work to balance myself on my heels. It’s a shame, but I don’t like them anymore. They were for Blake and he’s in a different state.
“Kat,” Reagan tries to placate me, “please just take it easy. This will work out.”
I want to believe her, I really do. But I can’t hang my hat on the hope that I can be what he needs. I need to focus on me. My future with my own career and home. I’m almost there. I just need to stay focused on the goal. “Reagan, he didn’t feel the need to tell me he was leaving on a dangerous task so I have to take that as clue.”
Her lips mash together, her expression telling me everything I need to know. She gets it.
“If you will excuse me,” I say to the room, unable to look anyone in the eye, “I’m going to make the rounds and head out.” I add a tight, “Thank you for coming tonight.” I sound like a bitch. I feel like I’ve been betrayed, embarrassment forcing me to save face.
Before anyone can respond, I squeeze past Ax stationed in the doorway. He lets me escape without a fight. They all do.
Apparently, that’s the theme of the day.
*
Three hours later, I pull off my heels and place them gently back in the box. I don’t have the heart to throw them away, but I can’t look at them anymore. My feet hurt, my eyes burn, and my heart feels like it’s been trampled.
The night was wonderful; the men and women of Blake’s firehouse were so excited and grateful for the project. They all told me stories about what a good man he is, how lucky I am, a few hinted that maybe they could whisk me away while he was gone. I laughed, played along, listened, and slowly, quietly died with every breath.
When the evening was in its final hour, and I was almost free from the deep ache of being present in the moment, I was approached by a woman. She asked me to give a letter to my husband from her children. When I told her I didn’t have a husband she gave me a sly wink and pointed to the picture of Blake on the wall. Before I could protest, she placed an erratic drawing of four children, smiling and happy, with a house in the background into my shaky hands. Thank you for saving us written in jerky lettering across the top and down the side.
The family he helped save came to the celebration. She commanded the moment, telling me the story of getting the news that her house was on fire and the fear that she would lose her children and her husband. She prayed. She screamed. She cried. Her emotion in retelling the event pushed my own tears forward. It was
awful to hear Blake tell the story; her memories were heartbreaking, unimaginable. This woman almost lost everything, her home and family, to an accident.
She gathered my hands in hers and instructed me to give a heartfelt thank-you to Blake. She said she knew there was a God, miracles, and hope when she saw him holding her baby. Her grip on my hand became strong, passionate, when she told me, in no uncertain terms, that he is one of the special angels put on this earth to do selfless good things for others.
I had no choice but to agree and fall apart in the arms of a stranger. We cried. We laughed. We are going over to their house in the summer for a picnic. She insisted on throwing a party with the strength of a woman who works, manages four kids, and a husband. You simply cannot fight that kind of authority.
When I was able to politely excuse myself, I disintegrated into a mass of disgusting heaves and tears in the dim parking lot. It took me more time to purge my scrambled emotions than it did to drive home. Now, wrung out and exhausted, I need to figure out what to do.
Was this relationship a test? Is the outcome clear? Would I be able to walk away? Maybe. I’ve done it before. But what would I do?
Who do I walk toward if I’m moving away from Blake? Guys like Dane? Relationships that will always make me wonder what if.
Do I just tell him everything? If I purge the crap and let him decide what to do with it, I have an answer, right?
The lingering fear that this kind of situation will pop up again forces me to reconsider my plan. What’s the plan if we are intimate and I feel it getting out of control?
I take control. I tell him to stop. He talked to me about that with the blindfold, no safewords. I could just say no. He would always let me stop him.
But that night was intense, he was in a place I’ve never seen before. He was lost. Hurt. Blake, my flirty playboy was so wounded from the night he needed to feel some level of control. I need you, Katya.
