Three

by Chloe Lynn Ellis

  “Oh my God,” I say, laughing as I blush. “A couple of them?”

  Good Lord, it’s been so long since I’ve had reason to use even one of those that I don’t want to think about it. And the idea of going out on the prowl looking… I shake my head. It’s just not me. Auntie Maria raised me whenever she wasn’t deployed, and while I’m used to her brash teasing and frank talk, I’ll just never be as bold as she is.

  “All I’m saying, honey, is that you deserve someone. And those Boston boys with their accents…”

  I look over at the tiny screen and see her fanning herself, and I blush all over again. I kind of agree about the Boston accent, actually, but I’ve just never been all that forward with men. Besides, at the moment, I’ve got other things on my mind.

  As Auntie Maria goes on teasing me about my nonexistent love life, I put away the broom and dustpan and approach the ingredients I’d laid out so confidently an hour before. Eggs, heavy cream, bacon, and a lumpy sludge that was supposed to be pancake batter… I sigh as I take in the sight, not feeling quite as confident about actually getting this done tonight as when I’d started.

  Originally, when I’d decided to tackle #66 on The List, learn to cook, I’d been a little overly ambitious—beef Wellington isn’t for the faint of heart, and it’s definitely not for a kitchen novice like me—but I swear tonight’s attempt hadn’t felt nearly as intimidating back when I still had all dozen eggs in the carton.

  How had I broken so many of them already?

  That first beef Wellington fiasco had been followed by a few attempts at supposedly easier meals, all of which had ended in pure disaster, and while I didn’t give up, I did decide to postpone. Or, if I don’t sugarcoat it: I’ve been avoiding #66 like the plague… for a few years now, I’m not proud to say.

  I’m running out of time, though, and with only three unfinished items on the bucket list I started back when I was sixteen, I figure it’s now or never. And I admit that bacon, eggs, and pancakes may not sound like much, but at least it’s a legitimate meal, right? A breakfast meal, sure, but it really didn’t sound that complicated when I’d watched the how-to video online, and I figure if I can just get through it once with an edible end result, I can officially cross that sucker off The List and call it good.

  “If you haven’t found a man by the time your birthday rolls around, I swear I’m going to fly out there myself and take you to a strip club,” Maria says as I adjust the neck on my new apron and smooth it down over my thighs. It had been white to start with, but now it’s spattered with all the signs of tonight’s failed cooking attempt.

  I take a breath. No, I don’t get to classify it as a failure yet. I’m still in this thing.

  I reach for the spatula, then my brain catches up with the conversation and I whip around to face Maria’s image on the tiny screen.

  “Don’t you dare,” I say, wielding the spatula like a weapon.

  “What?” she asks with a faux-innocent look I don’t buy at all. “You’re saying that you don’t want to spend your twenty-fifth birthday pushing dollar bills under the waistband of some hot, muscled man’s skimpy little—”

  “Auntie Maria,” I interrupt, blushing furiously again… even though a tiny part of me actually likes the idea. But even if I could bring myself to do it, there’s no way I’ll let her joke about flying out here.

  Not for this birthday.

  That would be bad.

  I swallow back the lump in my throat, not wanting to think about it.

  “Oh, honey,” she says, her eyes softening into something that’s as close to maternal as I’ve ever known. “All I’m saying is that I want you to be happy, you know that. Live a little. And if you get a chance to do some of that living with a man you can enjoy yourself with, why not go for it? I worry about you all alone out there on the East Coast.”

  “I’m fine, Auntie,” I say, loving her so hard that it hurts. “You know work keeps me busy anyway.”

  I can see that she wants to argue about that, and I can’t blame her for not taking my “career” as a CNA—Certified Nursing Assistant—all that seriously. It really is just a toe-dip into the medical field, and I haven’t used it as the entry point I’d told her I would back when I first got certified. Instead, I’ve treaded water, always bouncing around from city to city and managing to find work, but after growing up a military brat and knowing my family history, can I really be blamed for not putting down roots?

  She lets it go, though, but only so she can pull out another old favorite.

  “Have you put in that nursing school application yet?” Maria asks, as predictable as clockwork.

  I wave off the question—also predictable—and change the subject by asking about her. She’s career Navy and currently stationed out in San Diego, and as she launches into some fun and slightly raunchy stories, I get back to work trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with all the food laid out in front of me.

  Maria had told me once that when my father, Maria’s older brother, met my mom, he’d fallen in lust at first sight… but then when my mother started cooking for him, it had turned into love. But all signs point to that amazing cooking gene having passed me by completely, and much to my dismay, I can’t even remember my mother’s face, much less any meals she’d ever made for me.

  Both my parents died when I was three, and Auntie Maria had just joined the Navy when she lost her brother to the car accident that took them. It didn’t make sense for her to get saddled with the responsibility of a preschooler when she was just eighteen herself and planning from the get-go on going career with her military service. She’d had her whole life ahead of her, and no one could have blamed her if she’d said no to accepting guardianship for me—in fact, I’m pretty sure her recruiter tried to talk her out of getting saddled with the responsibility for a three-year-old—but Maria was my only living relative, and even back then, she’d been fierce and opinionated and determined to make it work… and in my own way, I’d like to think that I approach life that way, too.

  Which means I am not going to let #66 get the best of me.

  “I’ve got this,” I mutter to myself, taking a deep breath as I turn a few burners on and then boldly grab the bacon. I slap a few slices in a pan.

  “Go, girl,” Maria says, laughing. “I’ve got faith in you.”

  I grin at her—because she always has, hasn’t she?—then smooth my apron down and reach back to tuck a stray hair away and prepare to tackle the next step.

  “I’m going to own these pancakes,” I say, the sound of sizzling bacon filling me with confidence.

  “Get it,” she says, laughing. “I want to see you take the first one off the griddle so I can celebrate with you, but then I’ve got to get going.”

  “Hot date?” I ask, picking up the mixing bowl and trying to remember how much batter I’m supposed to use. I really should have printed out a recipe on paper instead of relying on YouTube videos, especially since my phone is now in use and I can’t pull up the instructions for a refresher, but oh well, I’m sure I can do it by sight.

  I mean, I’ve eaten pancakes, so it can’t be that hard, can it?

  “Let’s just say that your auntie isn’t all that much older than you,” Maria says, winking. “And it is Saturday night.”

  “Good for you,” I say, carefully pouring some batter onto the griddle. It sizzles when it hits, and for a moment, I smile. “This smells like it might actually turn out okay!”

  “Oh, that’s perfect!” Maria says, clapping her hands in front of her. “Just take your time with it, slow and steady.”

  I laugh, because I’m sorry, I do adore her but how the heck would she know?

  “I don’t think you’ve ever advised me to go slow and steady with anything in my life,” I tease her, only half focused on the conversation while I watch the batter start to solidify.

  I’ve poured three perfect circles, and I smile, a sense of accomplishment filling me. Then a bunch of little dots start appea
ring all over the top of each of them, like freckles, and I frown, a much more familiar feeling of apprehension replacing that sense of accomplishment.

  Is that supposed to happen?

  Some of the freckles are bubbling up and popping, and now my pancakes have holes in them. I rub at the spot between my eyebrows, a sense of frustration welling up inside me as I squeeze my eyes closed for a second. I really don’t want to fail at #66 again.

  Maria’s voice is a welcome distraction.

  “Eden, if you ever take my advice and hook one of those sexy Boston boys, then screw slow and steady—” she laughs wickedly as I blush again, confirming that the innuendo was fully intended, “—but in the kitchen?” I tear my eyes off my now-very-holey pancake just in time to see her shrug. “Slow and steady is probably a sound strategy.”

  I nod, but my eyes snap open to look at my pancakes again. The batter is smoking now. Is this normal?

  “Eden, in all seriousness, I want you to promise me that you’ll live a little,” Maria says as I start pushing at the sizzling batter with my spatula.

  “Uh huh,” I answer distractedly. The tops of my pancakes definitely don’t look all the way cooked yet, so I can’t imagine that they’re done… but the smoke suddenly doesn’t smell nearly as delicious as it had a few moments earlier, either.

  I sense another imminent cooking fail, but I’m not ready to tap out yet. Maybe this is still salvageable.

  “I mean it,” Maria says, sounding bossy. “You’re making breakfast for dinner all alone on a Saturday night. Please find time to put a little adventure in your life. Or at the least, a little sex.”

  I can’t even be bothered to blush this time, I’m too busy trying to figure out my chances of pulling off this meal in an edible form as I assess the slowly changing color of the smoke. It isn’t black yet, but it’s also definitely not white.

  I hear the faint sound of a doorbell—not mine—and before I know it, my auntie is wishing me luck with the pancakes and rushing to get off the phone. I smile as the call disconnects, pretty sure she does have a hot date and definitely thrilled for her, but then my smile disappears as the smoke turns full-on black and starts puffing up in earnest.

  Before I can react, a fire springs to life from the char.

  I gasp, jumping back instinctively with my heart in my throat even though it’s just a few small flames.

  Mistake.

  The griddle falls to the floor and lands with a huge clang, and I stand there staring at it for a few seconds in shock.

  Really?

  I can’t even manage to cook the most basic of breakfasts?

  My eyes suddenly well up with tears, and I dash them away impatiently. My twenty-fifth birthday is September 21st, the last day of summer, and given that I’ve still got all of July and August ahead of me, too, I’ve still got plenty of time to get this. I will not give up.

  I take a deep breath of smoke-laden air and square my shoulders. I’m not giving up, but maybe I’ve at least earned a pass for the rest of the night. I’ll just pick up the griddle and clean up the chunky mess now splattered on my floor and order some take-out, and tackle #66 again tomorrow. Maybe even try doing breakfast for breakfast.

  Except suddenly, a lick of fire springs up from the mess at my feet.

  What?

  I’d thought that the whole falling to the floor and splattering thing had put it out, but clearly I’d been wrong. The flame is so small that I’m pretty sure I can just stomp it out… except I’m barefoot, so that doesn’t seem like a good option.

  Maybe if I throw a towel on it?

  Smothering fires is a thing, right?

  I grab a dish towel and toss it down, then feel like an idiot a minute later when the towel bursts into even bigger flames. Okay, not just an idiot… now I’m an adrenaline-filled idiot. I turn to the sink, determined to stay calm, and immediately slip on the flour I thought I’d already cleaned up. Apparently I’d missed some, because the next thing I know, I’m flat on the floor with my ears ringing… and the kitchen towel fire is actually starting to scare me a little.

  “Shit, shit, shit,” I chant, raising my head to survey the situation.

  The situation is not good.

  It looks like I didn’t just fall, I also pulled down the bacon pan on my way down, and now the fire seems to be spreading through the splattered grease, too. I scramble backward to get as far away from it as I can, then come to my senses and lunge for the sink again. It’s equipped with one of those nozzles that you can turn into a sprayer and extend on a little hose away from the sink, and I turn it on and yank it out as far as it can go and let the fire have it, full force.

  The flames practically explode in front of me, and I gasp, immobile with shock and, for a split second, terror. I swallow, staring at the dancing fire as it spreads across the kitchen floor, blocking me in, and the terror fades away, replaced by a heavy sense of inevitability. I let the useless faucet hose drop out of my hand as resignation washes through me, because hadn’t I known this day was coming?

  My mother died before she’d turned twenty-five… just like her mother had… and just like her mother’s mother before her. It was crazy, and it went back generations, but I’d long ago accepted that I wouldn’t live to see my twenty-fifth birthday.

  I just hadn’t realized that my last day would be today.

  The fire starts to get loud and I sniffle, not really sure if I’m crying or if it’s just the smoke. I swipe at my cheeks, backing up against the edge of the sink until it bites into my back and trying to remember if I’d told Maria I loved her before we hung up.

  I bite my lip hard enough to taste blood, because I don’t think I did.

  And my bucket list… I’ve been working on it for years and I got so close. For a minute, I’m almost mad. It’s not fair. Even though I never knew how I’d end up going, I guess a part of me had been holding onto that list almost like a talisman, believing that I couldn’t die before I finished it.

  I start to tremble, the heat from the fire making me cringe away from it.

  I try to calm myself down. No one gets guarantees in life, and even if I haven’t done everything, I’ve still had a good one. I’ve done a lot. And I honestly thought that I’d already made my peace with this day, so I really shouldn’t feel so—

  “Oh my God,” I gasp, my eyes darting to the ceiling as the fire licks its way up the cabinets.

  My little pity party is interrupted by a bolt of pure adrenaline. I’ve only been in this rental for a few months, but it’s this lovely old three-story townhouse with each floor converted into a separate apartment. And above me? A young married couple and their baby just moved in.

  I spring into action before I can think. It’s one thing to accept my own fate, but no way am I willing to let my destiny hurt that sweet family. I have one of those crazy lifting-a-car-off-a-baby moments and jump over the burning floor like an Olympic athlete, scrabbling at the counter where I left my phone sitting in the drinking glass. The glass is so hot it burns my fingers, but finally I manage to pull the phone out—sending the glass shattering to the floor—and stab at the little screen in desperation.

  911. 911. Just dial 911, I think over and over again until my fingers finally comply.

  “Nine-one-one,” a crisp voice finally answers. “Please state your emergency.”

  And then I really am crying—the big, ugly, scared kind that makes it hard to breathe, much less talk.

  I manage it anyway, though, determined to make it work, and ask the operator for help.

  And you know what? For all her joking, I know Auntie Maria feels a little guilty sometimes for not teaching me how to cook and a million other “maternal” things, but she taught me this—how to make something work when it’s important, when you just have to—and suddenly failing at #66 doesn’t really matter so much anymore.

  Screw cooking.

  3

  Matt

  The energy in the truck is pretty high as we race toward the
Saturday-night call, all the guys in a buzzing, amped-up state of readiness, but if I’m honest—crammed into the truck like a sardine and weighted down with fifty pounds of gear when it’s hot as fuck outside and the siren is wailing—I feel weirdly calm.

  “Got any water, bro?” Johnny asks, knee bouncing since he’s basically incapable of ever sitting still.

  I grin and hand it over without pointing out that he has a water bottle, too, then lean my head back and close my eyes for a second and just… enjoy the moment. Like I said, weird, right? Everyone else gets amped up when we get a call, but each and every time we head out to do what we trained for, it always has the opposite effect on me. Settles me down for some reason, like I know I’m doing what I’m meant to, you know?

  It’s kind of funny if you think about it, given that back when Johnny first suggested firefighting as a career choice, I wasn’t so sure it would be a good fit for me. But the idea of him running into burning buildings all on his own? Oh, hell no. I love Johnny, I do, but the man is reckless as hell and too impulsive for his own good, so once I figured out that he wasn’t just talking shit and was actually going through with it, I had to come along for the ride… just to make sure he didn’t get himself killed saving some damsel in distress or whatever.

  “You hydrated enough, Matty?” Johnny asks, pushing the water bottle back into my hands.

  “I’m good,” I say, taking an extra drink anyway just to make him happy.

  “Aw, isn’t that cute?” Bill says, giving us shit like he always does. “Your boyfriend gonna wipe your ass for you later, too, ‘Matty’?”

  He makes stupid kissing sounds and I flip him off, but we all give each other shit all the time, so even the “boyfriend” comment doesn’t really bother me like it would under other circumstances. Besides, no matter what anyone says, it’s pretty great to know that Johnny always has my back, you know? I mean, of course all the guys in the firehouse do, but Johnny and I have been attached at the hip for as long as I can remember. He’s basically the other half of me, even though of course I would never say anything as corny as that out loud.