by M. A. Grant
‘Sorry.’ I genuinely mean it. The loosening of his shoulders is the only sign he accepts or acknowledges my apology. ‘I didn’t know you were interested in that kind of thing.’
‘I needed to start thinking of what I want in my life. In my future.’
Those words hurt more than I expect. Maybe because the last time I heard them, he was referring to me, not his job.
He must notice because his eyes soften and his voice goes husky. ‘You taught me that.’
I did say he needed a life, didn’t I?
An unfamiliar name is called and the other firefighter retrieves his coffee. Jake turns toward the counter, waiting for his order to come up.
‘Is the academy here?’
He’s surprised I continue our conversation. I am too.
‘No. Texas again.’
‘Would you get a job there afterward?’
‘I’m not sure. Maybe.’
The barista calls out ‘Jacobs!’ Jake gives her a warm smile and collects his drink. At least that gives me a moment to compose myself. My hands are shaking a bit and my stupid card won’t slip back into its little slot in my wallet. Eventually it gives up on my failed attempts and falls from my fingers, landing with a hushed clatter to the floor.
I swear and bend down, but Jake’s already there. He scoops up the card and extends it back up toward me. The sight of him kneeling there in front of me makes it hard to breathe.
‘Maya!’
I mumble a thanks to him and stuff everything, despite its lack of organisation, into my purse. The barista hands over my drinks. When I turn to step away from the pick-up counter, Jake’s still there.
We may be a foot apart, but I can feel his heat, smell his skin. I want to bury my face in the crook of his neck. I want to flee. Contradictions tangle wildly in my mind. I need to get out of here, away from him and these strange things he does to my stomach.
‘I’m sure you’ll do great there,’ I say brightly, hoping he takes the hint.
He does. ‘Thanks.’ He walks toward the door, which his partner already passed through on the way back to the engine. ‘See you later.’
His abrupt departure hits like a physical blow. A few deep breaths should settle my stomach. I’m still reeling, ordering myself to pull it together, clutching my coffee cups when I hear, ‘Maya—’
He’s there, hand on the door, watching me with that unnerving intensity. ‘It’s only for a couple months.’
Ask him to give you more time to think about this. Tell him you just need time to figure out how to have an adult relationship so he doesn’t give up on you again.
Again, the heart is overruled by my knee-jerk reaction of running from the risk of emotional damage. ‘Just in time for graduation and goodbye.’
His lips twist into a wry smile and he gives a stiff nod. ‘I guess so.’
This is the second time he turns his back on me and walks away. I don’t think I’ll be able to handle seeing it a third time.
***
Almost an hour later, Doctor Blathe has finished her coffee. We haven’t talked yet this session. The only words she has said to me are, ‘Thank you, Maya. I appreciate your thoughtfulness.’
I’ve spent the rest of the time pacing the carpet in the back, mind stuck in some kind of holding pattern. Normally, ideas come and go, pinging around inside my skull, but today there’s nothing. Not even white noise. My head’s just … blank. The only image in it is the back of Jake’s head. It’s quickly becoming one of my least favourite views of him.
I can’t believe he walked away from me again. We’d managed to have an adult conversation … an awkward one, but it still counts. Despite that, he left. No goodbye.
Why do you think he told you how long he’d be gone?
He was being polite. There’s no way it was supposed to be a hint.
How would you know?
Valid point. Instead of asking him if the comment meant he wanted to see me when he got back, I decided to act insane.
My abrupt halt mid-pace leaves me stumbling, but I grip the back of the couch and right myself. The conversation replays in my mind and I cringe at the memory of my flippant response. Just in time for graduation and goodbye. Really, Maya? He’d left the door open and I slammed it in his face.
Since you don’t want a second chance, it doesn’t matter if you acted that way.
‘Maya, you seem agitated,’ Doctor Blathe says gently from her chair.
‘That’s because I am.’
Oh, talking is a bad idea. I shut my mouth and close my eyes, practicing my breathing. In through the nose, hold, out through the mouth. The relaxation technique does nothing. A realisation creeps up on me and as much as I want to fight it, I don’t think I’ll win.
‘Would you like some water?’
I shake my head adamantly at her question. The very thought of swallowing down something other than my pride at this moment is too much. Throwing up in her beautiful office isn’t an option. I press a hand to my stomach and try to quell the churning.
I am not a good person. I am selfish and egotistical and positive that my way of life is better than anyone else’s.
Holy crap. I’m acting exactly like my father. The columns holding up my small, petty world shiver and crack at that blow.
‘Can you explain to me why you’re agitated?’
‘Because of stupid Jake Jacobs!’ And then, to the utter astonishment of both of us, I burst into tears.
I have never, ever cried in front of Doctor Blathe. There’s a lot of baggage left over from my father and I’ve spent years working through it. My point of pride has always been that I’ve never allowed myself to seek her pity. Ridiculous melodramatic displays of emotion will not take place. Calm, straightforward discussion of the facts is the only form of therapy I find acceptable.
These tears … there is nothing at all acceptable about them. They are not pretty. They are gasping, painful, snot-flowing, face-swelling sobs rocking my entire body. The only thing keeping me upright is my death grip on the back of the couch.
Doctor Blathe rises from her seat and hurries to my side. She ignores my humiliation and settles me down on the couch before taking up her position again. She picks up her notepad and uses her pen to nudge a box of tissues toward me. That simple motion, so sweet and perfectly precise, is hilarious considering my misery.
I scrub my face with a handful of tissues and try to stop sniffling. Her smile is warm and reassuring. I don’t even fear her pen at this moment.
‘Let’s talk about Jake,’ she suggests.
‘Okay.’
‘Why don’t you tell me what’s happened recently.’
I take a shuddering breath. It’ll be better to share it quickly. Like a Band-Aid being ripped off. ‘A woman he rescued from a fire died so he showed up at my apartment. We had sex. He told me he loved me. He told me he wanted to be with me and I choked. So he left. We avoided each other. I just ran into him at the coffee shop. We tried to talk. He’s leaving for some firefighting thing and will be gone for a while. When he gets back, he wants to give it another shot. And I was kind of a bitch about it so he left. Again.’
These tears are easier to mop up. I stare down into the pile of damp and wrinkled tissues in my hands while she finishes writing down her notes. ‘I really screwed this up,’ I whisper.
‘Many couples struggle with communication,’ she assures me. ‘You can work through this.’
Doctor Blathe doesn’t lie. When I showed up for my first solo appointment, I asked her if we’d be able to fix me in a few visits. She said she wasn’t a mechanic. After that, the session turned into something akin to a business meeting where we hashed out our expectations and came to agreements about the best methods to achieve those goals. She doesn’t give false hope or lie.
‘So you think I can get him back?’ My voice doesn’t crack this time.
‘I think we can work on ways for you to discuss your issues with him so you’re communicating honestly with
each other. I think your reaction to today’s meeting is proof that this is something you want to work towards.’
‘It is,’ I promise.
‘It may be difficult to talk to him about these things,’ she warns.
Hope seizes control, strengthening my resolve. ‘I can do it.’ I straighten and meet her eyes. One of my acting teachers taught us to state a positive intention before auditions so we would be more focused and centred. Doctor Blathe willingly took up the practice with me when I suggested it to her. If any moment needs a positive intention, this is it.
‘I will tell Jake how I feel about him so we can discuss whether there’s a possibility for us to have a real relationship.’
Doctor Blathe smiles and sets down her pen.
Mind clearer, I settle back against the couch and relax. Or I do until she says, ‘Let’s practice what you’ll say to him tonight.’
Tonight? Well, faint heart never won fair fireman …and running away isn’t an option anymore.
***
At least one thing has gone right this week: I got to finish my coffee before the alarm went off. With another fire across town, the crew I’m working with today was directed to this scene, along with a few of our on-call guys.
It’s nothing horrible. Multi-story residential, with all family members safe and accounted for because they were out of town for the weekend. Even the dog’s isn’t in danger because it was at a sitter’s. In a way, I’m grateful this is a simpler call.
I’m going on only a few hours of sleep. Staying at home last night in that empty house gave me far too much time to think. Worse, when I went downstairs to get some water, I saw a picture of Cat and Maya on the fridge. Dally found me staring at it blankly and assumed I was zoning out. I didn’t bother to correct him. Sometime I’ll tell him how I got shot down, but it’s still a little raw.
Running into Maya this morning at the coffee shop was rubbing salt into the wound. A freaking week and a half of pulling myself together and as soon as I see her, all that work out the window. I caved. Offered myself to her again, in the hopes she’d reconsidered.
Offer myself as a target. Give her time to aim. Direct hit. Explosion. Crash and burn. Again. It’s becoming a habit with her.
‘You look like someone ran over your puppy,’ Nelson complains. ‘Seriously, what gives?’
‘Nothing,’ I answer.
We’re both in shitty moods. Nelson had been at the beach with his surfboard when he got the page. He’s complained about it since he got here. I’m pretty positive we got put on venting detail because no one else wanted to risk being around us until the clouds start to part.
Nelson finishes strapping on his helmet and I snag our pike poles. We ascend the ladder while the crews below continue to work on controlling the flames.
We’re nearing to the edge of the roof when he asks from behind me, ‘Hey, whatever happened with that Maya chick? The one who came to dinner that night.’
I shrug. ‘Didn’t work out.’ Not for lack of trying.
‘How’d you screw it up?’
If I could kick Nelson in the face without getting written up, I’d do it in a heartbeat. ‘Who said I’m the one who screwed it up?’
He chuckles. ‘I work with you, man. The stick up your ass could be used as a bridge support. Besides, she looked like one of those free-spirited girls. Definitely not your type.’
Grunting is the safest response. I’m not sure if he’s insulting me or Maya, but getting into it up here on the roof is a dumb idea. Falling is not on my list of things to do.
Trails of smoke plume from the edges of the roof and the exhaust pipes, but it’s almost peaceful up here. We work our way across the slope, sounding each step before taking it, marking out places to vent.
‘So, you two aren’t together anymore?’
Anger digs its claws into me a little tighter. I try to breathe, but the knowing grin on Nelson’s face makes me want to punch him. Maya didn’t want me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want her. I can’t say any of that though. Instead, I glare at Nelson and flip him off. He can’t see it with our thick gloves, but he recognises the sentiment.
It doesn’t deter him. ‘Does that mean it’s okay for me to ask her out?’
Bastard always has to push it. I glance his direction while taking another step forward. My foot hits at the same time as the pike pole. The hollow sound warns me a second too late.
The roof buckles under my weight. I don’t have time to scream. To breathe. To throw up a prayer.
Crashing. Arms and legs churning for purchase that doesn’t exist. Falling. Flames. Pain. Darkness.
Chapter 9
‘How do you think the audition went?’
I use my straw to stir up my iced coffee and smile at Jennifer. ‘Great.’
That’s a big, fat lie. I have no idea how my audition went. It was mostly a blur since I was still trying to remember all the things Doctor Blathe made me practice so I could talk to Jake tonight. But I’m not about to let Jennifer know any of that.
I don’t dislike her. We happen to compete a lot for the same parts. She’s a great actress and I’ve enjoyed working with her the past few years at school. Now that we’re gearing up for graduation and starting to audition for lead parts outside of the college productions, I’m trying to be more cautious around her.
The fact that she’s a drama queen may also be a bit of a deterrent.
‘I was worried about my monologue. He didn’t look up once from his notes,’ she complains, taking another delicate sip of her iced tea.
Nodding is polite. He looked up during my monologue. It’s not worth it to try to figure out if that’s good or bad; every director is different and until the cast list is posted, there’s no reason to obsess. Besides, I have bigger fish to fry. Fish named Jake Jacobs.
As Jennifer drones on about her nerves, her emotional technique of reaching the character, and her hopes for who may be cast as the male lead, my mind wanders. The audition will be a piece of cake compared to talking to Jake. Simply getting him to listen to me will be difficult.
It’s fortunate she’s too focused on the sound of her own voice to notice when I slip my phone from my purse and hold it in my lap. My last text message to Jake—the disastrous one—is still there. I type a new message, trying to keep it simple.
Can I see you tonight?
I press send before I can second-guess myself. I don’t care if he thinks I’m desperate. The truth is I am.
Fate sealed, I return my attention to Jennifer. She didn’t even notice my distraction.
‘The only downside of getting cast in this play is that I wouldn’t be able to visit Peter for months.’ She pouts, a movement which only serves to show off her plump lips. ‘I don’t know if I could handle that.’
Peter is Jennifer’s sugar daddy. He’s about forty, owns his own cable company, and is a nice guy. He fell for her hook, line, and sinker. If they’re still together though, a few months later, maybe the feeling’s not just on his side.
‘I didn’t know you were still together,’ I say.
She giggles. ‘That’s because we didn’t get to hang out at the cast party. He flew in from Miami to be there. Not that I can blame you for missing him though. You were a little distracted.’
My cheeks flush.
‘Who was that cute guy you hooked up with, anyway? He definitely wasn’t another college boy.’
‘No, he’s not.’
Jennifer gives a deep sigh. ‘Give me an older man any day. Sometimes the sex drive isn’t as strong, but what he lacks in stamina he makes up for in skill.’ Her wink is meant to be conspiratorial and I don’t have the heart to tell her Jake doesn’t have problems with stamina or skill.
Although, if I can’t make things right with him, it’s not like I’ll have anything but memories of those facts.
‘Was it a one-night thing?’ Jennifer presses.
I’m saved from answering by the phone going off. But it’s not the text alert
.
‘Sorry,’ I tell Jennifer, who waves off my apology.
The caller ID is a surprise. Why in the world would Dallas Miller call me?
‘Dallas, is everything okay?’
‘No.’
***
The ear-splitting shriek of my PASS has to be a sign I’m in hell. There’s no way that noise could exist in heaven.
Cold water drips steadily on my bare head. My helmet’s gone and my head rests on a soggy piece of wood. Inch by inch, I flex my muscles, trying to take inventory of my body.
My worst fear vanishes when I wiggle my toes. I’m not paralysed. No matter what, I’m already fortunate. Feet are complaining in my boots. Left ankle twinges a bit, but doesn’t feel broken. No immediate pain from the legs. My hips hurt, but when I shift, they stop twisting in a strange direction and that ache subsides. My back is sore, like I’ve been used as a punching bag. Arms wobbly, hands stiff and bruised. Next big worry is the neck. I tentatively turn my head, knowing any medics who find me would just as soon kill me for risking further injury, but there’s no discomfort. If anything actually hurts with that sharp, distracting pain, it’s my head.
My radio is going crazy. Calls of ‘Mayday! Fireman down!’ echo around me, still audible despite the roar of the fire overhead.
That’s a weird place for a fire to be. I tilt my head up and stare into a hole that’s quickly being swallowed by red and orange flame. Far overhead, there’s a glimmer of the sky.
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. I fell through the roof into the … What is this place?
Again, a slow glance around. Boxes, some old bikes, washing machine and dryer. It’s definitely the basement. I should radio where I am. Warn Nelson to get off the damn roof before it kills one of us.
Between the alarm and the flames, my head wants to split open. I take a breath, forcing down the nausea, and lift my arm. The muscles are shaky, probably from hitting shit as I fell, but I manage to grasp my radio and alert the rest of the crew, ‘Jacobs. Fell into the basement. Get Nelson off the fucking roof.’
