by Cassie Cole
“I believe you,” he said, though he didn’t sound like he did.
“Rain check? Maybe next week?”
He slid the grilled cheese onto a plate and handed it to me. “Yeah. Next week.”
But as we ate and went to our separate beds, I could tell he was disappointed.
22
Amy
I woke up naturally without the aid of an alarm. It felt good to sleep in, especially after the two exhausting days we’d had.
But Christian’s door was already open, and he wasn’t inside. I found a note on the kitchen table:
Heading home for the weekend. See you Sunday night, gorgeous!
Oh, and burn this letter after reading. Sparks probably isn’t ready to learn what we’re doing. Make sure you use proper fire safety, though.
XOXO -Christian
I grinned like a teenager who’d found a note slipped into her locker.
The letter helped, but the station felt oppressively lonely without the boys. I even missed Sparks in a weird, wish-he-was-here-so-I-could-torture-him-with-Elvis-Presley kind of way. I lifted weights quickly, wolfed down some breakfast, and then left as soon as I could.
It was important to get away from the station. Even though it was essentially a second home, visiting my actual home was good for mental health. Firefighters got easily burned out (pun intended) and needed something to ground them in the real world. A world where a siren wasn’t impending, waiting to send them off to smoke and doom.
My apartment was like a freezer. Apparently the last time I was here the weather had been mild, and I’d forgotten to turn the heat on. The thermostat said 59.
While waiting for the apartment to heat up, I bundled myself in a coat, scarf, and mittens until I looked like Kenny from South Park. The stack of mail waiting in my box was as thick as a brick, which I added to another pile three times as high.
I pulled out my laptop and started going through the mail. Most of it was junk. Car warranty info, new credit cards, mailers from the local supermarket advertising ground beef for only $1.99 a pound. But there were a lot of bills too. Stuff I’d been neglecting for a while. Two months of water bills, a month of internet. The apartment trash pickup service. Electricity. There was a $42 delinquent notice for not paying a toll. When had I been driving on the expressway? July, on the way to the beach?
Once I’d paid all of those off, I finally sat down and set up auto-pay for all my bills. I should have done that ages ago but had never found the time. Well, I had the time now that my schedule was a little more stable. I was going to be more responsible with these sorts of things.
I cleaned the apartment next. Even though I was rarely here, dust still collected in the corners and rings formed in the toilet bowl. I vacuumed and used the swiffer mop on the floors, then broke out the duster and cleaned my TV and console, the bookshelves, even the shelves in my closet.
Getting through my chores was satisfying. It was easy to get tunnel vision in any job, but firefighting especially. Chores and bills seemed inconsequential compared to saving or losing lives to a burning building. I had to balance my life more.
Which is why I’ve got plans tonight.
But first, it was time to do the thing I was really looking forward to.
I had to look up their new address, which involved calling my old fire station and getting Rogers to dig through the incident reports. Then I was in my car and following Waze through west Miami. It took me to a neighborhood close to Hialeah, one I’d been to far too often in the last week.
I parked in front of the little blue house, then sat in the car while gathering my nerve. I always got nervous even though I shouldn’t. But you couldn’t help how you felt. And this was an inherently emotional thing.
It was a quiet Saturday morning. One of the neighbors was raking leaves that had waited until now to fall. Somewhere distant a dog barked. I could see the house with the burned shed from here. I wondered if the fire inspector had finished his report. I hoped he had enough proof that it was insurance fraud.
The house I was parked in front of had no car in the driveway. They might not be home. Finally I got out of the car, walked along the stone path to the door, and rang the doorbell.
The woman answered in her bathrobe, with a baby on her hip. She looked much better than the last time I’d seen her; passed out in her bed. The little girl looked better without the sad little respirator, too.
“Mrs. Carter?” I asked.
Tears shimmered in her eyes as she recognized me. She hugged me without hesitation, gripping tight with her one free arm. I put my arm around her and held her tight, the baby girl cooing softly between us.
For a long time we cried softly.
“I didn’t think anyone was home,” I said. “I’m glad I checked anyways.”
“We only have one car, and Ezra has it. I’m sorry,” she said, pulling away and wiping her tears. “I just…”
“Don’t apologize!” I said. “That’s what usually happens. I hope it’s okay if I stopped by, Mrs. Carter.”
“Yes! Yes, of course! Call me Cynthia. Come in, please come in, do you want something to drink, I have tea on the stove but I can make some coffee if you’d prefer that, although it’s instant rather than something better since we haven’t bought a new coffee maker…”
“Tea sounds lovely,” I said as I followed her in. “Still moving in?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “This is only a rental, but it’s a big upgrade compared to our old home. Especially in terms of the neighborhood.”
We walked past boxes of belongings and picture frames that still bore smudges from smoke and soot. “It looks like you were able to recover a lot.”
“More than we expected,” Cynthia admitted. “Thankfully we had most family photos scanned and backed up to the cloud.”
I took a seat at the kitchen table while she put the baby in a little bouncy harness. The girl laughed as the plastic toys bounced up and down on strings.
“Were you passing through the neighborhood?”
“Not exactly. We try to visit people we’ve saved,” I explained. “One, to check up on them and make sure they’re doing okay. And two… Well, our job isn’t the easiest one…”
“I can imagine!”
“…And we see a lot of destruction on any given day. Getting reminders of the positive things can be good for our psyche. Reminding us that we do a lot of good.”
She smiled as she poured tea into a cup. “That’s good advice. Focusing on the positive. Ezra has been taking the fire hard. Blaming himself.”
“That’s not uncommon.”
“He’s paranoid now. Afraid another fire will pop up any minute. One of the neighbors had a fire in their shed last week and he was practically trembling with fear.” She gestured to the corner of the room, where a small red tank sat. “He’s insisted on putting fire extinguishers in every room, just in case!”
I laughed and said, “That’s not a bad policy to have.”
She handed me the cup of tea, then placed a plate with sugar and cream packets on the table. “It’s actually been really good for us. Ezra is a changed man. Now he comes straight home after work rather than swinging by the casino. He used to have a blackjack problem, but he’s been getting help. He’s also a lot more loving with me and the baby. Not that he wasn’t before, but…” She spread her hands.
“Sometimes you need a brush with death to remind you what’s important in this world. Is your husband at work? I was hoping to see him, too.”
I still had the terrible memory of him sprinting at the house, screaming that his wife and daughter were inside. Ready to plunge himself into the flames if I had not stopped him. It would help me to see him calm and happy.
“Yeah,” she said with an exasperated sigh. “His work was flexible with his hours after the fire, but then he got transferred to a new building downtown. Long commute with bad traffic. He promised he would get transferred closer to our new home, and he did, but now his hours ar
e all over the place again and…” She waved a hand. “It’s a whole big thing. But we have a roof over our heads, and we’re safe, and we’re happy. Thanks to you.”
I smiled. If I hadn’t already had a good cry I probably would have teared up again right there. This was why I did what I did, risking my life every day for complete strangers. There was no greater high in the world than saving someone’s life. I wished I could bottle this feeling and carry it around with me whenever I was feeling down.
“Looking forward to the holidays?” I said.
“Yes and no,” she laughed. “We were originally hosting Ezra’s parents for Christmas, but after the fire I assumed they would stay in Chicago. But Ezra insists they still come and see the new house, that we can have the guest bedroom all ready for them by Tuesday…”
“Yikes. Good luck with that.”
“It’s a good problem to have,” she said. “It’s just a lot to juggle all at once. His family is big on baking pies. Everyone bakes their own, and then tries a slice from each pie and votes on the best one. I’ve never been a baker but I was determined to sit down and try a few recipes this year, but now I don’t know when I’ll have the time.”
“I’ve got a chocolate pie recipe that’s to die for!” I said. “I’ll send it to you. There’s only like four ingredients: sugar, flour, eggs, and chocolate chips. It’s impossible to mess up, and tasted better than anything else you’ll ever have.”
“I’d love that!”
We exchanged numbers and I promised to text her the recipe later. I finished my tea, we shared another long hug in the doorway, and then said our goodbyes.
I drove back to my apartment feeling like a superhero.
23
Sparks
Some guys kickboxed. Others watched cheesy rom coms, or played Dungeons and Dragons, or collected stupid fucking bobblehead dolls.
But my guilty pleasure?
I could hear the thumping music from a block away. Downtown Miami was just waking up at this hour, even though the sun had set hours ago. There was a long line at El Tucán tonight, which was normal for a Saturday. I walked straight to the front and nodded to the bouncer, who opened the door for me. I was a regular here, and first responders never paid the cover charge.
My ex-girlfriend was the one who taught me salsa. She insisted that if I wanted to date her, I had to learn to dance, and she wasn’t the kind of woman you said no to. I felt like a dumb white guy trying to gyrate my hips the first time I tried, but with her help I picked it up surprisingly fast. Enough that I was confident enough to go the club with her.
Our relationship only lasted a month, but the salsa habit endured.
It was my one guilty pleasure. A way to shake off the stress of a job that was nothing but stress. The music inside was loud, but not oppressively so like some of the salsa bars around Miami. That’s why I liked this place so much. I made my way through the crowd of people dancing until I reached the bar area where less confident guys sipped on beers and watched the show. Frankie was working tonight—a little Haitian man who looked like he was 15 but was actually 52. He nodded when he saw me, immediately poured two shots of tequila, and winked as he set them down.
I knocked one back and then the other, savoring the burning agave taste that lingered in my throat. I was keenly aware that this wasn’t the manliest hobby, especially for an Irish guy whose only color came from the freckles on his cheeks. Women went dancing for fun. Gay men went dancing for fun.
Straight men went dancing to try to pick up women.
That’s why I didn’t tell anyone. It was my own little secret in downtown Miami, far from any of the other men at my station.
I waited until the song ended to make my way out to the dance floor. The next song began with a flurry of piano keys, which were soon joined by groaning trumpets and a soft drum snare. I found a gap in the crowd and began a shines step by myself, getting into the rhythm as the song kicked up into a faster beat.
I loved salsa in Miami because everyone danced the Cuban style rather than Los Angeles style. That meant lots of twisting and knotting arms, a chaotic jumble of people on the dance floor rather than staying in one geometric line. I danced back and forth by myself, swaying while my feet moved fast underneath my body. Within seconds a solo woman was sliding over to me, dancing in front of me in an invitation of sorts.
I took her extended hand and off we went.
She was drop-dead gorgeous, and fast. The moment I took her hand and raised it in the air she was spinning like a top, taking my other hand and crossing them over her shoulder until her back was to me. Four steps to the left and then she spun around again, seamlessly allowing me to catch her in my other arm. I planted my palm against her lower back and we stayed in sync for six steps before twisting one way until our shoulders formed a straight line, then the other way.
She was a little twistier than I liked, so when the song ended I let her go and she was off finding someone else, and me the same.
The next woman I danced with was more of a beginner, but showed no hesitation in coming up to me. She took my hand and spun me first, swaying her hips back and forth as I pulled her back in and danced around her while holding her hand above us. Even though she was more of an amateur, her heels moved quickly underneath her and she kept them close together rather than making the common mistake of spreading your stance for balance.
This woman, and the one before her, were drop-dead gorgeous. But I was honestly here just to dance, not try to hook up with anyone. Besides, dancing was just as intimate as sex. Shit, even more so. Why ruin that?
The music thumped as I danced from partner to partner, losing myself in the moves. Sweat was just beginning to collect on my chest when I saw her.
“Oh fuck.”
She was over by the corner, gyrating with a black man just as tall as she was. Amy was tall and unmistakable, her curtain of blonde hair swirling around her as she spun beneath his finger.
“Hey!” the woman in front of me snapped. “You with me?”
I was just standing there like a statue, blocking the other dancers. I mumbled an apology and pushed through the crowd to the bar while my partner yelled something behind me.
I held up two fingers to Frankie. He frowned at me, but poured the shots.
God damnit, I was pissed off. This was my place. What was she doing here? Had she somehow followed me so she could find another way to make fun of me? As if she hadn’t fucked up my life enough already.
My first impulse was to leave before she saw me. Get out, run back home and come back another night. Maybe find another club downtown.
Fuck that. This was where I wanted to be. I didn’t want to leave.
She should leave, not me.
Besides, running wouldn’t help anything. What if she had already seen me? The best way to deal with teasing was to lean into it. I’d shown that I was embarrassed by my first name, which had led to her playing Elvis music. What I should have done was sing along to the Elvis music at the top of my lungs until she gave up. Proving to her that it didn’t bother me.
Yeah, running was a bad idea. That would be like chumming the waters for a shark, begging her to ridicule me later. The best thing for me to do was keep dancing and make fun of her when she eventually confronted me.
I caught another glimpse of her through the crowd. She was showing off her long legs by wearing tight black shorts, and a brown top that hung loose on her shoulders and left a lot of midriff showing. Her hair was down for once rather than her normal work ponytail, and it cascaded around her face every time she spun.
I had to admit: she looked good.
“I look good too,” I said, building up my confidence.
“Yes sir!” Frankie said behind me. I gave him a friendly glare, downed my two shots, and made my way back out into the battlefield.
Netty wasn’t going to show me up tonight.
24
Amy
I loved to dance. Thumping music, bodies gyrating ever
ywhere, even the smell of sweat and body odor as the night went on. It was one of my favorite things to do. It helped me unwind unlike anything else in my life, a freeing activity without rules or goals.
Miami had great salsa clubs, but I hadn’t been to this one yet. I liked it so far. Good crowd, great music that wasn’t too loud. Nobody had grabbed my ass yet, which was always a plus when I went out. Especially in these shorts.
The guy I was dancing with was tall, but a little clumsy. I had to slow down to match his speed, which was just barely off with the beat of the music. But he was tall enough to spin me without sticking his armpit in my face, and we had a good rhythm going.
I was pretty sure he was gay, which made it easier to relax. Salsa was inherently sexual. That was usually part of the fun. But girls had to watch out in case they gave a guy the wrong idea. That’s how you got called a bitch at the end of the night, or followed to your car, or worse.
We danced for a little while until he moved on, and I twisted while looking for a new partner—and saw something I never expected to see.
No. No way. That had to be my imagination.
I locked hands with a new partner while trying to gaze through the thick crowd of dancers. All I needed was a glimpse. We twisted and I spun, then stepped forward and back, and the crowd parted just enough.
There he was, salsa dancing with a tiny Latina girl. He turned and locked eyes on me, eliminating any doubt.
“Sparky?”
“My name’s Ernesto,” my dancing partner said.
“Not you,” I said absently. What in the living fuck was Sparks doing at a salsa club? I would have expected to see him drinking a pint at an Irish pub.
The music changed seamlessly from one song to another. I used it as an excuse to break off with this guy and move through the crowd. Sparks had ended his dancing too and was walking away from me. Retreating, it felt like. By the time I met him at the bar the tender was handing him two shots.
