1. Tristan
ONE
TRISTAN
I’m fucking exhausted.
I need to get some shut-eye right the fuck now, but I’ll never admit it to her. Steph would never let me live it down.
I chuckle just thinking about my bestie. She’s a recently-divorced lesbian and ten years older than I am. Despite the age difference, she’s also ten times the man/human/firefighter I could ever be. We couldn’t be more opposite, and I love her for it.
Steph always means well, so I don’t hold any teasing against her.
Truth is, if I don’t get a sliver of rest after those hours I clocked, I won’t be effective at my job.
Worse yet, I could put the lives of my fellow firefighters at risk if I don’t bring my A-game to the job.
Holidays are crazy in Tennessee, but I guess I could say the same for anywhere else.
The holidays are always super hectic for emergency services, especially the Christmas season.
Not surprisingly, this week has seen an endless slew of drunk drivers, home DIY accidents, and, of course, kitchen fires.
There have been so many kitchen fires this week, it’s un-fucking-believable.
After tossing my keys on the center table, I stalk into the kitchen.
Skimming the contents of the refrigerator, I open a container and sniff the cold takeout, not at all sure I can trust my sense of smell for this sniff test. Taking another careful breath, I cross my fingers for luck and give silent approval before putting the box in the microwave and setting the timer.
Meanwhile, I do another sniff test, but this time on my armpits. I’d showered at the fire station, doing my best to wash off the stink of this selfish, dangerous holiday. Then I’d thrown on some sweats and a department-issued t-shirt for the drive home.
Today was brutal. First thing this morning, we were called to a domestic assault situation.
Even after doing this job for so long, I’m still not used to how terrible some people can behave.
Apparently, the victim’s partner was pissed off because his credit card bill had some unexpected expenses.
According to the aggressor, the victim had bought some Christmas gifts and gone overboard with the spending.
Not to be outdone, he’d gifted her with some broken ribs and a black eye.
Obviously, I don’t know all the details, but I simply cannot understand why everyone thinks Christmas brings out the best in people.
From what I can see, all it seems to do is bring out the worst.
It’s bullshit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m no Grinch. I love what I do, and I put in the time and effort to do my job to the best of my ability.
When I was fourteen, I lost my parents in a house fire.
Yeah, I know it’s a clichéd origin story, but it is what it is.
My grandma took me in after my parents died.
When she passed eight months later, off I went to foster care.
So, I was pretty used to being on my own for the holidays.
Since this is the busiest time of the year for us, firefighters are rarely afforded the opportunity of time off, so I try to cover as many shifts as I can.
I work double and sometimes triple shifts.
Since I don’t have anyone to come home to, prepare Christmas dinner for, or exchange gifts with, and no non-firehouse family to hug and say “ love you” to, I enjoy being able to help my fellow fighters be with theirs. I figure it’s the least I can do.
The ding of the microwave rouses me from my musings.
I don’t even bother to take a seat, just remain standing and shovel the takeout into my mouth, barely registering its taste.
All I want is to fill my stomach before it eats itself.
Mentally sifting through my medicine cabinet, I assure myself that I have Imodium A-D and Pepto Bismol, just in case my sense of smell—or taste, for that matter—fail me.
I’ve got no room in my life for food poisoning and spending half the night in the bathroom.
When I hit that bed, I’ve no intention of waking up before I’m damned good and ready.
I dig out a can of beer from the refrigerator.
As I chug the brew, I survey my apartment from where I stand in the kitchen, my heart swelling with pride.
This has been my home ever since I became a firefighter eight years ago.
The rent isn’t cheap, but it’s not so much I have to bust my balls or stress about paying it on time.
The apartment’s not fancy by any means, but it’s mine, and I love every inch of it.
The dining area is just off the kitchen with a cozy, round table surrounded by four wooden chairs.
A bright pendant light hangs above the table, illuminating the space and creating a warm, inviting atmosphere.
Across from it, there’s a tall bookcase filled with my favorite novels—gay romance novels, to be exact—and cookbooks.
A few small cactus plants on the windowsill bring a bit of nature inside.
To the right, my living room is furnished with an L-shaped couch and a few comfortable armchairs, allowing plenty of comfy seating for the very rare occasions when I have friends over. A modern area rug anchors the room, while a few cute throw pillows add a hint of vibrancy.
I exhale a long “ahhhh” after emptying the can, and another wave of exhaustion washes over me.
Burping, I drop the empty can into the recycling bin.
I barely muster the strength to make a routine inspection of my apartment.
Old habits die hard, and this is a habit I’ll never break.
Ever. Fourteen years isn’t long enough to forget the fire that claimed my parents’ lives happened in our home.
With the inspection complete and tiredness weighing me down, I’m tempted to bypass my nightly routine.
But this is another thing I refuse to overlook.
I enter the bathroom, take a piss, and wash my hands.
While I brush my teeth, I stare at my reflection in the mirror above the sink, the image gazing back at me looking tired and dull.
Then I shuffle my way to my bedroom. Since I’d passed the second sniff test, I didn’t need another shower, despite the faint smoke smell lingering on my skin. Passing out face first in the bed, the last thing I remember is the fresh scent of laundry detergent on the bedsheet.