3. Tristan
THREE
TRISTAN
I sit bolt upright in my bed with a strangled scream, tangled in sheets soaked with sweat. My heart drums a frantic beat. The same nightmare that has haunted me for almost a year flashes through my mind again, and I feel a cold sweat break out across my forehead.
The dream always starts the same way.
The sky is crystal clear, and there’s a slight chill in the air.
The fresh scent of leaves and flowers floods my senses.
I’m one of the first on the scene of an accident.
A black, '97 Honda Civic has missed a curve in the road and slammed through the guard railings.
The car is now teetering over the edge of the bridge, the river over 100 feet below is foaming white with rage, frothing from bank to bank.
Our sirens blare as we navigate through a maze of white lines painted on black asphalt.
Fuck.
The last vestiges of the dream still try to hold me under, as if I’m a drowning man struggling to break the surface of a turbulent sea. And then finally, finally I emerge from the watery depths, leaving behind the horrifying images in the dream and embracing reality once again.
Still a bit uneasy from the dream, my mind replays one of my personal mantras: It was just a nightmare. I can’t change anything. Today’s a new day.
Trying to calm my racing heart, I take deep breaths in… and out… in… and out.
I feel like I still fucking stink of smoke. Guess I should have showered last night before falling into bed. Fucking smoke is all over me. And the fucking TV is too loud. Why is it so damned loud? I don’t even remember leaving it on.
I try to take another deep, calming breath, but I’m having trouble getting enough air into my lungs. Wait. Hold up.
I didn’t leave the TV on.
It’s an alarm. A smoke alarm!
And the smell of smoke isn’t coming from my sweat-damp skin. Smoke is slowly filling my apartment.
Between the flush of adrenaline and my well-trained muscle memory, I’m on my feet and moving before I can even fully grasp the situation.
Running into the corridor, I quickly identify which of my neighbors’ alarms is going off. Banging on the door, I announce myself with a shout of, “It’s the fire department,” out of habit.
Honestly? I don’t know anything about any of my neighbors.
Because of my demanding work schedule and general lack of interest in forging human connections, it’s no surprise when I don’t recognize the man who opens the door.
I definitely think I would’ve remembered someone like him if I’d seen him in the hallways.
There’s no time for that now, though, as I brush past him and into the smoke-filled apartment, the acrid scent of burning grease stinging my nostrils.
I was born to be a firefighter, and I’ve trained for scenarios exactly like this.
Ignoring the frantic man and crying child, I locate the grease fire that’s smoking them out.
After turning off the burner, I locate a metal lid—which is relatively easy to do in the tidy kitchen—and quickly cover the large pan.
I barely flinch when I burn my hand a little in the process.
This isn’t my first rodeo, of course. Moving over to the cabinets, I manage to find a half-empty box of baking soda to throw over the whole mess on the stove to prevent any straggling flames from spreading.
Then I open the windows to fan out the worst of the smoke and reset the smoke alarm.
Hopefully, this will help to calm the kid, who’s still screaming his head off.
Honestly, it had been kind of a toss-up as to who had been screaming louder, the alarm or him.
Sweeping my eyes around, I’m confident the apartment is now safe, and there’s no need to call an engine out.
Now that the air isn’t so thick with smoke, I notice a small burn on the boy’s hand, one not so different from my own.
“We need to go. Now!” My voice crackles like lightning, conveying the urgency of the situation.
The man notices my casual clothes but is too frazzled to question if I really am from the fire department as I’d announced. He didn’t even question where the hell I was taking him and his son.
I hustle the man and boy out of their apartment and into mine so I can get them cleaned up and into some fresher air. Even though some smoke had made its way into my apartment, it smells like a goddamn paradise compared to theirs.
“I–I don’t want to impose.” The huskiness of his voice does strange things to me. I’m not sure if it’s his natural timbre or a result of the smoke in his apartment, but I’m guessing it’s not the latter.
Pointing to his kid, I say, “You don’t think I should treat his burn?”
The man looks at the boy’s hand and jolts, his eyes widening. “Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod.”
He. Loses. His. Shit. Right before our eyes. Seeing at his son’s burned hand seems to be the last crack needed to crumble his tremulous composure.
He’d been so freaked out about the fire that he hadn’t noticed his son had been burned.
“I’m a terrible father.”
“Dad–”
“What kind of father doesn’t know his son got burned?”
“Dad, it’s–”
“Sir?” I ask him, trying to intervene since it seems the man is so caught up in his breakdown that he can’t even hear his son.
“What kind of man am I? I failed my wife!”
‘Sir!” I try again, a bit more forcefully.
“What kind of–”
“Sir!” I bark, urgency infusing my voice, halting him in his tracks. “You. Need. To. Stop! You’re a good man, sir. You’re not a terrible father. You’re not a terrible husband. If you think you’ve done something wrong, I’m sure your wife will forgive you when she gets home.”
His eyes, glazed with terror, meet mine. It's the worst thing I could've said. His shoulders tremble, and he breaks down completely, blaming himself for this fiery chaos he could not have prevented.
What. The. Fuck!
I watch the tears stream down his face, my heart aching.
It's never easy to witness people shatter like this, no matter how long I've been on the job. Dealing with people in the aftermath of a crisis is a major part of my job, a very important part. But I usually have my full gear on—not sweats and a t-shirt—to serve as a kind of buffer, or armor if you will, between me and the situation. And the civilian in question is normally not half naked and crying in my living room. To say I’m feeling awkward is a fucking understatement.
Yet I can't help but notice his rugged handsomeness. His rich pale skin, which contrasts beautifully with his luscious dark hair flecked with gray, gives him a striking resemblance to George Clooney in his Danny Ocean era. But right now, his looks don't matter; his pain does.
“Sir,” I say in a tone that I hope will soothe him, “‘I promise, everything’s gonna be fine. You gotta hang in there.”
What comes out of the man’s mouth next amounts to a garbled story letting me know his wife is dead, and it’s his and his son’s first Christmas alone.
His words set the kid off again. This is a good thing, though, because it brings my attention back to the most important thing: the boy’s burned hand. I need to calm him down so I can see the extent of his injury.
Time for me to go into work mode. In my opinion, it’s always easier to deal with kids. Call me weird, but I think it’s easier to make them feel better.
Kneeling before the boy, I say, “You doing okay, buddy?”
Sniffling, the kid nods his head.
“What’s your name?”
“Phoenix.”
The man is still inconsolable, sobbing and sniffling, but he isn't in any danger. My attention has to be on the boy first. I need to allay his fears.
“Phoenix, when I was a little older than you are, I was in a terrible fire, and I was scared too. But now I’m a firefighter.
It’s okay to be scared, you know. But you might feel safer if you learn what to do in case of a fire.
” I show him my hand and watch as his eyes widen.
“Yep, we’ve got matching burns from being heroes.
So here’s the plan—Are you listening, Phoenix? ”
The boy nods.
Scanning his face, I release a soft exhale of breath. His tears are still flowing, but at least he’s no longer outright sobbing. He actually looks more upset at seeing his father falling apart.
“Phoenix?” The boy’s gaze swings to me again. “I’m going to fix your hand now. And in exchange, you’ll fix mine. Deal?” That seems to do the trick.
The boy nods.
I extend my hand, and the little trooper clasps it. I glance down at our hands, his pale and almost luminescent—not unlike his father’s—mine a few shades darker.
“Let’s do this.” I release his hand to grab my first aid kit.
I keep talking and joking through our little first aid improv. By the end of it, Phoenix is smiling, despite his tears, and has clearly warmed up to me.
He listens attentively as I instruct him on how to treat my hand, the same way I had treated his. I stand and notice his father staring at me. I was so zoned in on Phoenix, I hadn’t realized his father had stopped panicking.
I’m used to people staring at me like I’m something special. “Hot firefighter” is kind of a brand, and I’m ashamed to say I’ve played into it to get laid on more than one occasion. But something about the way Phoenix’s dad is staring at me feels different.
Disarming.
Suddenly, the man breaks off his intense stare, as if he’s suddenly come to his senses.
“Needtogetoutofyourway,” he mumbles, along with something about having to put on some clothes.
The crackling flames in his kitchen have been extinguished, but the fire in this man's soul still rages. And there's little I can do to quell it. I look him straight in the eye before I speak. “You’re staying with me until your apartment airs out. And you guys are going to eat.”
Weirdly enough, the man agrees.