Chapter 5
Jack
Eight Weeks
Asharp knock on my office door makes me jump, sending paperwork flying off my desk and onto the floor in front of me.
“Sorry, sir,” Tyler apologizes quickly, scooping the papers up and handing them back to me. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
“How many times do I have to tell you to stop calling me sir? We’re the same age, Ty,” I say gruffly, trying to straighten the papers back into some semblance of organization.
“Yeah, but only one of us is the deputy chief,” he replies, sitting in the chair across from me, stretching his long limbs out in front of him. Eyeing the stack of papers on my desk, he continues, “And I sure am glad of it, I’d lose my mind dealing with this bullshit.”
“Yeah, well, someone has to do it,” I mutter, abandoning the shuffled reports. “What can I do for you?”
“Well, the guys were just wondering,” he says slowly, almost timidly. “When do you think you’ll be back out there with us? The field isn’t the same without you, man.”
My jaw clenches so tightly I worry I might crack a molar. It’s been two months since I left my office in the station to respond to an actual emergency. It’s not that I don’t want to–helping people is the whole reason I wanted to become a firefighter in the first place.
But the thought of racing toward a tragedy when I don’t know exactly what to expect sends my heart into my throat and I just…
freeze. So I make up excuses to stay behind–”I’ve been up for too many hours and would be a liability”, or “the station is understaffed tonight, someone needs to stay here in case a second emergency comes in.”
Nevermind that I’m the one who does the schedule and have been purposefully understaffing us for weeks.
“I don’t know, Ty,” I bite out. “There are a shit ton of reports to do, God knows y’all don’t keep up with your own paperwork.”
“Is it the paperwork? Or is it something else?” he presses.
“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.” There’s a heavy beat of silence before he responds again.
“It’s okay if you’re not ready, Jack,” he says softly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, brown eyes full of concern. “No one blames you. Any one of us would respond that way if it had been our friend. We just want you to know that we’re here for you. No matter how long it takes.”
“Thanks,” I mumble, unsure how to respond to such an earnest sentiment from the same guy who nearly broke both of his ankles after slicking the fire pole with baby oil. “Is that all?”
“Yes, sir. Just hang in there, OK?” he says, standing to leave. “If you ever want to talk about it–”
“I don’t,” I bark, more harshly than I intended. “And don’t call me sir.”
He lets out a low chuckle as he leaves the office, closing the door behind him. Letting out a pained exhale, I rest my forehead on the stack of paperwork I didn’t really have any intention of doing.
I don’t want to talk about it. Not now. Not ever.
***
“Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!”
I whoop triumphantly as Tyler groans, accepting defeat.
“Alright, alright, I’ll head out on the next call. You can stay here and man the phones.”
“Excellent,” I say, grinning widely and propping my feet up on the coffee table.
It’s been a hell of a shift, and we’re both bone tired. But knowing Murphy and his damn law, we’re bound to get at least one more call before we’re free to go home for a few days off, so we made an unbiased decision the way all grown men do–with a schoolyard game.
Almost comically on cue, the alarms start blaring, and there’s a mad dash of men getting their gear and loading onto the rig.
“Have fun, boys!” I yell with a wave, chuckling as Tyler flips me the bird as they exit the station.
Ten minutes later, the station phone rings.
“Larkspur Fire, this is Jack. Is this an emergency?”
“Jack, you gotta get here quick, man.” Something in Tyler’s voice on the other end of the line makes my blood run cold.
“What is it?”
“You just…you gotta come. Garrett is coming back to the station to take over for you.”
He rattles off the location, and I hastily grab my things, bolting for my Jeep. Overwhelmed by a sense of dread, I tear out of the parking lot like a bat out of hell.
***
Another knock on my door drags me from the memory and back into my office. This time, instead of a human tank with a mustache, I’m greeted by freckles and deep green eyes.
“Hi, Jack Robbit,” Abby says, plopping down in the seat previously occupied by Tyler. “Sleeping on the job?”
“No,” I say, “Just pretending that if I ignore it for long enough, the paperwork will do itself for me.”
“What do you say you take a break and come get some food with me?”
“What were you thinking? And don’t say the diner.”
“Unfortunately, Little One wants diner fries,” she says, patting her stomach. “And what baby wants, baby gets.”
“Oh yeah? Little One is sentient enough now to tell you that, huh?”
“It’s a mother’s intuition,” she says smugly. “Also, it’s the only thing that doesn’t make me want to puke my guts up, so unless you want to cause a public scene–”
“Alright, alright, we can go to the diner,” I sigh dejectedly, accepting defeat. “But when Little One comes out of the womb with high cholesterol, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
***
“Oh my god,” Abby moans through a mouthful of fries. “This is exactly what I needed.”
I shake my head, grinning down at my Cobb salad. I’ve never seen anyone enjoy food the way this woman enjoys french fries. Aaron tried nearly a dozen times to recreate them at home, but Abby was never satisfied.
“The grease is too fresh,” she would say defiantly. “I want them to taste like they’ve been cooked in a fryer that hasn’t been cleaned since 1980.”
A mix of fondness and grief stabs me in the chest, and my grin falters when I look back up.
“You okay?” Abby asks, mild concern etched on her face.
“Yeah,” I say, mustering another smile. “Just a weird piece of chicken.”
“Please don’t mention chicken,” she says, suddenly looking a pale shade of green. “Don’t mention anything other than fries, actually.”
“Has it really been that bad?”
She nods slowly, taking slow breaths in through her nose and out through her mouth.
“I can barely keep anything down,” she says, voice strained. “That’s part of why I came to find you at the station, I needed to look at something other than my toilet bowl.”
“We need to try and find something that works for you,” I say with a frown. “You can’t survive the next nine months on a diet of french fries.”
“If you can find something that I can stomach, by all means,” she sighs. “I feel like I’ve tried everything.”
I’ll see if Granny has any tricks.
Making a mental note to stop by her house later, I settle up our tab and take Abby home with the largest to-go order of fries this world has ever seen.
***
A few hours later, I knock on the door, casserole in hand.
“Jack,” Abby says, eyebrows raised in surprise. “Miss me already? Has it even been five hours?”
“I was worried about you,” I mutter gruffly. “I talked to Granny. She made this.”
I stick out the casserole dish, holding it directly in front of her face until she takes it.
“What is it?” she asks, eyes narrowing in suspicion. “I told you I can’t keep anything down right now.”
“I know,” I say, “But Granny said she made this at least once a week when she was pregnant with my dad. Said it was the only thing she could consistently rely on.”
She takes the dish from me, walking it back to the kitchen. I follow behind her, taking a seat at the small dining table. She lifts the corner and sniffs it nervously.
“You know what?” she muses. “It’s not bad. It might even be good. What’s in it?”
“I don’t really know,” I shrug. “I’m not good at that stuff. All I know is I told Granny that chicken was off limits.”
She turns to face me, eyes full of tears.
Shit.
“Wait, what’s wrong?” I say, jumping to my feet. “Is that bad?”
“No,” she sniffs. “It’s nice. That you remembered.”
“We only talked about it a few hours ago, it’s not like I had a ton of time to forget it,” I mumble. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It’s a big deal to me,” she says, tears flowing freely down her cheeks. “It makes me feel less alone, somehow.”
“You’re not alone,” I murmur, pulling her into a hug. “I’m right here. We’re all here for you.”
“I know,” she says, voice muffled against my chest. “It’s just hard.”
Stepping out of my hold, she wipes her face and inhales deeply. “I know y’all are here for me,” she continues. “But sometimes this house feels so big and empty and silent, it’s easy to believe that I’m entirely alone.”
I nod, unsure of what to say.
“Um, four hundred degrees,” I say, pointing at the sausage and pasta creation awkwardly. “For an hour.”
She punches the buttons on the oven until the red preheat light gleams.
“Will you stay for dinner?” she asks in a quiet voice. “I don’t…I’m tired of eating alone.”
“Of course I’ll stay,” I nod. “For as long as you want.”