Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Miles kicked himself all the way home. Figuratively.
He didn’t have the balance or range of motion to kick himself literally.
Who in their right mind turned down a date with a beautiful woman when she had the gumption to ask?
Especially now, when women weren’t exactly lining up to go out with him. He texted his best friend, Wes.
I’m an idiot
Really, more like a brother, though they didn’t share any blood. Firefighters risked their lives together, they counted on one another to get them out of a bad spot. Wes had done that for him the day he’d fallen through the floor. He’d saved the kid and come back.
Already knew it
A moment later, a second text followed the first one from Wes.
Why? What’d you do
Miles patted the couch beside him, and Nix jumped up, laying his head on Miles’s good leg.
Turned down a date
was she 9?
Miles’s lips twitched.
Not one of the kids
The teacher
Jif
He rubbed Nix’s ears while he waited for a reply.
still a weird name
I’m bringing pizza
find a pic
Miles frowned. He supposed he could Google her name, although, come to think of it, with a nickname, would anything come up? He reached for his laptop, groaning as his leg pulled.
Nix raised his head and poked his nose against Miles’s cheek, then snuck a lick.
“Cut it out, man.” Miles wiped the cool moisture away but ruffled the dog’s ears.
Flipping the lid open, he typed into the search engine.
“Whoa.”
Nix’s head whipped around, nearly taking out the laptop before he relaxed and dropped it to Miles’s thigh.
“There are a lot of hits.”
She’d mentioned her brother played for the Raptors, but her involvement with the team ran deep, too.
Dozens of articles and red-carpet photographs came back, her on the arm of many different men. A few appeared the same—maybe her brother or the boyfriend she’d mentioned. He didn’t know a whole lot about football, but could there be that many people on a team?
His front door burst open, saving him from doomscrolling the practically innumerable images of Jif.
“Did you find pics?” Wes barged in and slid two pizzas onto the kitchen counter before circling back and scrubbing his hands over Nix’s head.
The dog’s tail thwapped the couch a few times, then, as the smell of pizza permeated the air, he jumped down and went to his bowl. Finding it empty, he stood sadly above it and whined.
Miles heaved himself to his feet. Using the back of the couch as a crutch, he reached the end and braced himself for the two steps he’d need to cross to the kitchen. Lurching awkwardly and trying to minimize the weight on his leg, he propped himself against the bar and edged around it.
“Hey, man. You supposed to be doing that?”
“Back off.”
Wes held up both hands.
Miles took another limping step, leaning on the counter. “Sorry. I’m frustrated.”
“No worries, I get it.”
Except he didn’t. He’d never had an injury like this.
Miles kept his mouth shut.
“Here, boy.” He reached down, teetering on one foot as he scooped up Nix’s bowl. He used to keep the dog food in the pantry, but now he kept it propped between a barstool and the bar. Even saving only the few extra steps helped with the pain.
The dry kibbles clinked into the metal bowl, and Nix danced at his feet until he put it down.
Then, he turned and made his ponderous way back to the couch.
By the time he’d settled back into his spot, Nix had finished, his pitiful eyes begging for more as he danced between the living room and his bowl.
“Not a chance, boy,” Miles huffed.
The dog had bulked up in the weeks after he’d come home from the rehab facility, his daily walk replaced by food enrichment toys and an occasional round of fetch. It had taken months to bring him back down to a healthy weight, especially since they still couldn’t go for walks together.
Wes flopped down beside Miles. “So, tell me about the girl.”
Recognizing no one would give him more food, Nix whined once more, then sighed, his jowls quivering, before giving up and circling himself into a cinnamon roll in his basket.
Miles slid his laptop across the coffee table.
Wes whistled. “Are you sure you didn’t crack your head along with every bone in your leg?”
“Not every bone. My patella was intact.”
Wes snorted. “She’s gorgeous. Why’d you say no?”
Miles leaned over Wes’s shoulder and picked an image. Zooming in, he centered Jif’s face. “See?”
“I’m looking, man, but I am not finding a problem.”
“It’s so... fake.”
“Like, what? Fake teeth? Botox? The tan might be a little orange.”
“No, the smile.”
The same one she’d flashed at him when she’d asked him out.
Wholly fake, and he should recognize it after days of watching her gentle expression with her kids.
Even if he hadn’t caught himself surreptitiously staring while she petted Nix, the corners of her mouth turned up in a soft, genuine expression nothing at all like the one in these pictures.
Wes squinted. “It’s...a smile.”
Miles shook his head. “You don’t understand.”
“Guess not. Pizza?”
He let it go. Wes hadn’t met her. Of course, he didn’t get it. “Sure. Plates are in the usual spot.”
“I bring you pizza, and now I have to serve it, too? Bet you’re gonna make me clean up when we’re done. So lazy.”
“I’m conserving my energy for PT,” he replied, voice drier than a Santa Ana wind.
Wes came back, juggling two plates piled high with pizza slices. “How’s that going?” Except it sounded more like, “Howth a’ goan” around the half slice he’d already stuffed into his maw.
Slower than he’d like, so he didn’t want to talk about it. He still had three months. He’d make it if he buckled down and fought through the pain. Go a little harder and a little longer every day.
He hadn’t told Wes he’d signed up for the July CPAT. In fact, he hadn’t told anyone but Jif yet. Even James, his physical therapist, had no idea he’d already registered. He’d probably call it putting the cart before the horse, but the months of recovery weighed heavily on his shoulders.
Three months ago, he couldn’t get out of bed. In three more, he’d be fine. More than fine. Back to work, among his brothers.
Not his real brothers, of course. He had one of those, but they’d been split apart since their parents’ divorce. Still not eighteen, Clark had gone with his mom. Only Miles and his dad had remained.
After high school, he’d been lost. The college life would not have suited him, but he didn’t have an interest in some of the more craftsman-style careers, like plumbing or electrical.
He’d joined a summer volunteer firefighter squad on a whim.
Well, not quite volunteer, despite the misnomer.
They paid a small stipend and gave him a bed to sleep in during his shifts.
For a nineteen-year-old, the freedom from living at home meant as much as the meager bi-weekly check.
He played a lot of video games and worked out a lot.
Most of the guys—middle-aged and married—had wives who sent food to the shifts.
Home-cooked meals and a safe place to crash? What more could he want?
Then, a series of wildfires broke out in Northern California, and even their tiny, Midwest volunteer station answered the desperate call.
Those weeks on the slopes of the Siskiyou Mountains had changed him.
The mad scramble for survival every day, the flames and the winds always a step ahead of them.
The smoky air and grit in their faces and trenches and not enough sleep, but, oh, the exhilaration!
He lasted the summer with them, took home a fat check, and enrolled in firefighter school by fall.
For a busy kid who could never quite find something to hold his attention—not academic enough for college and not driven enough to go into business for himself—finding a wholly unexpected passion had given him purpose.
It had never wavered. Not even when the floor had collapsed beneath him, his leg twisting and the worst pain of his life stealing his breath, despite the oxygen mask.
He’d pushed the kid to Wes and told him to go, then he’d dragged his mangled leg out of the hole, howling until his voice gave out, his throat shredded by smoke and screams. The siren on his pack bleeped a warning.
He’d been still for too long, but the weight of his oxygen tank cut into his shoulder, burrowing into a space that shouldn’t exist, and his gaze flickered with spots of color and shadows when he moved his leg, the pain driving him to the edge of consciousness before dragging him back and slamming him into the brick wall of his own shattered body.
The siren bleeped louder, a constant sound instead of the intermittent warning, and the smoke thickened.
Soon, he wouldn’t be able to find his way out.
Soon, the stairs would collapse, and he’d be trapped.
A fire like this would gut a house, and this one wouldn’t quit until nothing remained but cinders and ash.
Wes had come back for him. Had dragged him out even as he screamed and jerked, then, mercifully, finally lost consciousness. They hadn’t even stripped off his gear before loading him into their own ambulance. Only his tank and mask were left behind.
No, three months had to be enough time to prepare for the CPAT. Because if he couldn’t be a firefighter anymore, what did he have left?