Chapter 6
Lincoln
Born and raised in St. Matthews, I couldn’t imagine living anywhere else. At least, that’s how I felt now. The fact that my family was so deeply entwined with the town’s legacy was definitely a defining factor. Growing up, I didn’t always appreciate that.
My mother, Abigail, was a well-respected judge.
Stern but fair, her word was final in and out of the courtroom.
That was where she met my father, Garrett Carson.
After leaving the army, he found his way to St. Matthews, working at the courthouse as a bailiff.
My mother often teased him about mooning over her from afar before she finally took action.
“Daft idiot thought I didn’t like him,” Mom recalled fondly, my father looking proud.
“She was too good for me. We all knew that. Hell of a temper, though. Our first real conversation was her demanding to know why I hadn’t asked her out.”
I used to feel embarrassed at their open affection, their deep focus on the townspeople, how they somehow knew everyone’s business.
They weren’t nosy. They weren’t gathering information so they could gossip.
It was to help, to make sure to check in on the people we walked past every day who might have been suffering.
As the oldest of three, I felt like we had plenty of drama in our house already.
It took me longer than I cared to admit before I realized how lucky I was.
My parents were phenomenal. We didn’t want for anything growing up.
We weren’t spoiled, though. Our parents had rules and expectations.
They wanted to guide us into adulthood with good heads on our shoulders.
Following in our parents’ footsteps, we all eventually wound up in careers that served the town and its people.
Quinn, the baby of the family, ran the household.
She knew just how to get what she wanted—the exact buttons to push or the right person to pressure.
It was what made her so good at her job as a social worker.
Nothing slipped past her, and her compassion was endless.
It was a job I knew I would struggle with.
Meanwhile, our brother, Mason, decided to rebel from the typical middle child stereotype.
Straight-laced, rule-abiding, and stern, law enforcement was a natural path for him.
It took me a bit longer to figure out what I wanted to do.
High school wasn’t the easiest for me. It felt like one night, I went to bed like a normal kid, then woke up in a man’s body.
I was a klutzy, bumbling mess. When my parents signed me up for athletics, I wasn’t thrilled, but it was almost necessary—a way for me to learn how to move around without hurting myself or others.
Football wound up helping immensely, especially since it came with padding and helmets.
More than that, though, it was the team.
I loved the camaraderie, how we all worked together to execute a play.
But I wasn’t a prodigy. I didn’t have the best stats or anything like that.
There was no future in football for me. Then I met Lindsey.
Her family moved to town during our senior year of high school.
Meeting Lindsey gave me a new purpose. She was my first girlfriend, my first everything.
I was infatuated and lost myself in her completely.
Her dreams became mine, and her vision of a future far away from St. Matthews—one full of bright lights and sleek buildings—sucked me in.
Lindsey filled my head with visions of a big life full of constant action and excitement.
My lack of direction, an inability to envision my future, was something that was eating at me—something Lindsey was very aware of.
She was the one who planted the idea that all of my problems stemmed from where we lived.
“You’re limiting yourself if you stay in this small-ass town. Of course you don’t know what you want to do. There IS nothing to do here!” she told me. And I wanted to believe her because I wanted to blame anyone but myself.
Despite my parents’ protests, we got married at twenty and moved out to Los Angeles.
I got a job installing HVAC systems, and Linds waitressed between auditions.
It wasn’t glamorous, but it wasn’t Kentucky, and at the time, that was enough.
My hours were long, and the customers were rude, but the work was steady, reliable.
At home, though, things were changing, and not in a good way.
Lindsey’s expectations were constantly shifting, becoming further out of my reach.
I’d get off from a twelve-hour shift, only for her to be waiting at home, insisting we go to some club because a director or producer might be there.
I was constantly working overtime just to afford the bars and restaurants Lindsey insisted we go to.
To prove I could keep up with the lifestyle she expected.
But even that wasn’t enough for her. Unbeknownst to me, she was racking up credit card debt under both our names, always coveting what others had.
Nothing I provided was ever enough. We split up, her determination to make it in LA far outweighing her interest in our relationship.
I returned home, divorced and with no career to speak of.
Coming back to St. Matthews, everything looked different.
All the reasons I left were the reasons that now kept me there.
Becoming a firefighter saved me. At thirty-six, I’d been with the department for over ten years, and I still loved it.
It was more than just a job, more than coworkers.
It was a calling, a purpose. My fellow fighters were my family.
We risked our lives with every job, and we did it knowing we had each other’s backs, and that if we couldn’t make it out, they’d do everything they could to make sure the innocent people inside did.
It wasn’t an easy career. There were days where I was left with phantom flames licking at my skin, waking me up at night, smoke-filled images trailing through my head, reminding me of the times when we were too late.
It never got easier, but the good outweighed the bad. And good days made it even better.
Kindergarten and first-grade classes were scheduled to visit, and I enjoyed showing the kids around, seeing their eyes widen with excitement at the lights and ladders.
The only downsides were the adults who accompanied them.
It was uncomfortable, the way some of the parent chaperones and teachers acted.
They showed up dressed for a nightclub, eyeing the firemen as if waiting for us to break out into a Chippendales routine.
When the first group showed up, I was relieved to see a male teacher leading them.
A quiet hush ran through the group of small kids as they stopped short in front of me, their heads tilted all the way back, mouths agape.
At 6’5, I knew I was an intimidating sight.
My long hair and visible tattoos didn’t always help ease the situation.
Thankfully, I was rescued by Dean, a fellow firefighter and friend.
“Alright, guys! Don’t let the giant scare you. We keep him around to guard the fire trucks. Now, who’s ready for a tour?” he yelled excitedly, and all the kids focused on him, eager to run around.
Together, Dean and I took the kids on a tour of the station house first, then had a group demonstration on Stop, Drop, and Roll.
The big finale was the garage bay that housed the fire trucks and equipment.
The kids almost vibrated with excitement as Dean and I went over the different parts of the vehicles before letting the children loose to explore.
Taking a step back, I took a minute to enjoy seeing the kids ooh and ahh over the truck and uniforms.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a little girl.
Her sandy blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail and tilting precariously to one side.
She was hovering in the far corner, the only one not near the truck, seemingly distracted by our lockers.
There was something about her that drew my attention, and I found myself heading over to her.
“Hey, there. Did you want to check out the fire truck with the rest of your class? If you want, I can show you how to turn the siren on and off.” I had crouched down so as not to look so big, hoping I had managed not to scare the little girl looking at me with huge green eyes.
Without saying a word, she examined me, her brows furrowed as she appeared to catalog everything about me from my head to my toes.
“Your arms are pretty. Mommy says pictures like those don’t wash off, though,” she eventually said, studying the tattoos covering my arms.
“Your mama’s right. These won’t ever wash off. That’s why you have to make sure you pick something important if you’re going to get a picture like these,” I replied. The girl nodded as if she was digesting my advice.
“Do you eat lots of vegetables?” she asked next, which threw me for a loop.
“Yes, ma’am,” I replied through a small laugh.
“Mommy says I gots to eat my vegetables if I want to grow up big and strong. You musta ate all yours, though. You’re the tallest person in the world.
Are you taller than the truck? How do you fit in a car?
I bet if you put someone on your shoulders, they could touch the clouds.
What’s your name, giant?” she asked, her arms moving excitedly as she spoke.
“My name is Lincoln, but everyone calls me Linc. What’s your name, squirt?” I asked her, and she giggled.
“Eloise, but everyone calls me Lou,” she replied, mimicking my answer before frowning.
“Well, not everyone. Pops and Mommy do. Pops is really old. He’s my great, great, great, great-grandpa. Can you believe that?” she asked. I laughed at her enthusiasm, curious to know how many of those greats were accurate.