Chapter 30 Warren
THIRTY
WARREN
“Your records show you moved stations four years ago. Are you happy with that decision?”
Indignation has my teeth grinding. “Happy isn’t the word I would use. It was necessary.”
Kevin tilts his head, waiting for me to proceed.
This is our sixth session. Two more to go before my fate is revealed. I’m itching to return to full duties, to get off my ass and do something productive. Pushing pens, signing off risk assessments, and answering calls from the public is slowly—no, quickly—taking its toll.
“There was…too much history at my old firehouse. People viewed me differently, and my superiors began treating me as if I were made of glass. Things would never be the same, and the longer I stayed there…” The quicker I deteriorated.
“Why do you think that is?”
I cast him a long look. “Are we really pretending you don’t know every detail of my life?”
Kevin doesn’t withdraw at my scathing tone. “I want to hear it from you.”
Putting this off and avoiding his questions is proving more and more difficult. Plus, it will only get back to Marcus and the fire chief. Ergo, I’m found to be resistant and never return to field duties. Or my job.
There’s also another reason for the deterioration of my resolve—or two.
Harriet knows about my suspension, and she didn’t bat an eyelid, asking how I was instead.
She continues to shock the hell out of me and chips away at my defenses.
Since we reunited at Ben’s wedding, I’ve desperately tried to be the man she met at the fair: easygoing, free of trauma.
The facade is slipping, and the more time we spend together, the more uncomfortable and ill-fitting my usual mask feels.
Marcus’s lecture from two days ago sits heavy on my shoulders. He’s right. The last thing I want to do is dump my morbid past on her already overflowing plate, but maybe working with Kevin can help me open up to her. Maybe I want to open to her, even if the idea scares me half to death.
“I don’t blame them for how they reacted,” I say coolly. “After the…incident, I wasn’t the same. Even after the months I spent on my recovery and seeing therapists, the past continued to impact my work.”
Another head tilt.
A minute passes.
“I had to leave. Staying there wasn’t helping me get better. If anything, it was killing me. I’d already spent three years pretending the memories there weren’t slowly eating away at my soul.”
“What memories kept you there?”
My eyes fall to my clenched fists, knuckles white, accentuating the small scars. “Memories of where I met Alison. My wife.”