Chapter 8
Eight
Zach
This goddamn bush rig is going to be the death of me.
Armpits deep in cataloguing gear, I’ve been at this for hours. It’s mostly mindless work, and it’s a nice reprieve from my piles of paperwork in the back office. I’m also supposed to be helping organize a chili cook off the second weekend of October… but I keep telling myself I’ve got time.
Chief will get on my ass about it in a couple weeks. It’ll be fine.
Today it’s just myself and Nathan in the station, along with our newest guy. Nate’s got one of the pumper trucks outside of the garage bay while he catalogues that rig and reorganizes and stocks the roll-up door compartments from our last call.
Our recruit from the rehabilitation house is currently coiling all the hoses back up and putting them back inside one of the roll-up doors.
Chief said his name is Tommy Chandler, that he’s a recovering alcoholic and addict, and that he’s been sober for just over a year.
He hasn’t said much, but he’s asked insightful questions and seems eager to assist anywhere he can.
He’ll go through field training and safety classes, and if he cuts it, he’ll have the option to join as a regular volunteer for the department.
I watch the new guy from under the brim of my hat as he works.
I can say I’m fortunate to have never struggled with addiction, but I know Xander had a hard time with alcohol after our dad died seven years ago.
Eventually he was able to pull himself out of it, but I know it’s not that easy for some people.
For me, when we’d gotten the news that Dad had died out on a fire, I’d thrown myself into being the best dad and husband I could be.
We didn’t have Chloe yet. Bailey was about a year old, and Abs was about four, I think.
Actually, come to think of it, that’s about the time that Britt had taken off for a while and we’d taken that separation.
And when she’d come back, I’d worked like hell to make things better, to make her want to stick around.
Back then, I believed people had good hearts and good intentions. I believed Britt when she swore she was better, that everything would be fine. That we would be fine. That our family, our girls, mattered to her as much as they did to me.
I don’t have that same faith in people anymore.
But, maybe that’s the bitter, soon to be divorced single dad in me.
The radio I have clipped to my belt goes off, and the familiar voice of one of the local dispatchers comes through. I’m up and moving before she finishes the call, and I look up to find Nate moving, too.
“Hey, new guy, get your turn outs on, and do it quick. Climb into 1311.”
Tommy does as he’s told, dropping the almost perfectly coiled hose and following both Nate and myself to one of the engines still inside the garage.
There’s a fire alarm going off at the bowling center a few miles away.
We both know this could either be a real fire, or another false alarm like ninety-nine percent of the calls we get out to this center are.
Their damn alarms are always going off, but we hustle, donning our turn out gear and then we’re pulling out of the bay door in the tanker rig within sixty seconds.
It takes us less than five minutes to get to the center, and when we get there, Nate and I look at each other, eyebrows hiking. Nearly all the employees are standing outside, doors propped open wide with brick pavers, smoke billowing out of them.
But what catches our attention is the arcade claw machine that’s sitting out on the sidewalk, engulfed in flames.
What the actual fuck.
We’re out of the engine and moving as soon as we pull up close enough, and we get to work. First, we haul it further away from the building and the parked cars. It doesn’t take much to put the fire out, but how the hell did a stuffed animal claw machine catch fire to start with?
We’re talking with the employees that discovered it on fire when a dark red pickup truck with a light bar across the top pulls up next to us, and Chief slides out of the driver’s door.
He steps over to us and I grunt, “Seriously, it’s your fucking day off.
You didn’t need to race over here. How far over the speed limit were you going? ”
“What’s a speed limit?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth, and I snort, shaking my head as he takes over questioning the employees about what happened and what they saw.
The owner of the place joins Clay and tells him he’s checked the security footage.
Turns out some idiot teenager shoved a lit cigarette into the machine and the synthetic fur on the stuffed animals went up like kindling.
The machine is still smoldering, so while Chief takes down all the info about the teen, Nate, Tommy and I haul it further across the parking lot to get it out of the way.
We monitor it for a little longer, until we’re sure it’s out completely, before we head back to the station, and Chief climbs into his truck and heads himself back to whatever jobsite he hightailed it from to get here.
I leave Nate and Tommy to handle taking care of the trucks and head back into the office to type up the report, then leave it on Clay’s desk. By the time five o’clock rolls around and it’s time to go pick up the girls from my mom’s, all I want to do is pick them up and go home.
I’m not that lucky, though, because tonight is family dinner, and Mom will beat me senseless if I try and skip out… again.
Pulling my truck into the driveway, I’m surprised to see Joel’s bike is already parked next to Mom’s sedan. Climbing the wooden steps that I’m a little ashamed to admit are in need of repair, I’m reminded that I don’t come around often enough.
I need to do more.
I’ll wrangle Joel to come by and help me repair these steps. I grip the railing and give it a wiggle. Fuck. And this railing that’s a little too loose for my liking.
I can hear the girls chattering away before I make it through the screen door, and the smell of roasted vegetables and grilled chicken greet me. My stomach rumbles. Shit, I’m hungrier than I thought.
When I enter the kitchen, I find that Chloe is perched, cross legged, on top of the kitchen counter, elbow deep in what I can only assume is some kind of dough.
Flour dusts her clothes and all over the countertop around her dough pile, and there’s a smudge of it across her cheek and forehead, like she touched her face at some point.
Bailey is standing at the opposite counter, tongue sticking out of her mouth as she concentrates on pinching an already rolled out dough disc into a pie pan. Joel stands next to her, giving directions.
Even Abigail is helping, peeling apples at the kitchen sink. It’s impressive that she’s not holed up in the spare bedroom to be antisocial.
Mom has her back to me when I come in, so I walk up behind her and lean down to kiss her cheek in greeting. “Hi, Mom. Smells amazing.”
“Daddy!” Chloe crows, looking up and spotting me finally.
She beams a grin over at me and I step over to her to look closer at what she’s working on.
The pile of dough is lumpy and unevenly moist in some places and heavily dusted in flour in others.
“I’m making the dough that’s going to go on top of the apple pie! See?”
I nod appreciatively, and hum, “That looks amazing, Chlo.” Then I risk a glance over at Mom.
I must not hide the worry from my face well, because she just shrugs and smiles, then continues rolling out a different piece of dough with a wooden rolling pin. Probably the piece that will actually go on the pie after Chloe’s lump mysteriously disappears. So strange how that happens.
“How was that call out to the bowling center today?” Joel asks over his shoulder, and I move closer to him and Bailey. “Another false alarm? I got the tone, but we were delivering a couple side-by-sides up over the bridge. There was no way I was gonna make it.”
I laugh then, leaning my hips against the counter next to Bailey and crossing my arms over my chest. “No, actually. One of their arcade games caught fire. It was nothing. Easy peasy. Even had the new guy help out.”
“No shit?” Joel asks, looking up at me, dark brows raised.
“Uncle Joel, you’re not supposed to swear,” Chloe calls over to him from her spot on the countertop. I should be chastising her and my mother for allowing her to sit up there, but she looks so damn happy, I don’t have the heart to tell her to get down.
“You’re right, munchkin. Hey, tell you what, when your dad stops swearing, I will, too.”
“Psht, that’ll be never,” Abigail mutters from her station at the sink.
Then she looks over at us and grins, and the sight of it nearly caves in my chest.
Shit. When was the last time I saw my kid smile like that? It’s been too damn long.
I lean over and ruffle her hair, which earns me a halfhearted glare and a giggle. I’ll fucking take it.
“You both should be cleaning up your mouths when you’re around these girls,” Mom grumbles, pointing a finger at the both of us.
We nod abashedly, though I know neither one of us is going to quit.
She harrumphs, like she knows it, too. But then her face breaks out into a smile, and she says, “I didn’t tell you yet, but Xander is bringing Teddy and the kids to come visit next month.
For a whole week! I cannot wait to love on those grandbabies! ”
Well, I’ll be damned. My big brother is actually coming home for a visit? That’s practically unheard of.
Mom continues, “I can’t believe I’m going to have all three of my boys home at the same time, finally. It’s been way too long.”
“I know, Mom,” I agree. Shit, I don’t remember the last time Xander was home. At least five years ago, possibly longer? Mom deserves better from us. That guilt gnaws at me, like always.
Lydia Macomb has been one of those pillars of strength in my life that I don’t know what I would have done had I not had her in my corner this whole time.
At nearly sixty-five, she’s spent the last thirty-five years as a single woman.
She never dated after my dad left, despite our insistence that she should.
She made her kids her life, and when my kids came along, they seemed to breathe new life into her existence. The woman was made to be a Nonna.
Currently, her once dark hair that’s now heavily streaked through with silver is piled into a topknot on her head, tortoise shell rimmed glasses perched on her nose.
Without them, she’s blind as a bat and has always refused to wear contacts, unlike Joel who switches back and forth depending on his mood or necessity.
Xander and I inherited her piercing light blue eyes, and all three of my girls inherited them from me.
A dark green Michigan State University sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled to her elbows camouflages the lithe yoga instructor body beneath it, as does the loose linen pants she’s wearing.
Her feet are bare, toenails painted red, as always.
Honestly, I’ve never seen her wear any other color on her toes.
“Hand me the paring knife in the block, would you, Zach?” she asks, motioning with her elbow toward the knife block in the corner.
Reaching around Bailey and Joel, I slide it out and hand it to her.
She starts slicing the rolled-out dough into strips, then latices them together deftly.
“Joel, is that crust ready to go in the oven?”
Joel slides the pie pan away from Bails and holds it up for all of us to inspect. The pinches around the edge are far from uniform, but Joel nods appreciatively. “Absolutely.”
Bailey beams at me, and then Joel is sliding the glass dish into the oven to blind bake. At the same time, he removes the grilled chicken and vegetables, setting them on the stove to cool before we dig in.
“Once that’s done, we’ll eat while it cools, and then we can put the filling in and pop it back in the oven,” Mom tells the girls.
“Abi, great work on those apples. Why don’t you girls go wash up your hands—and your faces—” she looks pointedly at Chloe, who giggles again, “—while the adults get these apples chopped right quick?”
Stepping over to Chloe, I hold out my hands to her.
I can see the wheels turning in her little head, and then she reaches out and places both of her floured-up hands on either side of my face, leaning in to rub her nose against mine.
She laughs shrilly when I swing her off the countertop and down to the floor.
I can only imagine the white handprints on my face when she pulls her hands away, more giggles erupting from her as well as Bailey and Abigail.
Dammit, we all needed this, apparently.
The three girls race through the house to the bathroom, and I dust my cheeks off, and by the time I have my hands washed in the kitchen sink, Mom has a handful of the apples Abigail peeled diced into small cubes. I take over dicing, dropping them into a stainless-steel mixing bowl on the counter.
When the girls come back, Joel recruits them to help set the table, carrying the chicken, vegetables, and a salad from the fridge to the table. Chloe goes around the table, setting out paper napkins and meticulously arranging each place setting with silverware.
Mom adds sugar, cinnamon, vanilla, and the final ingredients to the bowl, and when I drop the last of the apple chunks in, she mixes everything together.
I take the pie pan out of the oven, setting it on the stove to cool, and then we’re all sitting down to eat.
A groan leaves me as I sit down for the first time all day, and I take the time to just rest my forearms on the edge of the table as everyone takes their seats at the round wooden table.
Chloe is to my left, between myself and Joel.
Then Abi, then Mom, and then Bails to my right. My favorite people, right here.
A blonde-haired princess pops into my head then, and I shove the thought away.
Cut that shit out. Focus, asshole.
And not on how fucking pretty said blonde-haired princess is.
Absolutely not about how big and round her ass is or how badly I want to grab it with both hands and squeeze—
“Dad? Hello—” Bailey calls, waving her hand at me to get my attention. Shit. I swallow hard and turn my head to look at her. “Pass the vegetables, please.”
Mom is staring at me, her brows furrowed slightly in concern, and I wonder briefly how long I had been lost in my inappropriate thoughts about Princess. “Sorry, B. Got my head stuck thinking about work.”
“So what else is new,” Abi says from the other side of Joel, and I glare over at her, trying to keep my face straight.
My eldest just snickers behind a forkful of salad.
And even though I know I’ll be the butt of all the jokes for the rest of the evening, I’ll take the win, tonight.