Chapter Twenty-one
RHETT
Thick smoke stacks rise above the house in steady waves as we pull up.
Connor jumps out of the engine before it’s fully stopped, securing his helmet and gear in practiced motion.
I follow, strapping my pack tight across my shoulders.
Flames move behind the shattered front windows, casting a deep orange glow across the porch.
“Confirmed no one’s inside?” I shout to the captain as we pass.
He nods, wiping sweat from his face. “Neighbors said the family’s out of town. We’re going on defensive unless something changes.”
The fire cracks and pops as we reach the side. Heat presses against us through our gear. Connor hands me the nozzle. I grip it, shift my stance and move forward with him toward the porch. The wood underneath flexes with each step, creaking under our combined weight.
The roofline at the front edge is warping. Shingles are beginning to fall, and the corner looks ready to drop.
Connor taps my shoulder twice. “Left side—watch it.”
I turn in time to see the siding give out. A wave of heat hits me hard in the chest. I lower myself to one knee, plant my boots, and open the line. The spray pushes back against my grip. Steam shoots up as the water hits the flames.
“Two more feet!” Connor calls from behind.
We move forward together, dragging the hose. Heat closes in, as I breathe slowly through the mask. I keep my eyes on the movement of the flames ahead. The line keeps steady as I adjust the spray and keep pressure on the source.
Inside, the frame of the house groans as the fire eats through the walls. I measure each step forward. Debris shifts under my boots. The ceiling flakes apart and drops in pieces. I stay low and keep the line moving.
Ten minutes grind past before the pressure shifts. The flames slow as water spreads across the floor. The structure still threatens to collapse, but the worst of the fire has dropped.
“Pull back!” someone shouts.
I retreat in steady steps. My arms ache. Sweat soaks my shirt under the turnout. I keep the line steady until Connor shuts the valve. Once we are done, we step outside. Burned wood and soaked insulation choke the air. My gear drags heavier with every breath.
Connor pulls his helmet off and leans against the engine. “That one was tight.”
I nod, adjusting the straps across my chest. “Could’ve gotten worse in a matter of minutes.”
Back at the station, I peel off my turnout gear. My shirt underneath is soaked, clinging to my skin. I roll my shoulders back, my muscles tight from the weight and heat. Connor drops his gloves into his locker with a heavy thud and winces as he rubs at his shoulder.
“I’m starving,” he mutters. “Let’s get a beer after shift. Burgers too. Grease, salt—the works.”
“Yeah,” I say, hanging up my gear. “Could eat a whole plate of fries myself.”
He yanks open his locker and shoves stuff around until he finds whatever the hell he was searching for. “Text Anderson. He’s been buried under spreadsheets all week. Probably needs it more than we do.”
I grab my phone and lean against the bench. My fingers tap out a message without much thought.
Me:
You around tonight? Thinking burgers and beer after shift. Come out.
I set the phone down beside me and grab a towel from my locker.
I wipe the back of my neck, dragging the cloth across the sweat-slick skin.
The air back here is cooler than outside, but I still feel the heat clinging to me.
Even after scrubbing my hands twice already, I swear I can still smell the smoke on my skin.
Connor grabs a towel and wipes off his neck, then adds, “Wes is in town, by the way. Staying with me for a couple of days.”
“Is he in town for a while or?” I ask, looking up.
“Yeah. He just wrapped up a contract in Seattle. I think he’s headed back here for good. I’ll shoot him a text. I probably should pull him out of the apartment and remind him what actual human interaction looks like.”
“You want me to tell Anderson he’s coming?”
“Works for me.”
Connor crosses to the sink, fills one of the plastic cups, and chugs it fast. He refills and drains it again.
“You think we’re done for the day?” he asks. His voice bounces off the tile walls.
I toss the towel into the laundry bin. “Hope so. That house had me cooked. One more like that and I’m not getting off the couch all weekend.”
He stretches his arms overhead and groans. “No complaints here.”
My phone buzzes on the bench.
I pick it up.
Anderson:
I’m in. Just say when and where.
Me:
Gritty’s. Seven. Wes and Connor are coming too. Bring your appetite.
Connor sees me typing and jerks his chin up. “He in?”
“Yeah. I told him we’ll meet him at seven.”
He nods, satisfied. “Cool. I’m hitting the showers. If we get called out again, I want to go in clean at least once today.”
I toss my gear into my locker and stretch out my arms, feeling the pull of tight muscles and the weight of the shift settle in my spine.
“Hot shower and cold beer. It’s the simple things, really,” I say.
Connor nods. “That’s church.”
I let out a low laugh as he grabs a towel and heads toward the back.
I open my locker again, pull out a clean t-shirt and my sneakers. Everything smells like the bay—sweat, smoke, engine oil—but it’s familiar. The smell typically stays in our clothes long after we’ve left. Some people hate it. I think I’d miss it if it ever went away.
When Connor’s out of sight, I let myself exhale and lean against the locker door, arms folded across my chest. My body’s tired but restless.
This job takes a lot out of you, and I’m in desperate need of a guy’s night filled with wings, beer, and no women.
And after the last few days, I could use that.
It has been a week since I saw her. Since she sat next to me in the dark, unraveling and brave, saying things I don’t think she has ever said out loud or let herself admit. A week since she drank my tea, slept in my bed, wore my clothes, and I haven’t been able to stop envisioning her.
I reach toward the top shelf of my locker, where I keep a worn-out baseball cap.
I’ve brought this silly thing to every station I’ve worked at.
It’s hers, or at least it used to be. She left it in my truck after that last summer we had together at the lake.
I can still picture her in it, hair still wet from the water, laughing.
I wish I could remember what she was laughing at, but I can’t.
I told myself I’d return the hat, but I never did.
This silly little hat keeps me steady when the days are hard.
It kept me alive once, too. In Nashville, when the smoke was so thick I couldn’t see my own hands and the heat pressed in like it meant to finish the job, I remember thinking of that hat, of her in it, and telling myself I couldn’t let that be the last thing I carried with me.
I didn’t know if I was getting out of that fire alive.
I just knew I wasn’t ready to leave her behind with it.
It reminds me that we all have someone out there. And if she were the one trapped, I’d pray someone pushed past their own exhaustion to reach her, the way I did.
I run my thumb along the brim, then put it back exactly where it was.
Gritty’s is busy but not packed, the kind of midweek crowd that comes in for cheap drafts and routine. There’s the low hum of conversation. Sports are reflected on every screen, and the smell of grilled meat drifting in from the kitchen.
Connor and I head straight for the back. The circular booth in the corner is open, our usual spot when it’s just the guys. He slides in first and stretches out, already looking more relaxed than he did at the station.
A waitress passes by and drops off menus without needing to be asked. I nod in thanks and pull my phone from my pocket to check the time.
Ten minutes later, Anderson walks in. His button-down shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows. He scans the place, spots us, and heads over, slipping into the booth across from me with a small exhale.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Yes, today in particular,” he mutters. “Markets are all over the place. But I could smell the fries from the parking lot, so things are looking up.”
Connor flags the waitress. “Four beers, please. Coldest you’ve got.”
“Coming right up,” she says.
Anderson looks between us. “Where’s Wes?”
“On his way,” Connor confirms. “He had to move his car; some guy parked like an idiot next to him.”
“Still driving that piece of shit Subaru?” Anderson smirks.
Connor grins. “Yep. Says it builds character.”
The beers arrive just as Wes walks in. He spots us, tosses a hand up and makes his way over. He slides into the open seat next to Anderson. His hair’s a little longer than I remember from last time. He tosses his keys on the table and grabs one of the beers.
“Place hasn’t changed,” he says, raising the glass. “Still smells like floor cleaner.”
Connor laughs. “That’s the charm.”
Wes takes a drink. “You, my friend, look like shit,” he says to Connor with a grin.
“You should see the other guy,” Connor replies. “We had a house fire. Real nasty one. Rhett nearly got barbecued.”
Wes raises an eyebrow. “Glad it missed you, man.”
“You and me both,” I mutter, as I take a swig.
Connor leans back, eyes on the menu. “I’m starving. I’m getting wings. Extra crispy.”
“Ooo, I’m gonna go burger. Medium rare. No tomato.” Anderson flips the menu closed.
I chime in right after, already knowing what I want. “I’m going to have the double burger. Extra pickles and a shit ton of fries.”
Wes doesn’t even look at the menu. “Nachos for me. The fully loaded kind. And I’m not sharing, so don’t ask.”
Connor smirks. “No one wants your sad pile of cheese and jalapenos, man.”
“Bullshit. You say that now, but when it hits the table, you’ll be leaning.”
The waitress comes back, pad in hand. We each rattle off our orders, and she nods without writing them down. She’s been here long enough to know exactly what she’s doing.
“Got it. Beers holding up?” she asks.