41. Mateo
MATEO
I’d learned pretty quickly that becoming a volunteer firefighter wasn’t as simple as showing up and getting handed a helmet.
There are classes on everything from safety procedures and hose operations to search-and-rescue techniques, and my station also requires emergency medical training on top of all of that.
Even after finishing the initial coursework, I’ll still have months as a probationary firefighter, drilling alongside senior members and proving to them I can handle the job before earning full membership.
I’m only a month into what will most likely be at least six months of just training.
And I can’t believe how much I’m enjoying it.
Don’t get me wrong, between training and my days with Crew, I’m fucking exhausted. And I’m definitely feeling my age. But I know I made the right decision.
Plus, I’m never too exhausted for Emerson.
It’s been a month since I handed my heart to her on stage, and I don’t think I ever knew dating could be so fun.
Not because we’re doing anything extraordinary.
Most of the time, it’s the opposite. Late-night grocery runs after my training sessions.
Takeout on my couch while she steals fries off my plate or sips of my milkshake.
Lunch dates that turn into two-hour conversations because neither of us wants to leave.
Nights that end with her naked in my bed, screaming my name until we’re both spent.
Every day is something simple and ordinary, but it’s all so new to me. I let go of the idea that I would ever have someone else to live life with again. Until Emerson.
The early mornings. The sore muscles. The nights I drag myself home smelling like smoke and sweat.
She never complains when I’m late. Never makes me feel guilty when training runs long.
She just makes my house her home, hands me a plate, steals one of my hoodies, and acts like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be.
And I’m still learning that this isn’t some dream I’m about to wake up from—pinching myself every morning to make sure it’s real… That she’s real.
“Where did you hear about these guys?” Emilio, one of the other volunteer firefighters I’ve been training with, asks as he hands me a beer. We’re at Lenny’s with a couple of other people from the fire station to see a local band perform.
“I don’t know too much about them,” I answer, talking over all the conversations buzzing in the bar. “But my band used to play here, so I always like to come and support.”
“Nice,” Emilio offers. “And they have live music every Thursday?”
I take a sip of my beer, nodding. “It’s usually just Fridays, but they added a second night for the summer.”
Even though I closed the door on Cross My Heart and that part of my life, everything that Eddie, Silas, and Theo said to me before our last show has really stuck with me.
And that’s why I wanted to come tonight to see the band that was performing—just to keep an eye on the local band scene here in Milwaukee. There might be a band that catches my eye, and I still have all my connections to the music world—might as well see if I can put them to use.
The crew at the station knew I was in Cross My Heart; some were even fans of us, but it didn’t affect my transition into the station—if anything, it gave me some common ground with some of them.
“You didn’t get me a beer?”
Andrew Jenkins is already getting on my fucking nerves tonight, and the band hasn’t even started yet.
Emilio shakes his head, apologizing with a shrug of his shoulders. Andrew grumbles something under his breath before walking away and joining some other group—no doubt annoying the shit out of them too.
“Who even invited him?” Emilio asks me, and I just shake my head.
Andrew Jenkins is one of those guys who somehow manages to wear out his welcome before he’s even technically arrived. The kind of guy who always has something to complain about, someone to criticize, or a reason why the world has personally inconvenienced him.
He's been a volunteer firefighter for all of five minutes and already acts like he's got twenty years on the job.
During training drills, he's constantly second-guessing instructors, offering opinions nobody asked for, and finding ways to turn every lesson into an argument. If someone gets praised, he has a reason they didn't deserve it. If he screws something up, it's somebody else's fault.
I've lost count of the number of times I've watched him create tension in the station over absolutely nothing.
I watch him insert himself into another conversation across the bar, already talking with his hands and shaking his head dramatically about something. Three people exchange looks over his shoulder.
Maybe tonight he'll keep the damage limited to annoying a few strangers and complaining about free live music and beer on someone else’s tab.
Somehow, though, I doubt it.
“Is Emerson coming tonight?” Emilio asks, and I know the interest he’s shown in my girlfriend is her relation to a certain barista he has been mentioning ever since we went to Hey Honey’s earlier this week.
I nod. “She and Brooke are closing up next door and then heading over.”
“Cool.” Emilio purses his lips, trying to act nonchalant, and I look away to hide my smile.
The door to Lenny’s pushes open, and a gust of warm, July air rushes in. I raise a hand to get Jack and Rumi’s attention, Ava and Anderson following close behind them.
We all exchange greetings, and I introduce Emilio to Rumi and Ava before we all fall into easy conversation. The band is getting ready to go on, and I check the time on my phone.
“Emerson’s still closing up?” Rumi asks me.
“She should be done by now.” I look around the bar, wondering if maybe I missed her coming in, but I don’t see her.
But I do see Brooke.
She and Emilio found a small corner of the bar, the two of them cozying up quickly.
Taking the last sip of my beer, I set the bottle on the bar. “Hey, Brooke. Is Emerson here?”
Brooke tears her eyes from Emilio to look around the bar. “She’s not here?”
I shake my head.
“She said she was going to take the trash out and then come over. She told me to head over without her,” Brooke says, her smile fading.
“I’m sure she’s on her way,” I say, but I can’t ignore this nagging feeling that something is wrong.
Looking around the bar again, I spot Rumi and Ava chatting as Anderson talks Jack’s ear off.
I see the pods of people from the station between the small crowd of patrons surrounding the stage in the back corner.
And then I freeze. There’s one person I don’t see.
And it’s fucking Jenkins.
I don’t hesitate, ignoring the people calling my name as I push through the crowd to get to the back door of Lenny’s.
After years of coming here and being close friends with not only the owner but a handful of people who worked here over the last decade, I know exactly what door leads to the dumpster that Lenny’s and Hey Honey’s share.
A sick feeling settles in my gut with every step.
Maybe I'm overreacting.
Maybe Emerson is just outside taking a call or getting some air.
Maybe she’s already inside, and I missed her.
But the longer I go without seeing her, the louder the warning bells in my head become.
The metal door slams against the wall as I shove through it.
Cool night air hits me immediately.
The alley behind Lenny's is narrow, lit by a single security light that casts long shadows across the cracked pavement.
My eyes sweep the alley.
The loading dock. The fence. The dumpster.
Nothing.
Then voices drift from around the corner. One of them belongs to Emerson, and relief hits first—but it only lasts a second.
Because the tone of her voice has every muscle in my body tightening. I move faster, and that’s when I hear another voice. While Emerson’s is flat and irritated, the other is raised.
My pace quickens.
The dumpster comes into focus, and I can make out two figures next to it.
Emerson's back is against the wall.
And Jenkins is standing way too fucking close.
Even from a few feet away, I can see the tension in her posture. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest. Her jaw is locked. Jenkins is leaning toward her, talking with that smug expression he always wears.
A surge of anger hits me so fast it nearly steals the air from my lungs. Every protective instinct I possess roars to life, and I lengthen my stride.
Jenkins says something.
Emerson's expression goes cold—the kind of look that should make any intelligent man take several steps backward.
But I think everyone knows Jenkins is not an intelligent man.
I take another step forward, already preparing to insert myself between them, but then Emerson is moving.
It's so fast I almost miss it.
One second she's standing there with her arms folded.
The next she's uncrossing them, planting her feet, and driving her fist straight into Jenkins's face.
The crack echoes down the alley as Jenkins's head snaps sideways, his body stumbling backwards with a startled grunt before crashing shoulder-first into the brick wall of the building behind him.
I stop dead in my tracks.
Jenkins is holding his face in his hands, and I can see the blood dripping through the cracks in his fingers. Emerson’s shaking out her hand, taking a step forward like she’s ready to swing again.
And despite the situation, despite the fact that I should probably be concerned about what the fuck just happened and what the fuck is going to happen next, I have never been more attracted to a woman in my entire life.
Emerson turns to me, and I come back to myself, closing the distance between us.
“Are you okay?” I ask, grabbing her hand.
Her fingers look okay, and I can’t help the pride I feel that my girl knows how to throw a punch, but I shake the thought away, filing it away for later to focus on making sure she’s alright.
“Someone got a little too close,” she says, shaking out her hand.
“What did he say to you?” I ask, looking over my shoulder to make sure Jenkins isn’t getting any ideas when our attention isn’t on him.
“It’s really not worth repeating,” she chuckles, but it’s free of humor. “Damn it,” she mutters.
“What? What’s wrong?” I grab her hand again, inspecting her fingers. That’s when I notice they’re already starting to look a little purple.
“I bruise like a peach.”
The way she says it with such a bored tone has some tension in the air—and my body—releasing. “I’m sure Emmett has a first-aid kit behind the bar. We can wrap your hand inside.”
Emerson’s eyes go wide. “I can’t have bruised knuckles at Crew’s orientation tomorrow. His teacher is going to think I’m insane.”
That’s what she’s concerned about right now.
“Well, you did just punch a grown man in the face.”
The words take me back to when my sister did the same thing a few years ago in a very similar situation—and leave it to me to have women in my life who take matters like this into their own hands.
Literally.
Emerson looks like she’s going to argue, but then her gaze goes behind me. That’s when I register some movement. She pushes me to the side, holding out her hand. “You stay,” she reprimands, like she’s talking to a dog.
And when I turn my gaze to Jenkins, he’s frozen to the spot.
And somehow, despite everything happening, I almost laugh.
Almost.
Because Emerson isn’t shaken.
She isn’t scared.
She’s pissed.
I reach for her hand, more to remind myself she’s here than anything else.
Her fingers slide into mine without hesitation. My thumb brushes over her knuckles, careful of the redness already forming there. She glances down at our hands, then back up at me, and for a second, the anger in her eyes softens. “You’re staring.”
I blink, realizing I haven’t looked away from her.
“You make it hard not to.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “It’s rude.”
I glance down at her hand still wrapped around mine. “I’m just trying to figure out if I should be worried about the guy my girlfriend just punched or the fact that I’m somehow more attracted to her now.”
The word hangs there between us.
Girlfriend.
The word feels so small compared to what she means to me—I don’t think I’ve even officially asked her if that’s what we are… Girlfriend. Boyfriend.
Her expression shifts for half a second, something warm and almost shy crossing her face before she looks away.
And somehow, that only makes me love her more.
And I want to tell her—need to tell her.
“Emerson!” Footsteps shuffle down the alley, and Rumi, Ava, Jack, and Anderson come into view.
Rumi and Ava immediately rush to Emerson’s side, concern in their features as they ask what happened.
Anderson looks from me to Jenkins, taking in the situation, and then he looks to Jack.
Following his gaze, I’m not the one who messed with Emerson, but my stomach still drops.
I thought Emerson looked scary when she was mad—safe to say, it runs in the family.
Jack marches over to Jenkins, grabbing him by the collar of his T-shirt.
As the Lead Firefighter at the station and next in line for the chief—if the whispers among the station are reliable—Jack is the last person Andrew Jenkins would want on his bad side.
Without a word, Jack drags Jenkins down the alley, around the bar, and into the parking lot, shoving him to the ground.
“Get the fuck out of here.” His voice is low, but Jenkins still hears him loud and clear.
In seconds, he’s stumbling to his feet and heading to his car.
Safe to say, I think this is the last time any of us will see Andrew Jenkins ever again.