13. The Mandy Stare
Chapter thirteen
The Mandy Stare
Sterling
It’s a nine a.m. drill, which is too early for heroics and too late to fake a hangover.
I’m forty feet up on the aerial, harnessed in and moving hand-over-hand up the last extension, boots tight on the rungs, every muscle remembering a thousand runs just like this.
The city is a pinball machine from up here, light, metal, the occasional drift of fryer oil from the hot dog place two streets over.
There’s a cold bite to the air, and the wind hits different when you’re above the power lines.
The sky is hard blue, cloudless, and if you fall it’s a straight shot to the pavement.
The training tower doesn’t make a big deal of it, but it’s the kind of view that’s supposed to make you feel small.
I don’t. I just feel off.
From the street, Jake’s voice filters up: “Drop your weight, Hayes. You’re babying the top bracket.”
I blink twice, mind catching up to my hands. I loosen the grip, swing my heel to the inside rail, and double, check the harness. The ladder creaks, just a little, and I register, with a half-second lag, that I missed a cue. Not a big one, but enough to earn a mention later.
I run the rest of the drill on autopilot. The climb, the pivot, the mock rescue down the chute, where I’m supposed to haul a 180-pound dummy back down three landings. I could do it with my eyes closed, and today, I almost do.
At the bottom, Jake is waiting by the cone, clipboard held against his chest like a shield. He says nothing. Just marks the page with a pencil, slow and surgical, then moves on to the next guy.
I unclip my harness, stretch my arms overhead, and roll my neck to the right until something pops. The world is a little brighter down here, but that doesn’t help.
The rest of the squad runs their drills. I sit on the curb, sucking down water and listening to Jake’s voice, a running color commentary on every error, every hesitation, every half-assed grip.
The shift is routine, but my brain refuses to click into gear.
The morning is a blur. I put away tools, replace a gasket, wipe down the inside of the cab, but every action is haunted by the echo of her.
Mandy’s face across the counter, the way she holds her coffee, the sound of her voice when she says my name.
How she will sound when she screams it. Her soft skin and pink lips that I want to kiss more than anything else on the planet right now.
I’m still daydreaming, when the drills end and we’re called back into the station. The squad files in, shucking harnesses, dumping sweatshirts in the gear alcove, trading the kind of shit talk that doubles as endearment in a place like this.
“Hey” Jake nods his head and pulls me off to the side. “You wanna tell me what that was out there?”
I keep my eyes focused on the wall behind him. “You mean the drill I’ve done a hundred times?”
He cocks his head, slow, like a dog that’s just heard a can opener. “You were sleepwalking.”
“Didn’t fall. Didn’t drop the dummy. That’s all that matters.”
Jake snorts. “You’re not hearing me, man. You missed three cues and almost overshot the last landing. You’re lucky it wasn’t a live run.”
I finally focus on his face, ready to push back, but he’s not even mad. He’s… curious.
He crosses the room, sits on an empty storage crate, and plants his elbows on his knees. “Talk to me, Hayes. I’ve seen you do this hungover, sleep deprived, and even running a fever. I’ve never seen you like this.”
I want to deflect. I want to tell him it’s just a rough morning, or maybe a stomach bug, or the cosmic injustice of being stuck with a drill instructor who won’t retire. But Jake’s not buying it.
He waits.
So I say, “It’s nothing.”
He shakes his head, a slow grin blooming on his face. “You know who says ‘it’s nothing?’ People with a secret. Or people with a concussion. And you didn’t hit your head today.”
“Just let it go.” I say as I turn and make a beeline for the equipment bay, the one part of the house that never smells like anything but oil and steel.
I’m elbow-deep in the ladder truck’s engine bay, my hands slick with a thin sheen of grease.
I keep telling myself a faulty gasket is the most interesting thing in my life right now.
It isn’t working. Every time I close my eyes to focus on the torque of the wrench, I see her in that oversized shirt, her bare legs, her hair a beautiful mess I want to bury my face in.
“Ahhh I see what's up now.” Jake voice cuts through the mechanical hum. He’s leaning against the brick wall, slow grin spread across his face, “You’re doing it again, Hayes,”
“Doing what?” I grunt, my voice muffled under the hood. “I’m checking the pressure lines. It’s called maintenance, Lawson, what people do when they’re not busy leaning against walls looking like cover models for mediocre firefighters.”
Jake chuckles, a low, irritating sound that scrapes at my nerves. He pushes off the wall and strolls over, flicking a crumpled piece of paper toward the trash can. He misses. Doesn’t even blink.
“I’m talking about the ‘Mandy Stare,’” he says, stepping into the bay with surgical precision.
“You look like you’re trying to solve a physics equation on the curvature of her ass and failing miserably.
” He puts both hands behind his head, like he’s settling in for the long version.
“So, what happened, exactly? Did you finally do something about it, or are you still running the slowest campaign in the history of relationships?”
“Nothing happened,” I say, and this time it’s almost true. “We had dinner. Her parents were in town. That’s it.”
I roll out from under the hood and wipe my hands on a greasy rag with more force than necessary. My jaw tightens, my eyes narrow. “It’s an act, Jake. For her parents. You know the deal. Mandy needed help, I’m helping. End of story.”
“Sure, sure,” he says, grin going predatory as he claps a hand on my shoulder, fingers digging in.
“By the way, I spotted the photos her mom posted on online. Your sister sent me the link. Very convincing. The way you’re holding her?
Brando would be jealous. You should nab a local Emmy for ‘Best Performance in a Role You’re Definitely Not Faking. ’
Pretending to be in love with someone you actually are in love with, that’s a bold strategy, Saint Sterling.
Most guys would just buy a girl a drink.
But you? You sign up for high-stakes theater: forced proximity, shared rent.
You’ve turned your life into a romance novel without a single honest date. ”
“I’m not in love with her,” I say, and I hate how hollow it sounds to my own ears. “We’re friends. Have been just friends for six years. She lost her home, her folks are… a lot. I’m just offering a hand. A service. Isn’t that what we do? Help people.”
Jake lets out a sharp, barking laugh that ricochets off the concrete floor, earning us a few curious glances from the guys at the bench.
“A service, huh? And I’m the Queen of England.
Listen, man, I’ve watched you walk into burning buildings without flinching.
Pull people out of car wrecks that looked like crushed up soda cans, calm as a Sunday morning. ”
I turn back to the engine and start recoiling hose I already coiled a few minutes ago.
“You don’t fixate on a random shit for that kind of ‘service.’” He continues. You fixate when you’re terrified of losing something you haven’t even admitted you have. I think you’re just afraid of being happy.”
I stare at the wall. “What does that even mean?”
He says, “It means you’ve got a good thing, and instead of just letting it be good, you’re pulling away.
You do it every time. You want to know how I know that?
Because the last time you looked this fucked up, it was after that one-night stand with the paramedic, and you spent a week pretending you weren’t in love before you ghosted her on her birthday. ”
I groan. “Not the same.”
He shrugs. “Different flavors, same snack.”
I roll my eyes.
“Maybe I just don’t want to mess it up.”
I glance over to find Jake, eyebrows at half-mast, a look on his face like he’s just witnessed an act of nature. He doesn’t even have to say it. The verdict is clear.
Jake turns away and almost gets to the door before he calls out, voice just loud enough to sting. “You know, the best part about pretending is when you forget it’s a performance.”
I don’t turn around. Don’t even look back.
“Go away, Jake,” I mutter, voice tight. “I have work to do. These lines aren’t going to check themselves.”
“Whatever you say, Romeo,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads back to the dayroom.
“Don’t forget your lines at the big opening on Friday.
Shame if the audience found out the leading man’s actually feeling his part.
You’re a terrible liar, Sterling. Always have been.
That’s why you’re a good man, but a shitty actor. ”
I stare down at the engine, metal cold and unyielding under my hands.
I think about how her hand felt in mine last night, small, warm, perfectly fitted to my palm.
I think about the way she looked at me when I told that jazz-bar story, like she was seeing me for the first time.
I’m a firefighter. I manage chaos, control the environment, keep flames from spreading.
But I’m standing here in the quiet of the bay and the fire is already inside my own house, and I have no idea how to put it out without burning everything down.