Chapter 6
Tristan
After Warren’s death, I spent weeks feeling empty and helpless.
I took some time off work, but started picking up shifts at the hospital earlier than I needed to.
I needed the distraction. I worked more than I’d ever worked before, but my passion for my job had gone away.
I used to love nursing, but all the joy and sense of purpose I’d once felt around it were gone.
I felt lost and purposeless for a few weeks, and then booked a therapy session. I knew that I probably should’ve gone as soon as Warren died, but the grief was so fresh I couldn’t even begin to think about unpacking it.
My therapist was named Shauna. She was a middle-aged woman with a stern face, a kind voice, and an endless supply of questions designed to help you expose the rawest parts of your psyche.
After weeks of therapy, I eventually decided that I needed to make a major change in my life. Maybe nursing had been my calling once, but it wasn’t anymore.
I don’t remember much from the aftermath of the car accident. I remember being pulled from the car and seeing Warren sprawled on the street. He was driving, hadn’t been wearing his seatbelt, and had been thrown through the windshield.
Two firefighter paramedics were doing everything they could to save him, but it wasn’t enough.
I could’ve been angry at them—God knows I needed to be angry at someone—but I knew it wasn’t their fault. I knew that they did everything they could.
When I told Shauna that I wanted to enroll in the fire academy, her perfectly crafted Therapist Mask cracked, and she said, “Oh!”
Then she asked if I might want to pursue a less traumatic career, but I told her that this was what I wanted—needed—to do. I’m not built for low-adrenaline jobs.
I had planned to stay in Los Angeles and work there once I graduated from the fire academy. But after my Dad’s diagnosis, I decided it wouldn’t be the worst idea for me to get a fresh start in a place that was familiar to me, and I applied for opportunities in San Francisco.
Today is my first day with the San Francisco Fire Department as a firefighter-paramedic. I’ll be working at Station 27, located on the intersection of Sanchez and Market.
“You’ve got this,” I tell my reflection in the bathroom mirror after I finish getting ready.
I’m already wearing my station uniform: black tactical pants and a matching shortsleeved shirt.
When I finish my run as a probationary firefighter (a “probie”), I’ll earn my shield, which will go on my shirt.
Until then, I’ll be doing the work of a firefighter-paramedic and learning on the job what I couldn’t learn at the academy.
Dad and Bobbie are in the living room when I get downstairs, both drinking coffee.
It’s still early—not even 6:30—but they’ve always been early risers.
Bobbie will have to get ready for work soon, because she’s still working full-time as a paralegal.
Dad has had to cut back to part-time as an accountant, and I worry that sooner rather than later, he’ll have to go on disability insurance.
Dad and Bobbie have some money saved, but not a lot.
I’m hoping that because I live here, now, Bobbie will stress less about being there for Dad while still working.
“Good luck today!” Bobbie says, standing up to hug me. “Do you want breakfast?”
“No, I’m okay. I don’t want to be late.”
Besides, I think I’m too nervous to stomach anything right now besides coffee.
“I hope it goes well!” Dad says. I wonder if he remembers what my new job is. “You’ll have to tell us all about it tonight at dinner.”
I freeze as I pour myself coffee into a travel mug. “Dad, I’ll be working twenty-four-hour shifts, remember? I won’t be home until tomorrow morning.”
I catch the brief look of distress on his face. “Of course,” he says, covering his mistake. “I meant tomorrow at dinner, obviously.”
Bobbie and I share a look, but we don’t say anything.
It’s a brisk September day, the sort of morning I would normally start with a run, but today I know I don’t have the time. I screw the lid onto my coffee mug, say bye to my parents, and hurry to my car.
I’m feeling relatively hopeful today, like my fresh start in San Francisco is finally beginning.
The trip to the Anvil was good for that feeling, too, because it reminded me that life can move on, too, not just my career.
I’m still a little rattled by the near-panic attack that hit me when that hot guy, Nick, suggested we go upstairs together.
Seeing Warren in my mind’s eye like that was new. I know that victims of traumatic events often experience PTSD, which can include vivid flashbacks, but that wasn’t something I’ve ever experienced before.
I try to shake the uneasiness off as I get into my car, and then, on a whim, I decide to text Nick.
I thought about him until I fell asleep, and seriously considered texting him last night. But I needed to sleep on it, to see if that giddy feeling was gone in the morning.
Well, the feeling isn’t gone, so I decide to do something about it.
TRISTAN: It was great to meet you last night! Thanks for being so understanding about me not wanting to do anything.
TRISTAN: This is Tristan btw
TRISTAN: Tristan Cavanagh
TRISTAN: From the Anvil, we talked at the bar last night.
Jesus, Tris, I tell myself. Stop blowing up his phone. He’s probably asleep.
I don’t expect him to respond right away, especially because it’s so early in the morning, but as I’m starting my Jeep, my phone buzzes.
NICK: Hey! Don’t worry, I remember you, too. It was great to meet you, too! I’m glad you didn’t feel any pressure last night.
NICK: I’d still love to get coffee, if you’re interested!
I’m definitely interested.
Nick seems like a perfect gentleman. Beyond that, he’s undeniably hot. I don’t know what he does for a living, but if it isn’t prowling runways, he’s in the wrong career.
TRISTAN: I’d love that! I’m headed to work now, but I’ll text you later and we can figure out a day/time that works!
NICK: Sounds good to me.
NICK: I’m guessing this is a new job—good luck!
I smile to myself as I motor the Jeep onto the road, and wonder if, for the first time in a year, I might be experiencing butterflies in my stomach.