Chapter 12
TWELVE
brODIE
It takes me a good ten minutes to move from my spot in the locker room doorway.
I’ve been stuck here spellbound since Ladder Eight pulled out, lights flashing, sirens making my ears ring.
In a morning of so many blast-from-the-past experiences, I didn’t know they could get any more visceral, more magical, or more painful, all in equal measure, but that topped the lot.
Especially with Savannah trussed up in her turnout gear, looking every inch the fierce firefighter and leaping into the truck like it’s the most natural thing in the world for her.
I stretch out my neck, breathing in the remnants of the diesel engines and exhaling the rush of energy I’m still feeling from watching the action at such close proximity.
And alongside all the drama and adrenaline, I swear I can still smell the teasing coconut scent of Savannah’s hair as she shook it out and re-tied her ponytail.
Closing my eyes, I give myself one more beat to feel all the feelings, and then snap them away, exiting the empty bays. I’m not sure where I’m headed, but I find myself wandering to Linda’s desk and sitting down opposite her with a thud.
For a long moment I just sit there, and to her credit, Linda lets me.
Maybe she can tell I’m living a moment of existential crisis, because that must be what’s going on.
Too many memories have resurfaced today.
Bittersweet childhood experiences. Potent feelings for the only woman I’ve ever truly cared for.
Deep-seated questions over my motivations and whether or not I even deserve the damn promotion that set the wheels of this shitshow in motion.
“Tea, sweetie?”
I look up and find Linda holding out a steaming mug and a plate of cookies. “Thanks.” I place the cookies on a nearby shelf and cradle the tea.
Linda returns to clicking away on her computer. I sense she’s keeping a close eye on me, but she doesn’t push for conversation.
I sip the tea—so sweet it sets my teeth on edge—and continue staring at the floor.
“You know, I’m not normally such a disaster zone.
I haven’t punched anyone since Brock left home.
I’m usually hyper-focused on the job. I have an astute eye for detail.
And find it relatively easy staying on the outside of any situation without getting emotionally attached.
It’s what my undergrad mentor called my ‘best feature’ as a journalist.” I grimace as I swallow another mouthful of tea.
“What I’m trying to say is that I’m not being the greatest version of myself right now. ” I meet Linda’s eyes.
She cocks her head to one side like she’s weighing up what I said. “I don’t know about all that, Brodie, but what I do know is that you’ve shown you’re a lovely young man. And I also think you’re being harsh on yourself. Maybe it’s time to ease up.”
I nod even though what I actually need is to go harder because I’m clearly a mess who keeps fucking up.
“Why didn’t you go on the callout with the crew?”
I drop an eye roll aimed solely at myself. “Guess that’s the million-dollar question.”
“Must be hard. Being back in a world you grew up in after choosing another path. I expect you never thought you’d set foot in a fire hall again.
” She makes the statement with the breeziest of tones and busies herself with filing a piece of paper in a cabinet behind her.
She might be covered in cookie crumbs, but once again Linda demonstrates how switched on she is.
My throat constricts like something’s trapped in it. I try to swallow the sensation. “I knew it would be tough when I was given the assignment, but I really wasn’t prepared for how tough. This way of life defined my whole childhood. It’s not just a job, it’s a calling, you know?”
She smiles, her eyes crinkling. “I do actually. My father was a firefighter, as was his father, as was my husband.”
“I had no idea. Here in Vancouver?”
“My husband was the captain of this fire hall back in the nineties.”
“No way! Wow. Enjoying his retirement now?”
“He died. Floor gave way in an apartment fire two blocks from here.” She turns a picture frame around on her desk.
The man in the image is around forty, in dress uniform, proudly standing outside Hall Eight.
“Vic loved this place almost as much as he loved me. It’s why I’m still here.
” She tugs a tissue from her sleeve and dabs at her eyes.
A wave of emotion I’m not remotely prepared for rolls through me. “I’m so sorry. Seriously, I’m an even bigger douche now. Here’s me tying myself in a knot over a load of silly crap when you’ve lost the love of your life.”
“Again, stop putting yourself down, Brodie. My grief over Vic’s passing is no more valid than yours over your childhood. Or your grief over your own heartbreak, even if the circumstances were completely different.”
My pulse ratchets up a notch. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“Uh-huh.” She nods. “Sure you don’t.”
“I don’t. I haven’t lost anyone like you have.”
“Right.” She shares a small smile and returns to clicking away on her computer.
For a moment, I think I’m safe from her line of questioning until she gives a little cough.
“What happened between you and Savannah?”
I tense my legs in an effort to stop my feet from tapping on the floor. “Nothing.”
“Uh-huh.” She nods again, slowly, like she doesn’t believe me at all. “Sure.”
I sag in my seat, dropping my head. “She was the year below me during my undergrad. We were just friends at first. Hanging out in the same group. But then we got together and were a couple for nearly a year. I ended things the week of my graduation.” I funnel out a breath.
It’s weird, but voicing this makes me feel the lightest I have in days.
“I can’t share the details, but I hurt her. Badly. And hurt myself, too.”
“When you found out you were going to be writing about this place, did you know Savannah would be here?”
I shake my head.
“Oh, boy. So this must all be doubly hard. Your brother and Savannah. I’d be having kittens the size of lions.”
“Yep. Which is probably why I messed up so badly with her just now.”
“Oh? What happened?” Linda’s tone is sugar-sweet. She’s a better reporter than me, going straight for the jugular.
“Doesn’t matter. There’s something about being around Savannah that makes me lose my mind and say the stupidest fucking things.” I flinch. “Sorry for swearing.”
Linda chuckles, dismissing me with a flick of her hand.
“Son, my blood’s Irish and I’ve been around firefighters my whole life.
I can cope with a little effing and blinding.
” She narrows her eyes again, shrewd, switching up the atmosphere from something light and easy to something dead serious.
“Maybe instead of letting yourself wallow, you should think about how you’re going to make it right with Savannah for messing up. ”
I gnaw at the corner of my mouth. “Are we talking about me messing up today or me messing up when I broke her heart?”
“Maybe they’re one and the same.”
I pause, letting that thought settle, and then stand, smoothing down my shirt. “I’ve taken up enough of your time, Linda. I’ll go wait for them in the rec room.”
“Okay, duck.” Her voice is back to its usual lighthearted tone. “Before you go, though…” She beckons me over to her desk. “Your brother.”
I inwardly groan. “What about him?”
“Maybe give the big doofus the benefit of the doubt.”
There’s usually never any doubt about things with Brock. He’s not exactly a man of subtleties. “What do you mean?”
“Just that. Like with your life, there are details that can’t be shared, but maybe you only have part of the story. It’s possible the two of you have more in common than you think.” She gives a small shrug and looks over my shoulder. “Not eating those cookies?”
My untouched plate remains wedged on the shelf where I’d stashed them. “No.”
She grins and holds out her hand. “More the merrier for me.”
I pass over the plate and head upstairs to the rec room, my brain working overtime.
Locating my laptop bag from where I’d dropped it earlier, I collapse into one of the battered armchairs, slide on my glasses, and power up my MacBook.
I don’t know what I want to write, but I’m here to do a job.
I might not run into fires, but I have other skills.
Skills I’m good at, even if right now I’m doing a solid job of proving otherwise.
Breathing slow and deep, I stare at the blank page, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. The smell of bacon lingers in the air. Maybe I just need to clear my head of all this crap by writing it down.
At first I manage only brief notes. Scattered and disconnected thoughts.
About arriving. Seeing the apparatus. Memories of the last time I was up close with a fire truck.
But the more I write, the more the words take ownership, like I switch off the thinking part of my brain, my fingers tapping away unchecked.
The thoughts become more detailed. The descriptions more vivid.
The vibe over breakfast. Savannah’s smile.
The feel of her fingers in my hair. The warmth of her shoulder pressed against mine.
The stress of digging myself deeper into a hole by saying all the wrong things.
Then there’s the conversation with Linda. The perspective her grief has given me. The acknowledgment that with every passing minute, it’s becoming harder to even imagine writing anything negative about this place.
And last, there’s the total curveball of whatever she meant about Brock.
We have more in common than I might think? In what world do I have anything in common with my brother?
I keep writing, so absorbed in my stream of consciousness that I don’t hear the truck returning, or the clatter of movement as the crew resets for another callout. I forget I’m even sitting in the fire hall until Savannah appears at my feet.
Looking up with a start, I blink and she comes into focus, hands on hips, eyes narrowed.
“I’m back.” She frowns as she takes in my appearance and then her breath hitches ever so slightly. “You have glasses.”
Immediately self-conscious, I slip them off. “For working on the computer.”
“They’re nice. Make you look…” Color blooms into her cheeks as her voice trails off.
I raise one eyebrow and her blush deepens. Clearly she’s into my glasses.
Keeping a lid on the desperate urge I have to put them back on and go all out with the flirting, I close my laptop instead.
She seems different to when she left. A little less combative.
And although flirting would be amazing, capitalizing on the chance to clear the air is better. “Savannah, about earlier.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“Honestly, I’m sorry. I—”
“It’s forgotten. Let’s just move on.”
I study her face, trying to work out my next move. “What was the callout?”
“False alarm at the movie theater down on Seymour.”
“You were out a long time for a false alarm.”
“The alarm kept getting triggered. We had to find the source, do all the relevant safety checks so the building could be cleared for re-entry. The theater was in the middle of a Pixar double-header so there were a ton of kids.” She’s all business. Direct. Her voice sharp with authority.
I nod, mentally logging everything she’s saying in case it’s useful for what I’m writing. “Do you get many false alarms?”
“Yeah. Usually apartments when someone’s knocked a sprinkler or burned their toast. It’s fine though. Better a false alarm than a real fire.” She draws her hands together, clutching them tightly. “People die in fires, so we’re trained to expect flame on every call. No exceptions.”
Something tugs at my subconscious. A link I can’t quite grasp. But before I’m able to latch on, Brock appears.
“East, drills in the tower in fifteen.”
“Copy.” She blinks, standing tall. “You wanna join, or are you too wuss?”
I wince. “I deserve that.”
“Yep.”
“I really am sorry about everything. I should have told you about the promotion from the start. And I said the wrong things in the locker room. I’m not doing so well at communicating, which is ironic considering communication is literally my job.”
Her gaze hardens. “Tell me the truth. Is all this part of some long con to get to the scandal, or are you on our side?”
Crunch time.
I think through what I’ve just been writing, my gut instinctively taking the story where it wanted. To something with depth and heart. Guess my answer’s easy. “I’m on your side. Hundred percent.”
She holds her stare a moment longer and then nods. “Okay. We’ll call it even after I’ve beaten your ass in the ladder climb. Come on.”
“There’s no way your tiny legs are beating mine in a ladder climb.”
“Oh, really, Mr. Fancy Pants Journalist?”
I chuckle. The release feels fucking magical. “Mr. Fancy Pants Journalist?”
“Uh-huh.” She almost breaks a smile. Almost. “Prepare to have your ass whipped. I’m the current record holder in Eight, and you’re about to wish—”
The alarm blasts again.
Dammit.
Savannah dashes for the exit. “Consider yourself literally saved by the bell.”
I watch her go, my heart clenching.
The thud of movement echoes up from downstairs.
The slamming of doors. The roar of the truck pulling onto the street as the rec room briefly flashes red.
I close my eyes, something about the lights and sounds prodding at me.
The link I couldn’t latch onto moments earlier, scratching its way to the surface.
Expect flame.
People die.
I freeze.
Holy shit.
Booting up my laptop, I open the archives, tapping my foot as the search page loads. It’s about time I engaged my reporter head. The one that’s been almost entirely AWOL these past few days.
Fifteen minutes of research later and everything clicks. Why this is Savannah’s choice of career. Her heightened secrecy around her past. Even her reason for not telling her dad.
It’s all because of her mom.
I knew she died when Sav was little, but it’s the how that matters.
The part Sav would never let me get near.
Discomfort churns in the pit of my stomach, the revelation making me even more of a joke. There’s Savannah, bravely confronting the past. And then there’s me, too chickenshit to even throw on the costume so I can do my job and play pretend on paper.
Sliding my laptop away, I rush for the stairs.
Hearing Savannah describe her job is great, but I need more than that if I’m writing the feature she deserves. I have to see her in action. Handling the equipment. Owning her childhood trauma by fighting fires like the badass woman she is.
I call out to Linda before reaching her desk. “Is Kendall around or is he with the crew?”
“Here, Brodie. What’s up?”
I turn to find Kendall in the doorway to his office, very much in command.
“What needs to happen so I can join them on their next callout?”