by Emilia Finn
“Uh… I’m not.” I lean closer to the ladder and peer up, but I don’t touch the wood, and I sure as shit don’t climb up. “I don’t much like the dark, Jake. I’m not climbing into the attic with you.”
“Oh!” He comes around me and bustles up the rungs of the ladder on his own.
The top half of his body disappears, but while he does that, whatever that is, my mind is focused on the wooden ladder. The darkness. Dead firefighters, and grieving widows. Danger, danger, danger, and my little boy, sitting all alone in his bedroom right now.
“Here,” Jake speaks louder than he needs to. “I had lights installed too, but I’ll get you a remote so you can turn them on before climbing.” The space above him illuminates, Bruce Almighty style, then Jake lowers a single rung and meets my eyes. “Please come up and see. I spent a bucketload of time on this.”
“You probably could’ve saved your time, and instead delivered my hotel by noon.”
Amused instead of offended, he only offers a hand and waits. “Please come up. You’ll love it, I promise.”
I glance around my new closet, and then toward my new bedroom. I lean toward my promised bathroom with longing, and then in the direction Maximo is. In his new room, elated with his new things.
“Fine,” I huff. “But you have only sixty seconds before I have to come back down.”
“Suit yourself.” He climbs up at a fast trot, taking my sixty-second threat seriously, then he turns back and offers a hand for me to take.
His offer is sweet, gallant even. But I wrap both hands around the ladder rungs and slowly make my way up.
In heels and a skirt, I’m climbing into a friggin’ attic.
Jake has to be the sweetest guy in the world; not easily offended when I continue to ignore his hand, his advances, his awkward solicitations. He merely shrugs it off and pushes to his feet—though he has to crouch, since the ceiling is low.
When I’m up and also have to crouch, he grins at my huff of impatience, then he turns and leads me toward a square of light.
Curiosity may eventually be the death of me, since I willingly follow, but when Jake stops and flips latches on a window, he opens it and allows me to step through first.
And I go. Because the greenery is enticing.
When I step out, I’m surrounded by a lush garden in the sky. A utopia of sensation, a rooftop paradise I had no clue could exist.
Breathless and stunned, I walk along pebbled walkways, wide stepping stones, and a trickling pond that adds height and depth to my new garden. Fake grass has been laid out, and on it rests a kid-sized football goal and another ball sitting in front of it.
I bring a shaking hand up to my mouth and gawk.
There is a glass table with eight chairs surrounding it, and urns of flowers popping up wherever Abigail Rosa felt the need to place them. A grill rests against a wall Jake built in, and beside that, a sink to wash our hands, our garden tools, our used dishes.
“The plumbing for the sink goes straight down into your bathroom,” he says from somewhere far behind me. “One quick pipe, no extra cost from the plumber.”
Tears burn my eyes, but I continue to turn, to study, to take it all in.
Not so far from the ‘grassy’ area, two long chairs stretch out, the kind of chaise a fanciful woman might consider sunbathing on. And surrounding the whole space is a four-foot-tall brick wall to keep us in and safe.
“Maximo can also come up here and play,” Jake says. “Obviously, you won’t leave him unsupervised. But it’s safe enough. He can kick the ball around and stretch his legs after a long day inside.”
“You built this for us?” I turn to Jake and try again; I try so hard to look at him the way a woman might look at a man. Thick thighs and strong hands. I see it all, but really, all I see is Max.
It’s been years, and yet, I’m not ready. It’s not time.
“For me and my baby?”
Jake grins. “I’ve gotten to know you guys over the past six months, Ms. Mazzi. I know Maximo doesn’t much like crowds. So on the days he doesn’t want to go to the park, he can come up here and kick the ball around. And I know you’re busy, always rushing, always moving. Too busy to join a regular gym,” he adds with a smirk. “You’d rather build your own. So I figure having a retreat inside your own closet may be best for you. You don’t have to share it with anyone, this park never closes, and if you choose to cook a meal up here to save time, then that can happen as well.”
“It’s just so…” I sniffle and make myself look a fool. But for this moment, I allow the weakness. “Thank you, Jake. You took an apartment in a hotel and made it into a home.”
“Well… you’re welcome.” He wrings his hands and takes a step forward. “I worked really hard on all of this, so I’m glad you like what I’ve delivered.”
“You went above and beyond. Truly.”
I turn my eyes to my new garden. I don’t know the name of most of these plants, and I hardly have time to sleep, let alone learn about these flowers and how to keep them alive, but I do know the florist, and I have her phone number in my speed dial. It’s possible I have a chance at not destroying this gift. And when it inevitably goes to hell, I can call Abigail for help.
It’s a good excuse, I think, to have friends over, when I don’t actually have friends.
Unlike my son, who thrives on alone time, I’m one of those people who needs outside interaction every now and then. But I don’t have time for friends, and I hardly have the social skills to make a friendship work. But a florist coming in to check her flowers, and while she’s here, we have a cup of tea… I can get on board with that.
“Thank you, Jake. I appreciate every single thing you’ve done on the Oriane.”
“It was my pleasure.”
He takes a step forward. Then another. Then a third, and a fourth, until my throat closes and my eyes widen.
“Um… Ms. Mazzi,” he stammers. “I don’t want to sound too forward, nor do I want to make things awkward between us…”
Oh shit.
“But, I delivered. The hotel is complete…” He smirks. “Well, until you contract us for the gym and get that started. But, well, I’ve waited until now to ask this, since I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable about your hotel… and your builder… and… me… and…”
“Jake?”
“Dinner, Ms. Mazzi?” He peers at me through long lashes and wrings his hands. “It’s not a secret that you’re very beautiful. Your accent catches my attention every time I hear it. Your story intrigues me.”
“My story?”
“Single mom and her shy son,” he answers. “Together, you move to a tiny town and overhaul a shithole hotel. Excuse my cussing, Ms. Mazzi.” He peeks down at me. “I would love to take you to dinner. Somewhere nice, and I’ll even wear real pants, instead of stained jeans.”
His shyness is endearing, and the fact he’s not one of those aggressive, knows-he’s-hot, assertive kind of guys tempts me to accept. If only for a once-off.
“No toolbelt?” I ask.
His cheeks flame. “No toolbelt, I promise. Just one dinner. One evening. Zero pressure, and no expectations. And if you say no to a second date, then that’s cool. Things won’t be weird when we start on the gym. I just—”
“I can’t.” I place my hand on his arm before his nervous wringing twists it straight off his shoulder. “You’re sweet, Jake. You’re kind. You look really good.”
“Oh good. Friendzone.” His chest shrinks. “The worst place in the world.”
Sniggering, I squeeze his arm and wait for his eyes. “It’s the only zone I have to offer right now. I’ve only just moved to a new town. Tomorrow, my hotel opens and we start off with a grand ball. And then there’s my son. Neither of us are ready for this. For dating. We just—”
“It’s okay.” Jake stands taller and takes my rejection on the chin, rather than making me justify why I have to say no. “It’s fine, Ms. Mazzi. You still have a builder. No weirdness.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No.” His smile is equal parts shy and sweet. “You have nothing to be sorry for. If, in the future, you’re looking for a date, then hey,” he fakes a grin. “You have my number.”
“Yeah…” I draw in a deep breath, then release it on a sigh. “I do.”
“And until then, we pour concrete in the basement.”
“Ha!” I laugh to hide the hysteria bubbling in my chest.
I want to say yes. I want to want a man, but the thought of dating anyone but my husband terrifies me. The idea of being romantic with any man is enough to make me sweat.
I want to explain myself to Jake, to make sure he understands this isn’t about him, but then a soft click makes me swing around with a gasp.
Maximo stands just ten feet away with his ball clasped against his side, and his eyes burning into Jake’s.
“Bello? Did you climb that ladder all by yourself?” I rush forward and pull him into my arms.
The thought of him on the ladder alone makes my heart pound. The idea of him walking the perimeter of this space alone, potentially climbing up to glance over, is enough to make me want to weep.
I have to be more careful. I have to pay better attention.
And there it is. My reason, all tied up in one fifty-pound package.
I glance back to Jake and shake my head. “I just can’t fit anything else into my world right now.”
He tips his head and smiles. “Understood. When you’re ready, come on down, and I’ll show you your new bathroom.”
Nixon
Firehouse Etiquette
“Our job,” I shout above the din of my crew racing across the yard at the back of my firehouse, “is to put the wet stuff, on the red stuff!”
I’ve got my guys working out, running drills, using their bodies, because, as it turns out, I’m on shift with a bunch of lazy asses who don’t want to stand unless it’s to fight a fire or take a piss.
“Our job is to climb a fuckin’ tree and save the kitty.” I blast Sloane with my attack hose and grin when he takes a faceful of water and chokes. “So why the fuck can none of my crew climb a tree without falling on his ass?”
“Lew!” Sloane drops to the ground and pumps out a dozen push-ups. I’m playing a game of tag—as in, Run, motherfucker, because if I catch you in my sights, I blast you, and you drop and give me twenty. “It was just apple pie!”
“And this is just water!” I come closer and aim my hose at the back of his head. “As a firefighter, your job is to consider the water your friend, Sloane. Be one with the water. Bond with the damn water! And my name ain’t Lew.”
“Assistant Sidekick, sir! Your hose is peeling my skin.”
“Good. Maybe it’ll peel your stomach open and get me back my pie. Axe!”
Axel Feeney, whose name is cool, and he just so happens to enjoy using an axe on the job, stands on the far side of the yard with his hands on his knees, but a smug grin splitting his face.
“Why are you standing still, asshole?”
His grin vanishes the moment my words register in his brain, then he shoots straight and bolts when I turn my hose in his direction. “Sorry, Lieutenant. I was only enjoying Sloane’s death.”
“And now you’re on my shit-list too! Climb the hose tower. Polish the silver while you’re up there.”
“Climb the—” He balks. “The hose tower, Lew? Are you serious?”
“Afraid, kid? Would you prefer if I called your mom to have her stand at the bottom, just in case you fall?”
“There are laws about this!”
But he goes anyway.
Axel waves my streams of water away, like his flapping hands will keep him dry. But he stomps toward the tower—a pole that stands fifty feet in the air and holds hoses to dry—and stopping at the bottom, he looks up and gulps.
The chances of him getting his lithe hundred and eighty pounds up there are low, and if he makes it, the entire structure is apt to topple over. But watching him work this through his mind is almost as satisfying as I imagine the apple pie I’ve been baking all day long would have been.
The apple pie my men devoured in the twenty seconds it took for me to set it on the counter to cool, and then the phone call I took in my office to talk with the town’s chief of police.
Twenty fucking seconds, and it was gone. So now, my men work it off and learn to never again touch shit that doesn’t belong to them.
“You’re on your asses all shift long. That TV in there is hot enough to combust. But the one fucking time you get up, you destroy my masterpiece. So now you run.”
I slam Ainsley Cootes with my water, and bite my grin when Sloane jumps up to catch his comrade. “Don’t be her hero, Sloane! Cootes didn’t ask for a knight to catch her!”
“I didn’t eat your pie, Lieutenant!” Cootes is about my age—twenty-eight—and just like me, unmarried, unsettled, and always willing to flirt.
Not with each other, because that would be unprofessional. But with others? Hell yeah. If my crew and I head to the local bar to let off steam after shift, it’s guaranteed we’ll get front row seats to the show of my only female crew member leading another innocent man off to his death.
And by death, I mean he really enjoyed his last seconds alive.
“But you were in the house when my pie was destroyed,” I retort. “You knew I was working hard on it, and then you didn’t stop the horde when they broke the crust.”
“But you didn’t ask for a knight, Lew!” Sloane giggles and skips around his female counterpart, putting her in the line of fire if I decide to blast him again. “We saw pie. It was steaming and yummy, and it was right there.”
“And now we’re out here!” I slam them both with twenty gallons of water and enjoy the way they sputter under my attack. “Next time, you won’t eat my fucking pie! Next time, you’ll wait for me to share it with you.”
I turn to Axe and let out an involuntary squeak when I find him just a couple feet from the top of our hose tower. “Axe! What the fuck are you doing up there?”
He pauses in his climb, fastens his feet and secures his position to rest, then he looks to me with wide eyes as the pole sways in the non-existent breeze. “What?”
“Are you crazy? Climbing that thing isn’t safe!”
“But you— You—” He growls when Cootes cackles with laughter. “If I fall and break my neck, I’m calling my mom on you, Lew!”
“Call her. Tell her to bring pie!” I turn my hose on more of my crew. They run laps of the yard as ordered. They take my punishment and know it was worth it, because the pie was damn good. “Who else is gonna call their mommy on me? Don’t bother, Rizz!” I shout when he lifts his hand. “Maggie Rizzoni can’t bake.”
“Burrrrrn!” Cootes howls with laughter, only to bolt when my eyes swing back in her direction. “I mean, sorry, Lew. I love you, Lew. You look handsome today and you clearly took part in leg day recently.”
I turn my eyes back to Sloane. To Rizz. To Axe. “And that’s how you get yourself pie around here! Cootes, you can go in and dry off. The rest of you still owe me an hour of this shit!”
“Lew!” Mock-crying, Axe slides down the hose tower and thuds to the ground in heavy boots. “I think your pecs look fantastic in that shirt today.”
“Fuck you!” I turn my hose and blast his chest. “Give me twenty more, then call your mom and have that pie delivered here before end of shift.”
“Shift ends at four!”
“Yup.” I send my water skyward and shower us all. If it’s good enough for them, then it would be shitty of me to walk inside dry. “So she’d better get a wriggle on.”
“We’re off shift in ten minutes!” Axe argues, then when the large clock on the side of the station clicks over, he lifts his hands. “Nine minutes!”
“I will also accept store-bought pie.” My smile stretches my face, and the glee I feel in my heart and stomach when with these people, in this firehouse, is enough to make me the luckie
st man I know.
I love my job, I love my crew. I love fucking around while we’re in the house, and I love tossing myself into that truck when the flames start climbing.
And I love going home at the end of a shift and luxuriating in the house I’ve slaved over for the better part of a decade, and when my siblings drop in for dinner, I love cooking for them and chilling the fuck out with us all in the same space.
I’m one of six children, the youngest of five boys, and collectively, we have one sweet, innocent, baby sister who is equal parts in love with our protective ways, and exasperated by them.
She was a sick kid, and we were her stoic big brothers, tasked to make sure everything was safe and smooth for her. But now she’s a grown woman, and earlier this year, she got herself hitched to a dude whose pecs are arguably more spectacular than mine.
Spencer Serrano, my brand-new brother-in-law, never misses leg day.
He probably doesn’t abuse his staff over apple pie, either. But alas, what he lacks in personality, I make up for in my penchant for dessert.
The clock on the wall of the firehouse clicks over to 15:52 and taunts my crew with their freedom. The next shift is already here, staying away from the crazy lieutenant with the hose. They’re settling in and preparing for their long night guarding this town we call home.
And my crew are antsy and waiting. Excited to go home after a solid twenty-four hours spent together, eager to shower the stench of fart and apple pie from their pores.
We’re this close to home.
And then the alarms ring out.
I cut my hose and drop it just a millisecond after that first bleat hits my ears. Then I’m off, sprinting toward the cargo doors and past the crew whose job it isn’t to attend a fire for another seven minutes. “Load up, crew! This one is ours.”
“Ah, fuck!” Sloane, our driver and oldest crew member, runs toward the wall of turnout gear to jump into his.
Soaked to the bone, cold, tired, and hungry, my entire crew does as we’ve trained: slip into our double layer pants, yank the jacket on next, then snag our helmets and bolt toward the truck. All in under seven seconds.