by Jenna Gunn
I take off running.
I still remember my first fire. I was ten.
Perhaps calling it my “first fire” is a little disingenuous, but that’s always how I’ve thought of it, despite not being near it until it was all over. My own house caught fire when my twin sister and I weren’t even at home; we were staying with our grandparents, having one of our sleepovers while our parents got some time alone. Alyssa, my sister, had let me pick the movie we watched, so I let her pick the board game we played until we went to bed. She wore a mint green nightgown with a unicorn on it. I had a set of pajamas covered in cowboys and cacti. It’s strange what details you remember when tragedy strikes.
We slept well that night in the bunk beds our grandparents kept in their guest room for us. I slept on the bottom with a little stuffed dog that I always slept with; Alyssa had a teddy bear, and she claimed the top. We whispered stupid jokes to each other before we fell asleep.
The next morning, Grandma got us out of bed early and brought us into the living room. I whined and complained and pushed sleep out of my eyes. Grandpa looked strange. He wouldn’t look at us, or Grandma, or anything; he just stared at the wall with an unwavering gaze. Grandma’s eyes were shiny with tears.
She sat us down. “There’s been a fire,” she said, and then she stopped and closed her eyes. I remember being confused. I didn’t understand at first why she was so sad, why this was so hard for her to say.
And then she told us that the fire was at our house. That our parents had been inside. That a frayed toaster cord had sparked and set our entire house ablaze, and our lives were never going to be the same.
Grandma and Grandpa buried their daughter. Alyssa and I buried our parents. We never got to see them grow old, see lines develop on their faces. They never got to see us graduate.
Alyssa changed. She retreated into herself, became scared. She runs a bakery in Charleston now; she’s doing well for herself, too, with a husband and a kid.
I became a firefighter. I wanted to protect people. I didn’t want what happened to us to happen to anyone else.
I always think of that night when I’m on my way to a fire. It’s on my mind now as we hurtle toward Marina Road and I see the night sky blackened by a tall plume of smoke.
Don’t let the person inside be Raina, I plead to anyone or anything that’s listening. I know it’s not her house, but it’s her neighbors’. What if she’d been visiting?
We round the corner onto Marina Road and I see it, clear as day, like a beacon atop a hill in an old war movie. Tongues of flame shoot up from the roof and lick at the sky while smoke billows and flows over the walls.
“It’s not as bad as dispatch said,” Ben says as he tugs on the wheel.
I squint. He’s right; it looks as though there’s only one part of the house on fire, and since the houses on this road are so spaced out, it hasn’t spread. We flash by rubberneckers standing on their porches and in their yards.
Ben rams the engine to a stop in front of the fire; the rest of us jump out and get to work. Relief floods through me when I see Raina in her bathrobe, barefoot on the lawn, one arm wrapped around Mrs. Logan, her cell phone pressed to her ear. I can stop worrying about her now and focus on the fire.
Fighting fires does something strange to time. Everything goes by in a blur, so quickly that if you blink you’ll miss it; but also it drags, makes everything slow-motion. My limbs feel all at once like they’re tearing weightlessly through space and pulling giant weights through thick mud. Ben, Michael, Chief Moore, Carlita, they’re all shouting. Their voices boom in my head. My breath pushes against my mask. I see Bridges dart across the yard to Raina and Mrs. Logan, gesturing for them to back away.
“She says her husband’s inside!” booms Bridges’ voice in my radio.
“Got it,” I reply.
Everyone has their stations. Mine is usually going inside to recover survivors. In this case, it seems that it’ll be easy; the fire’s relatively small, and the front door is wide open. I hurry inside.
There’s smoke absolutely everywhere. I walk carefully over the carpet and past the wildly-patterned couch. As I pass the kitchen, I give it a cursory glance, which is enough to determine that the fire didn’t start here.
I hear a man’s voice upstairs; I shout back, and he responds even louder.
I take the stairs two at a time and find myself at the end of a narrow hallway. The fire is here; wallpaper shrivels into nothing as I watch, flames dart around the edges of doors. Smoke clogs what little room there is.
I can’t help banging into some of the console tables and planters as I rush down the hallway. “Sir?” I yell, yanking my flashlight out.
“Here!” cries the voice again. He’s in a room at the end of the hall. It’s probably a bedroom.
“I’m coming! Stay put!” I run towards his voice and get on my radio, barking orders to have a ladder brought over. I hear Carlita respond. There’s some chatter about the ambulance arriving, but I tune it out as I pull out my axe and head for the door.
“Are you still there?” the man’s voice chokes out from the room.
“I’m here, and I’m coming in! Get back from the door!”
“I am!” he cries.
He sounds far enough away that I deem it safe to smash my axe into the center of the door, gouging a hole through the wood. Smoke pours out and smashes against my mask.
I smash my way through the rest of the door and step through into what looks to be the master bedroom. An old man sits against the far wall; he’s having trouble breathing, and he’s surrounded by smoke. The door to the en-suite bathroom stands open with flames and smoke alike pouring through. The carpet, the doorjamb, the walls are all singed black with soot.
“I’ve got you,” I call to the man as I walk over. He’s beneath a window; I slide it open to see Carlita positioning the ladder against the side of the house. “Can you stand?”
“I think so,” he replies shakily as I grab his arm to help him up. He squints into my mask as he gets unsteadily to his feet. “Are you that cat rescuer?”
“That’s me, sir,” I reply absently. He erupts into coughs; I grab him before he collapses onto the floor. “We’re gonna get you out of here.”
I lead him closer to the window and help him clamber backwards through it. He winces as he touches the hot windowsill, but, like a champion, he slides out and puts his feet firmly on the first rung of the ladder. I hold his arms for balance; Carlita stands below him and grabs his legs.
“We’ve got you,” I tell him intently.
“I know you do.” He sounds so confident.
I lower him out of the window. Carlita guides him down safely.
“Get out of there,” says Chief Moore’s voice in my radio. “She’s about to come down.”
“Copy that.” I wait for the man to get further down the ladder before slipping myself out to climb down.
EMTs rush toward us to grab the man and take him quickly to the ambulance; I snatch the ladder away from the window, and the actual fighting begins.
Water pounds away at the walls, gushing through holes my crew have made to try to vent the smoke. As we watch, the roof cracks and caves in, the walls of the upper floor collapse.
All told, it only takes about a minute and a half, but I know my body will take hours to calm down. I feel adrenaline pumping through my veins. My heart slams against my chest. The fire reduces to embers beneath the cascading water, and the charred remains of the east side of the house lay in an unassuming lump on the ground, just a dark shape in the night.
I hear footsteps coming toward me, fast; I’m able to turn and say, “Raina?” just before she flings herself onto me, her arms wrapping around my neck.
Without thinking, I pull her close. It’s an awkward, unwieldy hug, what with all my equipment strapped onto me. She hugs me all the same, her arms holding me tightly.
I let my gloved hands rest on her back and close my eyes. I like this. I want more of this.
I want to hold her like this as often as possible, but without a mask and helmet blocking my ability to put my face in that curly hair.
I make up my mind before she starts pulling away; I grab her elbows, anchoring her to me.
She doesn’t seem alarmed. She smiles up at me. “Thank you,” she says, her voice low and quiet. Her hair is frizzy and unkempt; locks of it tumble all around her face, down to her shoulders. Her robe is fuzzy and blue with multicolored polka dots. The sash has come undone, revealing a long T-shirt beneath. And of course, her bare toes are covered in blades of wet grass.
“Can I come over tomorrow morning?” I ask. “To see Carmen? And you and Monroe?”
“Yes,” she replies, and I think it surprises us both. Her eyebrows shoot up. She looks shocked at herself.
“You sure?” I ask her.
“Yes,” she says a little more firmly, but her eyes are still widened with surprise. “I have a video meeting with my agent, but I think I’m going to cancel it, seeing as…” She trails off and looks over at the dark heap of wood that used to be her neighbors’ house.
“Right.” I squeeze her arms and let go. She pulls her robe around her and folds her arms to keep it shut. “I’ve gotta meet back up with my crew. Mr. and Mrs. Logan around?”
She nods and jerks her head toward the ambulance. “They’re checking Mr. Logan out in there right now. Possible smoke inhalation.”
“Makes sense. I’ll see you tomorrow?” I ask again, just to make sure she realizes what she’s agreed to.
“Yes,” she replies.
I turn and head back to my crew; thankfully, none of them were watching. They’re all gathered in a bunch and discussing what could have set the fire.
Bridges is the only one who notices when I drift in among them. I can’t see his expression behind his mask, but I can guess what sort of look he’s wearing.
“Nothing much we can do until daylight,” Chief Moore grunts. He glances over toward the house; I see Carlita’s form, her flashlight dragging across the remains. “Sanderson’s over there checking it out, seeing if she can find anything for us to look at later. Anybody talk to the owners yet?”
“I have,” Ben says. “Husband’s got some smoke inhalation, but the EMTs say he’s looking good. The wife says she had fallen asleep at her sewing machine. Says she just woke up to the smell of smoke and ran outside. Husband was sleeping; he says he thinks it came from the master bath.”
“That tracks,” I chime in. “The upstairs hallway and the bedroom were full of smoke. Looked like the fire was coming out of the bathroom.”
“Good work, Whitmore, Harris.” The chief slaps me and Ben on the shoulder as he says our names. “Thompson,” he adds, indicating Michael. “Go see if Sanderson needs help. The rest of you start loading up. I’ll check on the owners again.”
I nod and turn toward the firetruck; Ben follows while Bridges jogs a few steps to stay at my side.
“Saw you got a hug,” he mutters.
“Shut up,” I say out of the corner of my mouth.
I practically hear him grin beneath his mask.
Chapter 15
I struggle out of bed and dig the heels of my hands into my eyes, pushing away the sleep. I stayed up for a long time with Ms. Lynn and Mr. Jimmy; she rode with him to the ambulance, and I followed them, staying until we realized they weren’t letting Mr. Jimmy out that night. I drove Ms. Lynn home so she could get her car and drive straight back.
My phone buzzes on my nightstand. Monroe begins meowing directly into my face as I lean over to snatch it up; it’s an email from my agent, written with that false cheeriness he uses when he’s irritated. He can get over it. My neighbors’ house is halfway gone.
My eyes widen when I see the time. Eleven-thirty in the morning? Memories of last night come crashing into me like a ton of bricks - didn’t I tell Alex he could come over? Why did I do that? Has he been here already and left when I slept through him knocking on the door?
I decide to err on the side of caution and assume he’s just late; I jump in the shower and scrub myself clean, desperately trying to rid my hair of that smoke smell. There’s no time for makeup, I assume; I rush out of the bathroom and toward my dresser.
Carmen and Monroe meow insistently at me as I come back into the room. “Just a sec!” I tell them, yanking open drawers and shuffling through clothes. Why am I so nervous? Why did I agree to let him come over? What is wrong with me lately?
The doorbell chimes.
“Crap.” I hug the shirt I’m holding to my chest. It’s not fancy, but it’ll have to do. I throw it on - it’s an old t-shirt, a little too short from shrinking in the dryer. I pull on the closest pair of shorts and wince at the little strip of skin showing above the waistline. Stupid shirt. Maybe I can find a different one -
The doorbell rings again, followed by knocking on the door. I curse under my breath and leave the bedroom, both cats following and meowing.
My hair’s still wet, I realize as I pass the hallway mirror - nothing I can do about it now. I yank open the door for Alex.
He looks...nice. How is it that a man can look so good just by rolling his sleeves up to the elbow? He smiles at me; I see those dark eyes dip to my stomach before flitting back up to my face. I place my hand over my bellybutton as surreptitiously as I can before stepping back.
“Come on in.”
“I brought breakfast,” he says, lifting a stack of pink-striped boxes in his hands. He moves past me and I hurriedly shut the door so the cats won’t get out. “I came late in the morning so you’d have a chance to sleep.”
I pause in the entranceway as he walks past me to set the boxes on my little round dining table, which I’ve been able to unpack recently. He waited until now so I could sleep? That’s...thoughtful. Considerate. Sweet, almost.
“Thanks,” I say uncertainly, finally moving slowly into my own living room. “I did need some sleep.”
“How are Mr. and Mrs. Logan?” he asks.
“Mr. Jimmy’s still in the hospital this morning, but last night the doctors were saying he seems good. He might be discharged today.” I walk past my meowing cats and grab their food containers - Carmen has to eat special kitten food. “I think Ms. Lynn is looking for a hotel.”
Carmen pauses on her way to her food bowl, her tail swishing as she looks at Alex.
“Oh my God,” he says, his smile widening so that his eyes scrunch up. “She’s so big!” He crouches, and Carmen runs directly to him. He scoops her up and holds her against his chest.
I set Monroe’s food bowl down and look at this big, muscular man cradling this kitten. He scratches her tummy and lets her attack his hand; she gnaws on his knuckles while he laughs.
“One of her eyes is turning brown,” he says. He looks up at me wearing a concerned expression. “Is that normal? Is she okay?”
I laugh and pour some food into Carmen’s bowl. “Yeah, that’s fine. She’s probably heterochromatic; she’ll have different-colored eyes.”
“That’s normal in cats?” He sets her down, and she runs over to her little bowl as I place it on the floor.
“Heterochromia is actually more common in cats than it is in humans.” I stroke Carmen’s back once and walk to the dining table.
The boxes Alex has brought are pink with darker stripes; the words “Sweet Thing” are written on the tops in a jaunty black script. I tug a chair out and sit down.
“Sweet Thing?” I ask.
“Yeah!” He flips open one of the lids, revealing a few danishes with different fillings. “It’s a bakery in Charleston. My twin sister’s bakery, actually. She’s amazing.”
“You have a twin sister?” I ask in amazement. He’s never mentioned her before...although we haven’t had much chance to talk, I realize with a blush. I grab a napkin and pick out what looks to be a cherry-flavored danish.
“Her name’s Alyssa,” he says as he grabs a plain one. He opens the next box, which is considerably wider and flatter; it’s filled wi
th donuts.
I look down at my cherry danish. It looks like it came from a magazine. “She made this? From scratch?”
He grunts an affirmative; he’s already taken a huge bite out a donut. I take a bite of my own pastry, and it tastes absolutely amazing.
I glance up at Alex, who grins at me. “Good, right?”
“Really good.”
“You should have one when they’re warm and fresh. She’s the best baker in all of South Carolina. Or the country. Or maybe the world.”
I look down at the boxes. He went all the way to Charleston this morning? That’s at least a half-hour drive. And he really means what he’s saying about his sister; he’s gushing about her while he polishes off his donut, a look of absolute admiration scrawled across his face.
...it’s cute.
“So, your twin, what’s she like?” I ask.
“Oh, man, she’s the best,” he replies enthusiastically. “She’s married to a real big-shot sort of guy - super nice, though, he’s taken me on his sailboat a couple times, really down-to-earth - and they have this adorable daughter, Clara. Oh - hey, Carmen!” he interrupts himself, leaning back in his chair as Carmen wanders over from her bowl.
Carmen sits and looks at Alex for a moment, her little tail swishing, her pink nose twitching. After a few seconds, she tries to launch herself up into his lap, but she’s not a very strong jumper yet; she sort of topples over and scrambles to her feet.
Alex laughs and reaches out to pick her up. She meows as he pulls her into his lap, and then she settles down, closes her eyes, and purrs mightily while he strokes her.
“She really has gotten big,” Alex says fondly.
I nod. “She’s really healthy, too. I’ve started her on her shots and deworming, and when she’s old enough I’m getting her spayed.”
He nods absently.
I clear my throat. “So why’d you go up to Charleston this morning, anyway? Besides the pastries.”
He shrugs. “Just that. I wanted to bring you a really good breakfast, and Alyssa’s baking is the best breakfast I could think of.”