He disappears into the fort with his new truck, leaving us standing in the living room.
“Coffee?” Rachel asks. “I just made a fresh pot.”
“Sure.”
I follow her into the kitchen. It’s cleaner than the living room but still shows signs of Tommy’s art day—finger paintings drying on the counter, a half-finished coloring book on the table.
Rachel pours two mugs and hands me one. “Cream or sugar?”
“Black’s fine.”
We sit at the kitchen table. She curls her legs under her, both hands wrapped around her mug.
“How was your shift?” she asks.
“Quiet. Minor kitchen fire. Nothing serious.”
“That’s good.” She takes a sip of coffee. “I always wonder what your days are like. If every call is life or death, or if most of them are … routine.”
“Most are routine. Small fires, false alarms, and medical assists. The big ones are rare.” I lean back in my chair. “Which is good. Big ones mean someone’s in danger.”
“Like the café.”
“Like the café.”
She’s quiet for a moment, staring into her coffee. “I still have nightmares about it sometimes. Not every night. But enough that I wake up smelling smoke that isn’t there.”
“That’s normal. Trauma does that.”
“You ever have nightmares? From your job?”
“Sometimes.” I don’t elaborate. Don’t tell her about the nightmares where I’m too late, where I arrive at the fire and everyone’s already gone. “It comes with the territory.”
“How do you deal with it?”
“Work. Routine. Staying busy.” I take a drink of coffee. “Probably not the healthiest coping mechanism, but it works.”
“Sounds familiar.” She sets her mug down. “I’ve been throwing myself into job applications. Must’ve sent out thirty in the past week.”
“Any responses?”
“Three rejections. Two interviews that went nowhere. One place that said they’d call back but never did.” She pushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “It’s frustrating. I’ve got experience. I’ve got references. But apparently being internet famous for surviving fires isn’t a selling point.”
“Their loss.”
“That’s what Jake keeps saying.” She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m trying to stay positive. Something will come through eventually.”
“It will.” I lean forward, elbows on the table. “You’re good at what you do. Smart. Organized. Any place would be lucky to have you.”
“You barely know what I do.”
“I know enough. I know you managed that café for three months, and everyone who worked there loved you. I know you handle stress better than most people I’ve served with. I know you’re raising a good kid while dealing with your ex being an ass.” I meet her eyes. “That’s more than enough to know you’re going to land on your feet.”
She’s looking at me like I just said something important. Like those words mean more than I intended.
“Thank you,” she says quietly. “For saying that. For believing it.”
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
