“You’re cutting it close,” I mumble over at him as we make our way toward the garage and the open bay door.
Joel shrugs, like it’s no big deal, and runs both hands up and through his thick, dark hair that desperately needs a cut, pushing it back away from his forehead. Black rimmed glasses sit on his nose. Poor bastard got our moms godawful eyesight and dad’s dark eyes. He’s got on a gray t-shirt, dark jeans encase his legs, and black boots cover his feet.
“You steal a shirt from the kids’ section again?” I ask, eyeing the way the material is stretched taut across his pecs and around his biceps.
“Fuck off, just because you can’t get that dad bod of yours in any kind of shape other than round—"
I shove his shoulder hard, knocking him off balance, and he huffs out a laugh.
“Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum, we’re waiting on you,” Chief barks before we’re fully inside the garage. Shit. Sounds like he’s hot tonight.
“As long as I’m not Tweedle Dum,” I mutter out of the corner of my mouth, and Joel snorts, shaking his head.
“We all know I take that title,” he snickers, throwing his arms out wide as we step out from between two of the engines parked side by side in the massive garage bay. “Hello, Chief. Did you miss me?”
Clay Jensen, our fearless leader and chief of more than ten years, hitches his chin toward the door that leads into our meeting room, where the rest of our crew already waits. The man is built like a damn bear, with wide shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick, muscular arms. The lower half of him is just as sturdy with tree trunks for legs. His head is shaved clean like it has been ever since I’ve known him—well over twenty-five years—and a graying goatee beard covers his chin and upper lip. Hazel eyes that miss absolutely none of our bullshit narrow on Joel and he crosses his arms over his chest.
Now in his early fifties, we all know he’s closing in on retirement. Well, at least he’s been threatening it for the last several years, anyway. I’ll believe it when it actually happens. He’s not hanging up that 1399 helmet anytime soon. He follows us into the meeting room and I stop, facing the rest of the crew. He joins me at the front of the room.
Joel steps around the table set up in the middle of the room and stumbles over a booted foot that snakes out at the last second. Leaning down close to the woman sitting in the chair, he whispers, “If you want me falling for you, Scar, all you have to do is ask—”
“In your fucking dreams, Little Macomb,” Scarlett Jensen hisses, narrowing hazel eyes that match her fathers on my younger brother, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Every night, doll face,” Joel whispers back, winking, before he straightens and continues around the table to find an empty seat. I fight back a snort.
She rolls her eyes and shifts in her seat, returning her attention to the man standing beside me, waiting for us to settle in.
These Thursday evening meet ups are mandatory for the entire crew; two Thursdays are designated to field training, one for Jaws of Life training, and one—like tonight—for a full department meeting.
Our department is comprised of both full-time crew members—Chief, myself, our two captains, and a handful of others—but the rest of the crew are all volunteer firefighters.
The city of Petoskey is in that awkward middle ground for size; we’re not a large city by any stretch of the imagination, but we’re not small either. And during the summer, when tourists flock to Northern Michigan from all over the country, our numbers swell dramatically. As a resort area, we get flooded with out-of-towners for the summer months, and then fall hits and the locals get a breath of a reprieve before the snow bunnies arrive.
We’re over the craziness of Labor Day weekend, and most of the tourists have headed back to wherever they came from. Thank fuck. Summer holiday weekends are hell for first responders. Idiots taking their prized sports cars on joy rides through miles of road construction, or out on boats and jet skis on Lake Michigan. We got toned out for a call out on the bay, someone on shore thought there was a boat on fire out on the water… When we got out there, it turned out it was just the reflection of the sun setting lighting up the front windshield of the boat. That was a fun one to brief Chief on for reports.
Next to me, Chief uncrosses his arms from over his chest and the crew in front of us stands, facing an American flag on the wall across the room. He leads us through the Pledge ofAllegiance, and then we get started. Tonight’s meeting is simply routine. Chief starts us out, going over his agenda and briefing us on what he’s been working on, and then we shift to any incident reports from the last week. Scar points out that there’s one final push for a road construction project on the south end of town, and Jerrod groans, several others making similar noises of agreement. That intersection is a bitch on good days but add in construction crews and turning it into one lane for several days, it makes for a dangerous combination.
Chief clears his throat then. “As you all know, we partner up with the local rehabilitation house, offering community service hours for anyone on probation that qualifies for our program. We have a new guy that will be starting with us this weekend. Make him feel welcome, please.”
Once he’s finished going over his agenda, it’s my turn to take over, making sure we’re all on the same page for the next several weeks, going over maintenance on the rigs. I also go over the scheduled pump and hose testing in two weeks, and ask for volunteers to work with me on it. Boring shit.
The meeting is adjourned shortly after, and Chief claps me on the back before he disappears back out the door; off to whatever other project he’s working on. I swear the man is a machine, he never stops.
The crew disperses slowly, some lingering to chat, others taking off immediately. Joel hangs back with me, pushing in chairs and making sure all the coffee cups are placed in the dishwasher tucked beneath the counter before tossing in a detergent pod and starting it.
“You going to Mom’s for dinner this weekend?” I ask, leaning back against the chipped Formica countertop.
“Probably get my ass whooped if I didn’t,” he says, leaning against the counter next to me and crossing his arms over his chest. “How are the girls?”
I shrug, crossing my arms over my own chest and kicking my feet wide. “Abi is… Abi. I don’t know how to help her, man. I had to bribe her just to come out and do cake and presents the other day with us for Chloe’s birthday.”
“Want me to see if I can talk to her?” he asks quietly, turning his head to look at me. “Sometimes it’s easier if it’s not coming from a parent, you know?”
I nod slowly, staring at the frayed carpeting between my booted feet. “I just hate this, you know? I’m theirdad; I’m supposed to be able to fix this shit. And I feel like I’m failing her. Failing all of them.”
“You can’t look at it like that,” my brother says, shifting his feet and turning his head back to stare forward again. “You all have had a rough year and you’re surviving the best you can. Give yourself a little grace. How much longer until those papers are finalized?”
“Hearing is set for the beginning of November,” I mutter, shaking my head. “That is, if Britt doesn’t ask for another extension.”
