“Fine,” I say. “But if anyone asks me to sign body parts, I’m leaving.”
The Twin Wavesfire station is exactly what you’d expect from a small coastal town: two gleaming red trucks parked in a garage that smells like diesel andindustrial cleaner, a communal kitchen that’s seen better decades, and a common room with mismatched furniture that looks like it was donated by every grandmother in a fifty-mile radius.
What you might not expect is the wall of photos near the coffee maker, featuring every firefighter’s “most embarrassing moment” captured for posterity. There’s Tommy stuck in a window during a training exercise. Josh covered in what appears to be marshmallow fluff after some unspecified incident. Dean, twenty years younger, posing proudly next to a truck with toilet paper trailing from his boot.
“Nice photo,” I tell Dean.
“Shut up.”
“The toilet paper really makes it.”
“I said shut up.”
The guys are in the common room when we walk in—five of them scattered across couches and armchairs, a poker game abandoned on the table, some home renovation show playing on the ancient TV mounted in the corner.
Asher Lennox sees me first. He’s the newest member of the crew, late twenties, with an easy grin and the kind of relaxed confidence that comes from being good at his job. He’s also Jo’s son, which makes him practically family at this point.
“Hey, Levi.” He nods at me like it’s no big deal, because to him it isn’t. “Dean mentioned you might stop by.”
“You could have warned the others,” Dean mutters.
“And miss this?” Asher gestures to Tommy, who has just noticed me and is rising from his chair like he’s witnessing the second coming. “Not a chance.”
Tommy is a big guy, barrel-chested, with a beard that could house a family of birds. His face lights up like a kid on Christmas.
“No way.” He stands so fast his chair scrapes the floor. “Dean. Dean. You didn’t tell us you were bringing him.”
“I’m bringing him,” Dean says flatly.
“Levi Cole. In our station.” Tommy is advancing toward me with the enthusiasm of a golden retriever. “My daughter is going to lose her mind. She’s seen you in concert four times. She has a poster in her room. My wife is concerned.”
“Tommy, give the man space,” Josh calls from the couch. He’s early thirties, with the calm confidence of someone who runs into burning buildings for a living. “Sorry about him. He’s a fan.”
“I’m not a fan,” Tommy protests. “I appreciate good music. And good lyrics. Andthe way you harmonize in ‘Distance’ gives me chills every time, but that’s not being a fan—that’s just having ears.”
“Tommy.”
“What?”
“You’re being a fan.”
“I am not.” Tommy turns back to me. “Can I get a picture? It’s for my kid. Not for me.”
“Sure,” I say, because refusing would be cruel, and also because the look on Dean’s face right now is worth any amount of awkwardness.
What follows is fifteen minutes of increasingly chaotic photo-taking. Tommy’s shot “for his daughter” becomes a group photo, then individual shots, then Josh admitting that actually, he owns the album, and could I sign his phone case?
Asher stays out of it, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, watching the chaos with obvious amusement.
“You’re not going to ask for a photo?” I ask him when there’s a break in the madness.
“I’ve heard you sing karaoke at Jo’s birthday party. The mystique is gone.”
“That was one time.”
“You did ‘Islands in the Stream’ as a solo. Both parts.”
“Kenny and Dolly are sacred.”
