MILES
Working Thanksgiving is always hit or miss at the firehouse. Some years we’re called out multiple times a day and others we sit around waiting for the alarms to sound. This year, it’s the latter which is nice because it allows me time to cook up a mini-Thanksgiving lunch for the on-duty members at the firehouse. At our specific one, we agree to split the major holidays into half shifts instead of full ones. Doing this allows all of us time at home with family to spend the holiday with them in some capacity. To make it as fair as possible, every year switches in terms of who takes the day shift and who takes night. With this year being a day-shift year, Carter and I are working until seven o’clock and then heading out to Ivy’s house for dinner. We’ll be back bright and early tomorrow for our standard twenty-four on like usual.
The oven is warming up while I slice and dice some potatoes to make my homemade mashed potato recipe. For years I’ve dreamed of making a full Thanksgiving meal and spending a full day in the kitchen. But with what I do for aliving and having to drop everything at a moment’s notice, making half meals will have to suffice.
“Annoying little—” Carter gruffs, stalking into the kitchen. He throws his phone down on the table before throwing himself into a chair with the same force.
“You okay?” I ask apprehensively, continuing to stir the boiling potatoes and adding a dash of salt to the water.
“Huh? Oh, yeah I’m fine,” he humphs, crossing his arms over his chest.
I let out a low chuckle. “Yeah, you look real fine to me.”
“I just—it’s just—” he struggles to find his words. Biting down on his lip, he seems to be contemplating what to say. “Why are women so frustrating?”
This has me turning around and looking at him fully. “Whatwomanwould you be referring to, exactly? I didn’t know you’re seeing anyone.”
He swallows hard and squirms in his seat. “I didn’t say I was seeing anyone, I simply asked why they’re so frustrating.”
“Why who’s so frustrating?” Brooks, another company member, asks as he enters the kitchen.
“Women,” Carter answers quickly, falling back into his chair and crossing his arms again.
“Women aren’t frustrating. At least, they’re not when you’re not only attracted to them,” he winks at Carter before laughing. Brooks is the first queer fireman to join Firehouse Nine and is one of the best on the force.
“I feel like you’ll have very good insights on this seeing as how you date both men and women.” Carter sighs, looking at Brooks with an exasperated expression.
“I think women can feel frustrating because they communicate differently than men. Menare typically more straightforward where women tend to expect you to read the signals they’re sending,” Brooks explains.
“Now that’s the biggest line of bullshit I’ve ever heard,” a fourth voice cuts in. Billie, our company’s only female firewoman, steps in and looks at where I’m standing at the stove. “I came to offer my help with Thanksgiving lunch. Do you need anything?”
I shake my head at her. “The only thing I need is to know who has my brother all in a twist like this.”
“No one,” Carter moans from the table but I can tell he’s lying. I always can. He does this thing with his nose that gives him away immediately.
“Women aren’t any less straightforward than men are in how we communicate. We just expect you tolisten to what we’re saying to youand more often than not, you don’t,” Billie explains with a hint of sarcasm in her voice. I turn my back on the growing group of people and listen while I cook.
As they argue about the communication abilities of both genders, a pair of hypnotic gray eyes come to mind. The image of her sitting across from me as we played checkers together makes my lips pull back. I had far less pep in my step this morning when I remembered I wouldn’t be seeing her like I have been the last few weeks.
Turning the stove off, I dump the soft potatoes into a strainer before adding them to the standing mixer on the counter. The machine has to work overtime at the start but as the vegetables start to break apart, the pace of it picks up and they quickly come together into a fluffy like substance. I scrape some butter into the bowl with another dash of salt and pepper and let the machine do the hard part for me.
I let my mind drift as I preheat the oven and open up the premade biscuits to drop on a cookie sheet and toss in onceit’s hot. I think about how cute she was when I let her win and the way the color seemed to come back to her face as she ate the soup I made for her. I didn’t want to leave at the end of the day but she insisted she would be fine. She even texted me the day after letting me know she was feeling better already, claiming it was the soup that helped heal her. I wanted to text her back but paused when what she said to me before cut through my mind. How there was nothing between us and that she wanted to keep things professional.
Professional my ass.
After popping the biscuits into the preheated oven, I wipe my hands on the towel I have tucked into my back pocket and grab my phone. I type something in quickly and hit send.
“Miles, what do you have to say about this?” Brooks calls out, stealing my attention away from my phone.
“Say about what?” I ask, looking up at the group. At some point, two more company members have entered the kitchen and taken a seat at the dining table. The smell of lunch calls them into the room little by little.
“The communication style of men and women,” Billie adds from her seat. “Surely, an emotionally intelligent man like yourself agrees that it’s notwomenwho are the problem here.”
“Emotionally intelligent?” Carter croaks and looks between Billie and I with his mouth ajar. “Have youmet Miles?”
“I say that whatever issues my brother is having with this mystery woman is surely his fault because he’s a moron,” I snap at him. This gets a couple of the company members in the room to laugh.
Carter pouts in his chair. “I hate all of you.”
