The Fireman I Loved to Hate by Jenna Gunn
Chapter 11
I pull the bottle from Carmen’s mouth, and she squeaks with righteous indignation. Then, I put her in Monroe’s old cat carrier, and she looks around it, very confused. “We are going to see Trisha for your shots, Cutey.”
Monroe paces the living room, concerned for Carmen’s well-being. They don’t like to be on opposite sides of a door, much less her going with me without him. Then, I bribe him into his own crate with a treat.
Carmen is growing fast and has a good appetite, so today is just for her first round of shots. Quickly, I figure out it’s best to carry them to the car one at a time. When I tried both, it was too awkward. So, Monroe was left yowling in the house for a whole half a minute.
On the road, it’s an easy trip to Trisha’s office, but I get lost down the hard cobblestones of Alex’s abs. I can’t help myself. The sex was incredible, and I had spent a whole day trying to wash his scent out of my sheets. Turned out, it was all in my mind, and I didn’t know how to wash that away.
Just thinking about him, my entire body flushes warm. I have to stop thinking about him, that’s all there is to it, I decide. He is not the one for me. He is too modern, too clean. I could never have a lasting passion with someone like him. He could never sweep me off my feet. Except for the time that he carried me to bed. But that’s because he wanted to have sex. And that’s all he cares about, like a neanderthal-
A car honks behind me. How long has the light been green? I wonder before I wave an apology to the driver. I hit the gas and drive on. I need something to distract myself from Alex, before I cause an accident. The radio is full of love songs, so that doesn’t help. Not that I love him. Just keeps my mind in the wrong headspace.
I shake my head clear just before I park at Trisha’s office. It’s busier than usual, and it takes me two trips to get the kids into her waiting room. I set them on the single free chair, check in at reception, and stand by them. I don’t want them on the floor; there’s a goat in the waiting room and he keeps sniffing the other patients. Monroe hisses when he gets close, which makes Carmen try to hiss.
Trisha pops out from the back and sees the goat first. She gives me a grin and says, “It’ll only be a little while longer.”
“No worries,” I lie, full of worries myself. But I flip through a new fashion magazine and wonder why anyone cares about such things. None of the new fashions have the class or elegance of an old gown or corset.
Not that I would ever wear anything like that.
Once I remember I live in the modern world, I look more carefully at the clothes. Still, none of it clicks for me. I’m pretty happy with my shorts and tee shirts, with the occasional dress-up day. I’m comfortable the way I am.
Am I?
Monroe fidgets and begins to yowl in his crate, so I set him on the goatherd’s chair. This way, he can see Carmen. He simmers down and I ask him, “I guess we all need to be comfortable, huh, little man?”
“Hey,” Trisha says from the door. “Ready?” Then she joins me and grabs Carmen’s carrier.
“Let’s go.” I take Monroe and we go into Exam Room B. She opens the door, and Carmen bolts into her hands.
“So, tell me how you ended up with this little beauty?” She coos over Carmen. I hop onto her counter and tell her the whole sordid affair, but she interrupts me constantly. “Alex, your Mr. Darcy?”
“He is no Mr. Darcy, but yes, that guy you keep mistaking for Mr. Darcy.”
“How was the sex?”
I roll my eyes and tell her, “I will never finish if you keep interrupting me.”
She grins and asks, “That good, huh?”
“Yes,” I groan. “I have never…it’s never been…I didn’t know it could be like that, Trish. Not ever.”
“Oh, my.”
I nod.
“And he just showed up with the kitten?”
“He was so sweet about her, too. It was weird.”
“Weird how?” she asks as she continues to examine Carmen.
“He was so annoyingly gentle with her. Like I know that he had to be waking up every two hours to feed her, and he doesn’t even like cats. And you should have seen it, he had a way about him with Carmen. Like every time he looked at her or thought about her, his eyes and his voice softened.”
“He loves her.”
“Seems to,” the thought made my voice waver. I clear my throat and straighten up, “And it’s so annoying.”
Trisha laughs. “Which part? The part where he is in love with a kitten or the part where you liked watching him be in love with the kitten?”
“Oh, shut up, he’s too soft.”
“You said he’s this super built firefighter, right?”
I nod. “So?”
“Sounds to me like he’s hard and soft. And that’s sort of the perfect mix, right?”
“For a woman who wants a modern man, I’m sure he’s great. I kicked him out after the sex, so-”
“Raina!” she says, far too loudly.
I shrug, “He’s not what I’m looking for.” I stubbornly cross my arms.
“Let me get this right. You have been after this guy so when he comes around, you get him, and then you kick him out. But he’s the one who is too modern?”
“It’s not like that, Trisha.”
“He’s a firefighter, which means his profession is to rescue people. He literally puts his life on the line for others.”
“Right.”
She turns her gaze to me, and I can’t look away. “He is built like a tower made of muscles, your words, not mine.”
“Yes.”
“And he’s rescued not one, but two cats, which you say he hates. Yet he does it anyway and fell in love with one of them.”
Her statements were like pinpricks at my balloon of hating Alex. “So?”
“Alex is a literal savior who has the body of a god and is capable of change.”
I swallow my annoyance with her. “Your point?”
“I say this with love, Girl. You’re being stupid. And that’s not like you. He is a Victorian hero.”
A gasp parts my lips and I’m offended by her assessment. “He is nothing like the men I write about! Those men are deep and complicated and handsome, they have great story arcs about redemption-”
“He hasn’t redeemed his cat-hating ways with you?” She points to Carmen. “And you don’t know if he has some brooding past to make him complicated, because you keep chasing him away.”
“He had no problem sleeping with me, either!”
“And from the sound of it, neither did you!”
“He’s so modern!”
“Which is still one of the dumbest qualifications ever, and just an excuse to keep all men at bay.”
I frown at her. Alex said something just like that. But I won’t confirm her assessment of me by telling her that. I’m too pissed with her to give her the satisfaction, so I change the topic. “How is Carmen?”
“Oh, she’s fine. You didn’t even notice when I did her shots, because you were too focused on telling me about Alex, the sexy fireman, who you deny liking even though he’s perfect for you.”
I gently place Carmen in her crate, then turn sharply at Trisha and tell her, “Thank you. We’ll be going now.”
“Fine, go. But it doesn’t change the fact that I’m right.”
I pay at reception and carry my kids out the door, hoping Trisha has another appointment right after me. I do not need a lecture right now. I need to write.
-
It’s been two weeks since Carmen came into our lives, and she’s grown into a healthy, happy five-week old. When I write, she and Monroe stay under the desk, each one within a foot. I’ve been on a bit of a tear, going through my Kanban board, piecing together my new cast of characters.
Right now, I’m working on the Male Main Character, or MMC. So far, the notes that I’ve jammed together include tall and willing to put himself in danger. I had written their initial meeting, so that scene is in there, too. When I re-read it, I realize it’s terribly similar to how I met Alex.
Then, I note that all the names I’ve collected for him start with A or a vowel. Andrew, Alfred, Oliver, Atherton, Abraham, Owen, Emmett…this won’t do.
I go through the rest of the MMC’s notes, and it’s all Alex. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered, hard jawline…looking at his section on the board is like facing him. He’s standoffish, then falls for the protagonist, against both of their better natures. And she eventually comes to agree to it.
Oh, hell. I’m telling our story.
I bend down and pick Carmen up, then ask her, “I need a woman’s opinion. Am I an idiot?”
She chirps and bats at a wayward curl near my forehead. I set her back down and sigh. Then I stare at the board again. Am I really this daft? Do I actually like him? Can’t be.
I go to the kitchen and make a sandwich for dinner. As I think about the stupid situation I’ve gotten myself into with the book, I scribble his name onto a post-it note. If I’m going to be writing about him, then I might as well use Alexander. I stick his post-it to the fridge and think about him.
Basing a character off of a real person is always a dangerous proposition. If things go wrong, then you always have the book to remind you of them. If things go right…well, I’ve never had things go right. That’s why I’m single.
I don’t want him to be a firefighter in the book, though. Maybe a medic or something easier to research than Victorian firefighting. I try to keep my books as historically accurate as I can without it bogging down the plot. With Victorian readers, you get a lot of history buffs, and they can really take the fan out of fan-tasy on social media when you get something wrong.
-
It’s later than I thought, by the time I finish up. I’m out as soon as my head hits the pillow. I can’t keep thinking about Alex or anything else, it seems. But it’s not long before Monroe pounces on my chest. I mumble, “What the hell, little man?”
Then he curls up and zonks out. I settle back down for the rest of the night and notice Carmen is propped up on my nightstand, with her front paws on the windowsill. Her white body is illuminated, almost like when someone has Christmas lights are on the house. “Come to bed, baby girl.”
But she stays put. And it’s not Christmas time.
I brush Monroe onto the bed and get up to see what’s got her attention. I can see the Logans’ yard from my bedroom window. The view is usually the chimney in moonlight or the faint glow from the living room light through their front porch.
Tonight, it’s flames. Only flames.
I gasp, and my phone is in my hand before I can think. I run out my door, shouting at the 911 operator, “Fire! On Marina Road, there’s a fire, my neighbor’s house is on fire!”
“Do you have the exact address?”
I shout it as I run to their gravel driveway. Part of my mind knows the stones will dig my feet raw by the morning, but I can’t feel it. Lynn is there, in her fleece housecoat, staring at her American dream engulfed in fire. I shout her name and she jumps, her eyes teary and her face contorted by fear. “Jimmy’s in there!”
“Someone is still in the house!” I shout at 911.
“Is that 911?” Lynn asks, and I quickly nod.
“Help is on the way. Can you stay on the line?” the operator asks.
“Yes, but I need to get him out of there! Let me get the owner on the line-”
“Wait, don’t-”
I pass the phone off to Lynn, who asks, “When will they be here?”
I look for a safe place to run inside, but I can’t see anything. It’s all smoke or flames. Suddenly, a beam falls in front of where I was half-considering running in. A plume of smoke follows it, and I choke on the acrid air. Then, I jog back to Lynn and see the red lights flood our street. The firefighters are here. I’m not a religious person, but I pray to whoever might be listening to save Mr. Jimmy.
-