The Fireman I Loved to Hate by Jenna Gunn
Chapter 19
The vegetables steam up, and as the edges crisp, my head aches. Soy sauce hisses on the hot pan and the scent wafts into my nose, causing my mouth to water. I drop the noodles in next, and as the squiggles begin to dance from the heat, Carmen begins to bat at the hot pan. I snap at her, “Carmen, stop!” But she is intrepid and bats at them again. I spray her with the water bottle, and she darts off the counter and out of the kitchen. Monroe yowls, as she rushes past him.
They’ve taken to this game. Carmen jumps onto the counter while I’m cooking, I spray her, she runs away, and Monroe yowls and chases her. Then, they gab about the highlights of this round or some such. I do not find the game particularly enjoyable, but they seem to love it.
I don’t have the patience to listen to them chatter tonight. I woke up on edge, after finding out yesterday that my agent arranged another Q&A. As much as I love my readers, the stress of public speaking has dampened my mood terribly.
All I want for my evening is to make a nice stir fry, a glass of wine, some stupid reality television, and to relax. I deserve something better than my usual microwavable meal. I add the sliced chicken and they go crazier. I turn the TV up, without much mind to what is on it. But I would like to hear it. “Monroe, Carmen, hush!”
They pay me no mind, zipping left and right.
“My dears, I know you smell chicken, but I am going to require some peace when I am eating, so get it out of your system now.”
They spirit away, and I can actually hear the voices on the television. There’s inane chatter about the weather, which is warm. I zone out once more, as the chicken finishes cooking. My mind drifts to the plot of my new novel, I have been finding plot holes and I am distraught.
The structure of every romance novel is basically the same: they meet, they flirt, they fall in love, then something is in their way, but at the end, they live happily ever after. Novels die in the details, though, and without nailing them all down, plot holes breed plot holes. The structural issues could tear it all apart, and-
“There was some structural damage,” Alex says.
I blink and wonder if I am losing my mind. I look around and he’s not in my home. What on Earth?
But then I hear a voice over, “Alex Whitmore was one of the firefighters on the scene. A member of the first crew to arrive, Whitmore charged into the burning warehouse and successfully rescued all six warehouse workers single-handedly. Derek Greene, the supervisor on shift that night, sings his praises.”
My attention is sharply focused on the screen. I couldn’t look away if I tried.
“He saved all six of us himself,” the small balding man says, as he adjusts his glasses. He’s in what appears to be a hospital waiting room. “I would not be alive, were it not for Mr. Whitmore.”
The scene switches to a man in full firefighting garb, his hair is matted with sweat, his helmet tucked under his arm. Blue and red lights illuminate him, and it looks like he was still on scene. The background is a smoky, burned down building. “It was all Whitmore. Of course, we put out the fire, but Alex is the one we depend on to run into the burning buildings and get people.” He shrugs. “That’s just how he is. He’s a hero.”
They’ve switched to his hospital room, and my hand is over my mouth without a thought. Alex, the massive man that he is, looks so small in a hospital bed. There are tubes in his thick arms and my heart has completely stopped from the sight of it all. But then he speaks, “I’m not a hero,” he shakes his head like he’s struggling to find the right words, “it’s just my job.” His voice is raspy, like he had breathed in a ton of smoke. “I’m no hero.”
“When we spoke with your crew and the others, Mr. Whitmore, each one said you are the reason there were no fatalities in the massive warehouse fire,” the reporter says.
He seems so uncomfortable, and I’m not sure if it’s the hospital bed, his injuries, or being called a hero. His words are soft when he asks, “They really said that?”
The scene goes from the crews singing his praises to some of the people he rescued telling the audience about Alex’s valor. Mr. Greene is back and says, “I don’t know what that man is made of, but it’s tougher stuff than anyone I’ve ever met. He ran into the fire, lifted me over his head, and single-handedly carried me to the ladder. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
I am captivated by all of the pageantry surrounding Alex. I’m proud of his achievements and grateful to the fates that he’s alive and relatively unharmed. My lungs tighten down when I think of him rescuing strangers like this. And after everything he’s done for me…The reporter’s words crack into my fangirl haze, “Whitmore was hospitalized for severe smoke inhalation and several injuries.”
Alex is on-screen again and shrugs, “Occupational hazard. No big deal.” But then he coughs terribly and grabs his water. His face is red, and he looks tired when he says to the camera, “Comes with the territory.”
I find myself suddenly squared up to the television as the screen switches again. The reporter stands in front of the remains of the warehouse, which is charred black in the daylight. Her monologue is illustrated by the footage of debris. My god, he went in there. She gives information about the fire and the warehouse itself, but I am impatiently waiting for Alex to come back to my screen. When it goes to another location, my heart leaps, but it’s just that Mr. Greene again.
“It’s all my fault he’s injured,” he admits and makes me hate him. He gestures and there’s a hospital band on his wrist. He’s a patient, too. “I was panicking when he carried me, and I knocked his mask off. Mr. Whitmore, if you see this, you have my sincerest apologies.”
The camera is back on Alex again. I lean forward, fixated on the man in front of me and angry that I’m not with him right now. I should have been the first person they called when this happened. Instead, I’m in my damn house. He coughs and says, “That’s not his fault. People panic in a fire, when they haven’t had training. It’s just fight or flight.”
The reporter’s voiceover interrupts him to say, “Whitmore refuses to blame anyone else for his injuries.”
He smiles and says, “I’m just glad to know Mr. Greene will be all right.” Then he breaks into another series of coughs. Harsh, painful coughs, by the look of them. My stomach flips, while my heart lurches.
I need to get to Alex. I never expected him to look so helpless and injured. He’s larger than life, but now, he looks like he needs me. Or maybe, I need him. Is there a difference?
The reporter’s voiceover comes on again, this time to summarize the whole story, in one long, but succinct sentence that concludes with everyone insisting he is unquestionably a hero. Then they switch to a shot of Alex in his bed again. The tubes in his arms and the hospital gown are daggers in my wounded heart. He says, “You can’t be a firefighter and be scared to run into a burning building. That’s just the job. I’m just glad that everyone made it through. It’s all I care about.”
The reporter signs off and it goes back to the anchor desk, and I lose all interest. I have no interest in the next story about a historical festival and an impending rainstorm. I can’t think of anything else. Only Alex.
Everything everyone else has been saying to me swirls in my mind. I have been so damn stupid. I’ve been looking for an old-fashioned hero. Chivalrous. Brave. A man’s man. A man who treats me how I want to be treated. Which is exactly who and what Alex Whitmore is. A modern gentleman.
If anyone is a modern gentleman, it was a firefighter. Sure, police and soldiers come close to fitting the bill, but there are distinct differences between them. Unlike police, firefighters know their job will, in fact, land them into danger one day. Police can work behind a desk for their whole career. And unlike soldiers, firefighters can’t reason with their opponents. But soldiers, especially modern ones, are often able to de-escalate a situation with their words. There’s no talking to a fire to calm it down.
Alex saves people, whatever the cost to himself. And he’s lying alone in a hospital bed because he saved six people from a blazing building last night.
What did I do last night? I formed a character based around the brave, chivalrous, handsome man I mistreated. My head drops into my hands and I tell the cats, “Oh my god, I wrote Alex Whitmore fanfiction last night.” They don’t seem to care, though Carmen’s ears perk when I say his name.
I have to go see him. I’m not even sure what I’ll say. It doesn’t matter. I feel a visceral need to see him and be there for him, if he’ll let me. I have to let him know he’s been right all along and that I’ve been stupid about him and us, and hope that he will forgive me. All this time, I’ve been holding out for a perfect man. And all this time, he was right in front of me.
He is my Mr. Darcy.
A siren rips through my mind and the cats go nuts. Monroe dashes down the hallway to see the trouble, while Carmen runs from the kitchen. Smoke wafts to the ceiling from a small fire on the stove top.
“Dammit!” I run to the little fire and slam the thick glass lid onto the pan. My heart races and I pant in my sheer panic. And that was just a tiny fire. I yank it off the heat and turn the burner off. Everything behind the glass lid is black bits.
The beeping continues until I find a piece of old mail and fan the alarm with some fresh air. I can’t reach it without the stepstool, and for the moment, I can’t remember where my stepstool is. I can’t think of anything but Alex.
As I try to calm down, I carefully lift the lid on what was dinner. It’s as ruined as that warehouse. The news anchors drone on about some historical festival coming to town and rain expected tonight, but I hardly notice. The fire in the pan was a sign.
I need to see Alex.
-