The Fireman I Loved to Hate by Jenna Gunn
Chapter 4
“Shut up, this is the best part,” Tara swears. “I’ll get your Hot Pocket, you stay put.” She runs off to the kitchen before I can object.
Ben nods, “Yeah, Alex, just watch.”
Upon discovering I had never seen Practical Magic, Tara insisted that we watch it right then and there. I’ve never been one for chick flicks, but I had to admit, this one was pretty good. “Guys, we could have paused, oh. Is she possessed now?”
Ben spits, “Just watch the damn movie!”
“Fine,” I sit back and sigh. It’s not that I’m not interested. It’s that my mind is somewhere else. Tara delivers the molten Hot Pocket and I leave it on the table to cool. As the sisters and the aunts try to save Nicole Kidman from the ghost of toxic masculinity, the film almost feels prophetic. The love story subplot comes to a head, and for some reason, I think about Raina Groves.
It’s strange. I don’t normally think of a woman, once I see her at her worst. She was so nervous and jumpy about a damn cat. But I guess that’s to be expected. He is her pet. Maybe I shouldn’t be so judgmental about her selection of companions. God knows my past companions are questionable.
The film closes and I feel Tara’s eyes burn on me. So, I tell her, “Yeah, okay. That was a good movie.”
Ben laughs. “Good? You forgot to eat your Hot Pocket.”
I look where I left it, and the crusty thing has cooled completely. “Huh.”
Tara beams and says, “I knew it! Okay, I get to pick the next one-”
Ben jumps in and says, “Hell no, it’s my turn.”
“Fine,” she huffs. “But no crime dramas. I’ve been Scorsesed out.”
He pouts, “But, Taxi Driver.”
“Nope.”
“Goodfellas?”
“Absolutely not,” she says firmly.
“Gangs of New York? Come on, you gotta give me Gangs of New York,” he whines.
“All right, it’s a good movie, but we just watched it last month.”
I interject, “Wait, why don’t I get to pick?”
Tara says, “Because you have shit taste in movies. You made us watch the Trolls movie.”
“She’s absolutely right, my dude. You don’t get a say in this.”
I glare at them both, then ask, “Die Hard?”
They instantly grin, and Tara says, “I think it’s on Netflix.”
“Load it up, I’m gonna heat this up again.”
Bridges says, “That’s just sad, man. I’m ordering a real pizza.” He whips out his phone and sets to his task.
“Say, why didn’t you try to pick the movie?”
He shakes his head, “I don’t care what’s on. I am away from home for my shift, which means as long as no one puts on Frozen or Twilight, I’m a happy guy.”
“The kids run the TV at home now?”
He sighs. “I thought the Trolls night here was bad. Do you know how bad it is to hear nothing, but ‘Let It Go’ for twelve hours? Sung out of key? With a lisp?”
I laugh and ask, “Why don’t you get them their own TV?”
“Nope. I’m not going to be that dad.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know the type, right? The ones who are happiest when their kids are locked away in their own rooms, uninvolved types. Nope.”
“So you’d rather listen to your kids sing to Frozen for twelve hours?”
He nods. “While they paint my fingernails and toenails, and clip bows into my hair.”
“Dude,” I lean close, so he doesn’t embarrass himself with the others, “did they do that?”
“You know how when you go to the strip joint, and you’re still finding glitter on yourself three days later?”
“Yeah.”
“I think strippers use little girl nail polish, because I was finding blue and pink glitter for a week in the shower. I thought I got it all off, but damn.”
I snort a laugh. “Those girls have you wrapped around their tiny glittery fingers, don’t they?”
He nods proudly. “Without question.”
“You like being a dad?”
“It’s the best gig in the world. What makes you ask?”
I shrug. “Seems like a lot of work. And patience. I’m not sure if I have any of that.”
Bridges asks, “I didn’t know you’re dating anyone.”
“I’m not. Just thinking about…life. My sister has a little girl, and she’s happier than I’ve ever seen her.”
“She’s your twin, right?”
I nod. “Makes me wonder sometimes.”
“That’s probably a good thing.”
“What do you mean?”
He gives me a thoughtful look, then says, “You’re a tough nut to crack, Alex. You act like you hate romantic movies; you act like you hate cats-”
“That’s not an act.”
“Fine, whatever. Point is, you enjoy being a curmudgeon. Nothing is ever quite what you like. When you date, you’re so critical.”
“I am not!”
“Yeah, you are, man. The last girl you told me about, Jennifer, right?”
“Yeah.”
He smirks. “You said her feet were too big.”
“A girl should not have bigger feet than me.”
“And the one before that, Samantha. You broke up with her because…?”
“She was messy.”
He gives me a sardonic stare down.
“What? She was! Her apartment was a fire hazard! I couldn’t sleep in there.”
“Yeah, and in the morning, she found you doing what?”
I quietly admit, “Cleaning.”
“You have some control issues, man.”
“No, she had safety issues.”
“The one before her?”
“She was a dyed in the wool Cher fan.” I sigh. “What’s your point, Bridges?”
“You have to learn to, let it go,” he sings.
“Don’t start that-”
“Let it go!” Tara sings.
Ben grimaces and asks, “What did you do, Alex?”
“I don’t know, but I wish I could undo it. I’m gonna hit the bunk.” I knew those two would be at it for a while with that damn song, and I couldn’t take it again. We live at the fire station, two weeks on, two weeks off. It makes for some deep conversations, but we also get on each other’s nerves. Going to the bunk is the universal sign for, “I need some peace and quiet.”
But Bridges points out, “The pizza will be here in five minutes. Want me to come get you for that?”
“Yeah, thanks.” I walk over to the bedroom and climb into my bunk. My mind is still on my life for some reason. Normally, I think about the film we just watched or some news article I read. But I can’t distract myself tonight. I flick through my phone, hoping for a distraction. But the only thing my mind will settle on is Raina’s big emerald eyes. If I had any real privacy here, the memory of her eyes would be all the porn I needed. But then I also had that kiss to think about…
“Pizza’s here!” Bridges shouts down the hallway.
“Be right there!” I respond. Pizza is less complicated than a cat lady. She’s so tiny, I bet she doesn’t even eat pizza.
-
In the morning, I hit the fire station gym, which is a grandiose way to describe a bench, a weight rack, and some plates. But, at least we have them. Tara’s giving me a spot. “…How’s Donovan doing?”
She grins. “He’s great. Just got a promotion. Assistant Manager now.”
“That’s wonderful.”
“You’ve never asked about him before, Whitmore. What gives?”
“Can’t I ask about your fiancé?”
“Sure,” she eyed me suspiciously, then said, “next thing I know, you’ll be asking about our wedding plans.”
“Yeah, how’s that going?”
“All right,” she curled the bar from my hands and racked it onto the bench. Tara had been a fitness competitor and was the strongest woman I had ever met. “What is going on, out with it.”
“I am showing an interest in my co-worker’s life and now I get grilled for it?”
“Alex, you border on stoicism sometimes.”
I sigh. “I just…you ever look at your life and think, ‘Well, maybe there should be some adjustments?’”
“And why would you want adjustments?”
“I see all these coupled up people and they seem happier than me.”
“Mm, hmm. You know me and Donovan are getting married, right?”
I nod. “What’s your point?”
“I’m not interested in you that way-”
I’m flabbergasted. “No! No, that’s not what I meant at all!”
She laughs hard and puts her hands up. “Okay, okay.”
“Not at all, Tara, I mean, you’re great, but that’s not-”
“I got it, Alex, you don’t think I’m young enough or pretty enough for you-”
“That is not what I said!” I panic.
She laughs so hard, she has tears streaming down her cheeks. “God, you’re so easy to torture. It’s almost not any fun.”
“So we’re clear, you know I’m not into you, right?”
“Yeah, I got it, Alex.”
“And it’s not because you’re not young or pretty, Tara,” how to navigate this without a Human Resources complaint? “You are objectively, esthetically balanced.”
She snort laughs and keeps crying. “Oh, god, that’s a terrible thing to say!”
I huff. “I just mean-”
“It’s okay, Alex, I swear. You didn’t offend me, I was just playing with you.” She wipes her eyes clear, then asks, “What is all this about?”
I don’t know how to say it without screwing up, so I just go for it. “I want to be happy, like the people I see coupled up. Does that make sense?”
She nods. “I get that. When I was your age, I had some envy when it came to my married friends. They always seemed so happy…but they weren’t, not all of them. Of my friends, two out of six are divorced, and I suspect two more won’t be married to the same person when we reach our forties. Things always look different on the outside of a relationship, Alex. So enjoy being single.”
“But, I thought you and Donovan are good…?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to imply us. We’re awesome. The wedding planning is a bitch, but the rest of it is great.” She drones on about the planning and picking colors for the wedding and flavors for the cake, and even though I zone out completely, I am jealous of her boring topic. I want to be whining about the same thing. What the hell is that about?
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