The Fireman I Loved to Hate by Jenna Gunn
Chapter 5
I brush my hair for the millionth time and stare at myself in the webcam. I’m so nervous. I hate doing these things, but I love connecting with my readers. Being a writer, I had no idea how much public speaking is involved. I’m fortunate enough to have a publishing house behind me and a fantastic agent, so I don’t have to do as much public speaking as a lot of indie authors.
Today’s livestream Q&A is to promote the book I’m working on right now, and that’s complex. The trick is to give only hints, no spoilers. But since all of the story is fresh on my mind, it’s hard not to spill the tea. And my readers know it. I’ve accidently dropped major plot points on Q&As before, so they try to trip me up with tricky questions. It’s fun for them and me, and hell for my agent. But the closer I get to spoiler territory, the more my books sell, so she doesn’t mind when I play to their questions.
I’ve slathered on makeup for the camera and put on a decent blouse, so I look like a professional, but I always feel like I’m playing dress-up like from when I was a little girl. I used to put on my mother’s dresses and her makeup and pretend to be a newscaster. I’ve always liked telling stories. But there’s no time to dwell on the thought. The livestream signal comes on, my agent texts to see if I’m ready, and it’s showtime.
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After the show, I instantly slump in my chair, like someone cut my marionette strings. I hadn’t realized I was so tightly wound for this one. My fuzzy foot warmer isn’t under my desk. “Monroe?”
I get to my feet and tug at the pins in my hair. “Hey, buddy, come here!” I walk down the short hallway to my living room and he’s not on any of his cat beds. He’s not even on the three-story cat condo I got him for being such a good boy when he got his blood drawn. “My little man?” I grab his treat bag from the kitchen and give it a shake. I just want to crash out on my couch with Monroe purring on my lap while I zone out to some reality TV shlock. Why is this too much to ask for?
He doesn’t show, and I start to worry. I go to the last cat bed in my bedroom and it’s empty. Then my eyes focus on the window.
The half-open window.
I had cracked it for a breeze last night, but I thought it was just a crack. Not half open. “Monroe is going to give me a damn heart attack,” I tell no one because he’s not home to listen to me whine. “Monroe, wherever you are, you had one job! One! Listen to me whine and you get treats, and I think that’s a pretty sweet deal,” my voice cracks as I panic and grab my keys. I have no idea how long he’s been gone or where he might be this time, so I lock up behind me.
He’s not in the tree this time. Dammit. A faint breeze blows by, and I wouldn’t have noticed it, if it didn’t ruffle the leaves. I glance all around, and an orange movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention.
A tail flicks side to side on top of my neighbor’s chimney.
“Oh, are you freaking kidding me?” I ask him.
He sees me and begins to yowl at the top of his lungs.
“So, you’ve decided I need to meet the neighbors? Is that what you’re telling me?”
He yowls in response.
I walk across our lawns barefoot and note their tasteful rose beds on either side of the walkway to their front door. If my next book does well enough, I’ll have to do something like that for my house. Or maybe lavender. I love the scent.
Their front door hosts a wooden sign that reads, “Spring!” in a cheerful font. On the right, an American flag dances in the breeze. These are people who care about how things look. And here I am, in a pretty blouse and cut-off denim shorts with stains, a full face of makeup, and no shoes. Professional on top, Daisy Duke on the bottom. I’m a human mullet haircut.
I sigh loudly, then knock even louder. I’m so worried about Monroe, and I can’t see him from that angle-their covered porch is blocking the view. I bounce on the balls of my feet, while I wait and worry. Finally, a plump old woman answers the door.
She has gray hair with a tight old lady perm and is wearing a hot pink cardigan. Her housedress is loose and flowing. “Can I help you?”
“Hi! I’m your new neighbor and my cat is on your roof. I am so sorry to bother you.”
She laughs with her whole body. “Well, that’s a fine how-do-you-do, now isn’t it? I was wondering when we’d get to meet you. I’m Lynda Logan, but most folk call me Lynn or Lyndy.”
“I’m Raina.” My cat yowls angrily and I tell her, “That’s Monroe.”
“Well, why don’t you come in?” She holds the door open for me.
Part of me does not want to go inside. It is a claustrophobic space, filled with knick-knacks and bric-a-brac. Every smooth surface is covered in a little wooden sign with a clever (?) saying on it, a figurine, or a fake plant. I suspect a QVC addiction decorated her home. And none of the colors match. Not even close. I swallow hard and suck it up. Not everyone likes things plain and simple, I reason. “Thank you so much.”
The sofa is pink and flanked by two yellow chairs. They sit on a teal carpet. The wallpaper is a blend of stripes with a floral pattern inserted in every other strip, and it’s all multicolor, but none of those colors are pink, yellow, or teal.
An enormous entertainment center looms over the furniture. It’s new, sleek, and modern. One more thing that does not belong in here, but in a completely different way.
I follow her to the kitchen, which is equally tacky, but this room smells divine. She turns and says, “Take a seat, I’ll get you some iced tea.”
“Oh, I’m really just here to-”
“I’ve already called the fire department, Dearie. When I heard your child on the roof, I knew I couldn’t get him down myself, so really the only thing to do is wait and have tea. Sit.”
I shrug and flop into one of her plastic-covered seats. God, I hope it’s not the mystery fireman. She returns from the fridge with two glasses and a pitcher. Lynn pours the tea, then sets cork coasters down for the glasses. It’s some seriously sweet southern iced tea. “Oh, that’s good.”
“Thank you. My husband liked it extra sweet.”
“Past tense?” I wince.
She nods.
“I’m so sorry for your loss.”
Lynn grins, “I’m sorry, Dearie, I didn’t mean it that way. He’s cut back on his sugar intake this year, so he only has a glass every day, instead of a pitcher. Jimmy is perfectly fine.”
“Oh!” I laugh and blush. “Well, that’s good.”
“So, is your cat usually a troublemaker?”
“No, not usually. He’s an indoor cat, most days. But he’s adjusting to his new surroundings, and he’s being a pill about it.”
She smiles and nods. “Critters can be a blessing and a heartache.”
We hear a door at the other end of the house, and an old man emerges. Tall and lanky, in browns and plaids, he is the physical opposite of Lynn. “Well, that’s enough of that for the day. Oh, we have company?”
She says, “This is Raina. She moved into the Miltenberger’s place. Raina, this is Jimmy.”
He shakes my hand and smiles so widely, his blue eyes crinkle. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”
“Likewise,” I smile back. There’s something about him that puts me at ease instantly.
Lynn asks, “What were you doing in the office all day, anyway?”
“Researching roses.”
“You’ve been growing roses for over forty years, Jimmy. What else do you need to know about them?”
He huffs and gets himself a glass of tea. “They are tricky plants, Lyndy.”
She leans close and says, “He thinks I don’t know he looks at naked girls on the computer, but I know.”
I giggle and he says, “Don’t you go scaring the girl! I am not one of those perverts.”
She rolls her eyes and says, “Don’t forget, I’m the one who found those nudies you brought back from Vietnam.”
“That’s Army memorabilia.”
She and I both laugh, and he smiles at us. Lynn says, “I’m sure our son will come back with all sorts of memorabilia when he gets back from his tour in Afghanistan. All the boys do it. It’s not a big deal, Jimmy.”
“He’s deployed?” I ask.
They nod. He says, “Our boy is a fine soldier.”
“You wouldn’t be single, would you?” Lynn asks.
“I am, but-”
“Is that your cat on our chimney?” Jimmy interrupts.
I nod. “That’s Monroe.”
“Why don’t you stay for supper? I made chicken and broccoli casserole, Jimmy’s favorite.”
I smile. “That’s kind of you, but whenever the fire department gets here, I’ll need to get Monroe home and-”
“The firefighters can have some, too, I always cook too much so we have leftovers.”
I have the sneaking suspicion there is no telling her no. “Sounds great,” I say with a sigh.
Jimmy stares out the window and says, “Fire department is here.”
Please don’t be the firefighter I kissed. And masturbated about.
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