The Fireman's Son. Tara Taylor Quinn
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it, he wiped at the dribble of milk on its surface with his pajama sleeve. And then he was gone.
Back to bed.
She’d been told not to wake him during these episodes. She should watch out for his safety, but unless he was hurting himself, she should just let him be.
He’d be up again in a couple of hours. Getting ready for her to take him to the Stand. Probably wanting breakfast. Not remembering a thing about his middle-of-the-night snack.
Sitting at the table, thinking about the past few hours, about Elliott, about seeing Reese again for the first time in nine very, very long years, she considered getting some sleep, too.
With tears dripping slowly down her face, she put herself to bed.
On the couch in her son’s room.
* * *
“MOM, COME ON, we’re going to be late!” Was it just her imagination or was Elliott’s tone starting to sound like Frank’s?
“I’ve got ten more minutes,” she told him, leaning over the sink to apply concealer under both eyes. She’d smoothed on extra foundation, too. And eyeliner. And lipstick.
“Who ever heard of an EMT showing up at a crash in makeup gunk?” Shaking his head, the thick hair he preferred to wear down past his ears flopping, he turned and left her room.
Frank had always insisted on a military cut. For himself. And for their son.
Though Elliott had more stuff—furniture and toys—Faye had taken the larger of the two bedrooms when they’d moved in the week before. Mostly because she’d loved the claw-foot tub in the adjoining bath. Loved that the room had an adjoining bath.
Almost as much as she’d been opposed to Elliott having one. At least if he had to cross the hall to go in the night, she’d have a better chance of hearing him.
“Mom!” he called from the other end of the apartment, near the front door.
Pulling on a clean set of the standard blue utility pants and shirt she’d been issued, Faye was nervous but excited. She slipped into the ugly black EMS boots she’d purchased as soon as she’d graduated from training four years before and reminded herself that she was not only worthy, she was capable.
And had five minutes to spare.
Surprisingly, Elliott was not standing impatiently by the front door. So far, he liked going to The Lemonade Stand. There were two other boys there his age. Both had mothers who were victims. He’d taken quite a liking to one of the older boys, as well.
Maybe that older boy could be someone Elliott could look up to? Someone who’d be able to reach the little guy inside of Elliott—the little guy who’d spent years listening to the sounds of his mother’s sexual abuse without her knowing he could hear it?
“Ell?” She turned the corner toward the kitchen. He’d already had breakfast. She’d fixed it—a lighter rendition than usual—and then run for the shower while he ate. The Lemonade Stand provided balanced and delicious meals, so he didn’t need to take a lunch.
The boy turned around as she came into the room. She noticed his hesitant expression, like he wasn’t sure of his reception. And then she saw the paper plate he held in both hands. He’d made her a bagel with what looked like a half-scrambled, half-fried, somewhat-raw egg on it.
“You don’t have to eat it if you don’t want,” he said, shrugging as he held the plate up to her. “I just...” He shrugged again. “It’s your first day and all.”
He’d made breakfast for her.
Her precious, precious angel boy had made her breakfast.
Because it was her first day...and all.
They were going to be okay. She knew for certain now that Reese knew about her. She hadn’t received a call telling her not to come into work. Which meant she was still employed.
The rest—her plan, Elliott’s future—would all fall into place now.
When she could speak without tears clogging her throat, she thanked her son, careful not to let too much emotion spill onto him and make him withdraw. Taking the sandwich with her as they left the apartment, she ate every single bite.
SLEEP MIGHT HAVE been good. But it wasn’t the first time he’d shown up at work without it. Wouldn’t be the last.
When a fire was raging out of control and there weren’t enough fighters with the necessary training, sleep wasn’t an option.
Today Reese had a personal fire raging and he wasn’t going to rest until he’d put it out. Faye Walker was not going to have a first day of work. Not one second to settle in. He wanted her out.
He was waiting in the station when he saw her get out of an older, light gray, four-door sedan and head toward him.
Mark, who was in the middle of forty-eight hours on, walked past with a cup of coffee. Reese had sent Brandt home. He didn’t need his second caught in the cross fire that could very well happen after he’d had his moment with the woman who’d invaded his den.
“Send the new hire to my office as soon as she gets here,” he told Mark and strode in that direction himself, sure that his employee was staring after him. If he’d waited thirty more seconds, he could have told her himself.
If her aim was to force him to keep her on, or threaten to sue for wrongful termination if he didn’t, then let her bring it on. He wasn’t going to fire her in front of witnesses.
She wasn’t staying.
One thing didn’t make sense. If she’d meant to trap him, she wouldn’t have assumed he knew about her hire. But that phone call thing...why would she expect him to call? Unless she thought he didn’t have the balls to fire her face-to-face.
He’d gone home long enough to shower and shave, run a comb through his hair. It was shorter now than when she’d known him. He’d shaved his mustache since she’d last seen him, too. Tabitha had hated it. Said it poked her when he kissed her.
He’d had one clean uniform left. Technically Mondays were his day off. Laundry day, among other things. Instead, he was planning a trip to LA just as soon as he’d finished with the business at hand.
That was all Faye Walker was to him. Business.
And he was a master at handling his job. Which was why, at twenty-nine, he’d already made fire chief.
The knock came as expected. Sharp. Short. No hesitation.
I have to break up with you, Reese. I’m sorry.
She’d left a damned text message. Four years together, plans for a lifetime and he didn’t even warrant an in-person breakup?
Or a phone call?
He’d texted back: Okay, why?
Nine years before, that had meant pushing number buttons on a flip phone for corresponding letters. No quick task for a guy with big hands.
That had been shaking.
There’s someone else...
He hadn’t responded to that. There’d been no point.
“Come in,” he called now. He stood a few feet from the door, blocking the chairs in front of his desk, hands in his pockets.
There was no need for her to sit. She wasn’t staying.
“Reese, Mark said you wanted to see me...”
Her eyes were as blue as he remembered. And seemed to have all kinds of things to say to him.
He remembered that about her, too. It had been the promises she’d made with those eyes,