Things You Save in a Fire(3)

What would it feel like to shake up that routine?

You’re the loneliest person I know, Hernandez had said.

Suddenly, I knew that was true.

But that wasn’t a reason for me to sleep with him. Sex was hardly a cure for loneliness. More likely the opposite.

Hernandez. It was like if your high school chemistry partner suddenly propositioned you. Or your dry cleaner. Or your doctor.

I was not, absolutely not, going to sleep with Hernandez. That would definitely never happen.

Probably.

Without even realizing it, I held my breath.

And then, off to the side, three seats over, across the table, I heard a familiar, distinctive, telltale sound: the muffled, closed-mouth snort that our engine operator, Big Tom, always made whenever anybody got pranked.

My eyes snapped toward it.

There was Big Tom, hand clamped over his mouth and nose, hunching down into a guffaw that he couldn’t contain any longer.

I’d seen him do that a hundred times. He was the one who always broke.

“Oh my God,” I said, turning away.

I scanned the rest of the table. The guys from our shift were all there to cheer for me on my big night. They’d been perfect gentlemen all night long, chewing with their mouths closed and everything. But once Big Tom broke, they all broke. In one scan, I saw it on every single face: glee. Triumphant, practical-joke-infused glee.

They’d gotten me.

I turned back to Hernandez and punched him on the shoulder. Hard. “Seriously?”

They’d never gotten me before. And not for lack of trying.

What can I say? Nobody’s perfect.

Once the guys’ restraint collapsed, it collapsed hard. They all started pointing. And raising their arms in victory. And cackling so hard they made the table shake. Reichman, Nolan, Trey, Big Tom, and especially Hernandez—now hooting with delight, leaning back for air, turning red.

I let them have a minute. They’d earned it.

Then I started laughing, too—at the relief of it—as the world shifted back into a recognizable pattern and became familiar again. I took a deep breath of comprehension: Hernandez had not propositioned me. He had pranked me.

Only a prank. Thank God.

When Hernandez finally settled enough to talk, he pointed at me. “You totally bought it.”

I punched him in the shoulder. “You freaked me out, dude! Tonight, of all nights.”

“We thought you could use a distraction,” Hernandez said. Then he pointed at Big Tom. “You torpedoed me, man! She was about to say yes.”

“I was not,” I said.

“You were,” Hernandez said. “If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s getting girls to say yes—”

“I’m not a girl. I’m a firefighter.”

“—and you were one second away.”

I threw a dinner roll at him. “You wish.”

But he’d made some good points, I’d give him that. Maybe a few too many.

Hernandez dug into his pocket for his wallet. “Man! I just lost twenty bucks.”

The other guys pulled theirs out, too. “Never bet against Hanwell,” Big Tom said, giving me a wink.

The money came out and got shuffled around the table as the guys paid up, counting bills and collecting them.

I watched Hernandez pay out and punched his shoulder again—harder this time. “You bet against me?”

He shrugged with a sly smile. “I know what I know. I’m irresistible.”

Up onstage, the program was starting.

An emcee fired up the mic as the waitstaff cleared away the plates and people rerouted their attention to the stage. “It’s my great pleasure,” the emcee said, “to help honor our city’s fire and rescue heroes here tonight.”

A huge cheer roared up from the room. Then the guys at my table started chanting, “Cassie! Cassie! Cassie!”

I shushed them and made a “cut” gesture at my neck.

But I smiled anyway. Knuckleheads.

I gave Hernandez one last glance. Just a prank. And it had been a good distraction.

Then we all got quiet, I sat straight in my chair, and all my nervousness roared back. I clasped my hands together on my lap, noted how cold they were, and then took a second to appreciate the ridiculous fact that nothing scared me—except, apparently, stages at banquets.

I stared straight at the podium as they started calling up the honorees—fully dreading the moment when I’d hear my name.

I was wearing pumps, of all things, with my dress uniform, and I was having a few issues with balance. I was not exactly a person who loved the spotlight. Plus, I’d have to speak. We’d been given two minutes each to say our thanks at the microphone, and two minutes seemed impossibly short and impossibly long at the same time.

I had conscientiously typed out a paragraph I figured I could read out loud. How hard was reading, after all? Though as I watched the other honorees come up and read their prepared remarks, I started to think it must be harder than I remembered. They stumbled, mumbled, lost their place, and tripped on simple words over and over. I found myself wishing I’d practiced in advance.

Because I was the youngest-ever honoree for my award, and a female, of all things, and because this was the most prestigious award the department gave, and because the School Bus Angel was all over the news, they’d saved my award for last. I was the grand finale of the night. The mayor himself was going to come out, hand me the award, and bask with me in the glory.