Page 13 of Her Older Fireman

Chapter 7

Maddie

“The person who invents a concealer that can really hide if you’ve been crying will make a billion dollars.” It’s early in the morning and I’m in my bathroom, putting on some makeup as I get ready to head to work at the coffee shop. My eyes are still itchy and swollen from crying last night, and dark circles stand out in stark contrast to my pale Irish skin.

“Don’t worry about it,” Colette’s voice says through the speaker phone. “You probably look as annoyingly beautiful as ever.”

After Gabe left last night, I managed to make it into my bedroom before I completely fell apart. I stayed up later than usual, trying unsuccessfully to study, but mostly just weeping silently, trying not to be overheard. Disappointment, grief, anger—I’m not completely sure. I felt so good the other day, and it’s devastating to think that he might not be sticking around for me like I thought he would.

I’m used to not having many people I can count on, though. I’ll muscle through this, just like I always have.

“Hey, I gotta go,” Colette says. She seems—off, I guess. Like she’s got something on her mind. I don’t want to push it, though—Colette and I met in first grade, and if I’ve learned anything about her in the last sixteen years, it’s that she locks up tight as a drum when she’s keeping something to herself. She’ll tell me when she’s ready, and not a second sooner.

“Love you,” I say. “I’ll call you later.”

I end the call and flip through my phone to the text messages that Gabe has sent me during the last twelve hours.

Are you up? Let me know if you’re okay.

I’m really sorry that you found out like this. I was going to tell you.

When you’re ready to talk, I’m here.

Sadness prickles at me. My heart feels broken, but my head feels so foggy and tired that I don’t know what to believe. It seems like ample evidence that it’s not a good idea for me to be in a relationship, though—if a fling with an older man hurts this badly, why bother? I have the LSATs to think about, law school applications, my last year of college and my finances. I’m trying to build a career. A life.

When my mom showed me that story last night, and I saw the sign in front of his house, I felt—well, small.

Unlovable.

I brush away a tear, fluff my hair, and start my day.

Koffee Karma, the coffee shop where I work part-time, is in an old building on Vincent Street, with creaky wooden floors, local art everywhere, shabby armchairs, and bookshelves along the wall. My boss, Lily, recently decided to buy the space next door and expand it into a book shop. I love it here, and even when I’m not working, sometimes I come in to get out of the house while I study.

“Bunch of books coming in today,” I remind Sam. He’s a trainee, barely out of high school. “They’ll have us sign for it and then drop the cartons at the back door. You need to bring them in and sort them for shelving.”

Sam nods and adjusts his glasses. This is his first job, and he’s overwhelmed by the long list of tasks I’ve assigned him. He’s eager to learn, though, and I give him a reassuring smile as I finish running through everything.

“You’ll get the hang of it,” I say. “Just don’t let the books hang out behind the building for too long. They should be here pretty soon.”

Saturdays are always busy at Koffee Karma, and the line of customers continues all day. The breakfast rush turns into the lunch rush, and then a long line of afternoon shoppers come in to browse books while sipping one of our huge lattes. The crowds finally taper off for a little while around three. In two hours, we start serving beer and sandwiches, and we have a musician coming in for some evening entertainment.

“It’s slow now, so I think you can man the counter alone for a few minutes,” I tell Sam. “I’ll be in the back—I need to pull the kegs for tonight.”

I’m carefully scooting a cold keg out of the cooler when I hear a pop coming from the front, and a strangled yell.

“Sam?” I call. He doesn’t answer. I adjust my grip on the keg and continue rolling it to the front. When I get to the doorway, I stop dead.

Sam isn’t there.

Sam isn’t there because there’s a fire. Right in the prep area behind the counter. This building is over a hundred years old and made of wood, I think with rising horror. It’s going to go up like kindling.

Smoke billows toward me. I cough as the acrid plumes fill my nostrils. My eyes tear and I can’t see a thing through the thick gray cloud. I know there’s a fire extinguisher back here somewhere, but I can’t see well enough to find it.

I have to get out. I race to the back door and flip the deadbolt, pushing the door open to escape the smoke that’s quickly filling the whole space. The heavy door opens a few inches, and fresh, sweet air blows into my face. I push the door a little further.

And it stops.

I wedge my hand out the door to the wrist, feeling as far as I can. My fingers graze something. Cardboard, I realize.

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