Page 153 of Light My Fire

I text Jackson back.

Bruce is the second cutest thing in that photo.

God, I want to hear all about his day, the training, Bruce. Jackson is so into this and I love it. I love seeing him get invested and excited about building something he’s proud of and passionate about. The training program and the facility he’s building are going to be amazing.

He sends me a line of heart eyed emojis.

How’s your day going?

And see? That’s sweet.

It’s also a little frustrating. Because they all three ask me that. Which is lovely. Nice. I believe they all really want to know.

But then I end up texting them all the same thing.

One night I cut and pasted the same message to all three of them.

And I felt guilty as hell after I sent it. Who cuts and pastes their interactions with their boyfriend?

A girl with three boyfriends and a very busy work schedule.

But not having a lot of time or mental energy is no excuse.

I’m not being a very good girlfriend to any of them.

Multiplying the guilt and the missing them—and the phone calls and texts and dates that have been put off—by three is justa lot.

And it’s starting to make me feel really bad.

“There you are! Need you out here,” Tammy, the vet tech, says, poking her head into the break room. “You know, where the animals are?”

Tammy doesn’t like me.

“Yeah, sorry, I’m coming.”

I stash the notebook in my bag and shove my phone into my pocket.

For the next two hours, I’m busy helping give shots to a new litter of kittens, doing a dental exam on a Great Dane, helping remove stitches, helping put stitches in, and listening as one of the doctors has to deliver news about cancer in a couple’s ten-year-old poodle, then listen to a family worry about affording the diabetes medication for their miniature Schnauzer.

By the time I am walking a little girl and her newly adopted cat back to the front, I am feeling the emotional toll. I know this is part of the job and I am prepared for it. But I also know that veterinarians have some of the highest job stress of any profession.

I’m saying goodbye to Haley and her cat Snickers when something on the television in the corner of the waiting room catches my attention. I look up at the screen.

There are firetrucks lining what looks to be the street outside of a warehouse. There are police cars and other emergency vehicles as well. The banner across the bottom of the screen says there was a bomb found in the warehouse.

My heart feels like it turns over in my chest. I look at the receptionist, Kelsey. “Can you turn that up?” I ask.

“Sure.” She points the remote at the screen and the sound comes up. I listen for a moment, getting caught up on the story. Apparently, a disgruntled ex-employee planted the bomb. The bomb squad is working on it now. The guy is in custody.

But of course, no one is talking about the firefighters. And no one is saying the name Wyatt Doherty or Luke Moody.

I pull out my phone and send a text to Jackson.

Do firefighters always get called to bomb threats?

His response comes quickly, thank god.

Often, yes. They don’t handle the bombs though. They’re there in case anyone needs medical attention or in case, you know, the bomb goes off.

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