Page 37 of The Fire We Crave

“I’m fine, Butcher.”

He shakes his head. “I know you want to be. I know you will be. I know you’re faking it right now so you can keep ahold of some sense of normalcy. But everyone around here knows you aren’t.”

Maybe that should have been my answer to his question.

Yes, Butcher. I’m a fucking mess, but trying to pretend I’m fine is helping.

But is it?

I’m not one hundred percent sure.

“I’m handling it, Prez.”

Because admitting I’m not isn’t going to help the spiral I’m in.

Butcher takes a slow and measured sip of his whiskey. “You’re handling it the best you can. We’re all really fucking proud of you, Smoke. But the club wants you to know that we’re here for you. No judgment about whether you can handle this alone or not. No judgment if you decide you can’t. But we can’t help if you don’t tell us what you need.”

The precipice I’m standing on is steep. I can’t see the bottom of the jump. Feels like clouds are blocking my vision, and I’ve got no idea if it’s safe to jump or not. Butcher is telling me it’s safe to admit I’m not feeling whole right now.

But what if I do?

Does he temporarily take my road captain patch? What if I lose that bit of my identity too? I’m already quitting being a firefighter, a smoke jumper.

And yet, the idea of closing my eyes and allowing myself to free fall, to see what’s on the other side of those clouds…

It’s tempting.

Even the thought that it could be death doesn’t scare me. In fact, right now, that sounds really fucking peaceful.

An end to the guilt and shame and dreams.

I choose hanging out on the ledge and throw back the rest of my whiskey. “Understood, Butcher.”

Uncertain of where to go next, I head to my bedroom here at the club. When I unlock the door, it’s as tidy and orderly as I left it. Sure, the surfaces are a little dusty, and I should get around to cleaning that.

But lying down onto the clean bedding I had Karlie put on for me, even as I wince when I lower myself down, is a blessing.

On the wall at the foot of my bed are four framed photographs. My folks, who live in Florida now and who I rarely see. My brothers at a cookout. Me on my bike in a cool photo Atom took at Sturgis five years ago. And me and my team at the end of our last fire last season.

And I’m tempted to deal with the pain across my ribs, just to get up so I can smash them all.

I reach for the bottle of Jack I keep on the nightstand and take a swig.

And another swig.

And another swig.

And another swig.

And I keep drinking until the world starts to spin.

Until I fall asleep.

“Smoke.” I hear Atom’s voice in the distance.

I begrudgingly attempt to open one eye. It’s impossible.

My head lolls to one side as I try to move.

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