Page 3 of Dear Firefighter Hero
“And rolling the hoses?”
“Yep.”
Rhodes's cell phone rings in his pocket. The smile that spreads across his face when he pulls it out and sees the name on the screen is only one of a man truly in love.
“Hey babe,” he says by way of answering before turning around and walking back towards the door.
I’m the only guy in the firehouse that doesn’t have a girl. And for a while, I liked the idea of being untethered. Having complete control of the remote to watch whatever I want or not needing to ask if I can hang out with the guys on a Tuesday night for poker was just a few of the reasons that came to mind when one of the girlfriends of the other firefighters tried to set me up with one of their friends. But after being surrounded by a firehouse full of guys in love has started to make me think I’m missing out on something.
I glance back down at the envelope in my lap, and I’m about to tear it open but stop when I hear some voices arguing on the sidewalk below.
“I can’t believe you,” I hear a woman say.
I peek over the edge of the roof and glance down. There are two women standing near the closed doors of the firehouse. One is a blonde in a flowing dress that looks more suitable for the humid North Carolina summer. While the brunette is dressed in long pants and a long-sleeved shirt. It’s as if she didn’t get the memo that it's summer and the humidity levels make it feel like you are breathing underwater.
“I said I was sorry.” The blonde throws her hands up in frustration. “I thought I was doing you a favor. You weren’t going to have the guts to send the letter, so I did it for you.”
“How did you even know who to send it to? I can’t remember who saved me that night.”
"I called the firehouse and asked who was working that night, and he was the only one that has light blue eyes. You are always talking about the guy with light blue eyes.”
Is she talking about me?I shouldn’t be listening to this conversation, but it’s the most excitement we’ve had around here since the rain started. And to be honest, I’m curious what this is all about.
The brunette holds her hand over her eyes and presses her face close to the glass window. I doubt anyone is working on the truck at this moment to see her.
“What are you planning on doing?” the blonde asks.
“I’m going to get the letter back.”
“And you think they are just going to hand it over to you?”
“Maybe. If I ask nicely,” the brunette responds but doesn’t sound like even she’s convinced of her plan.
I look down at the white envelope in my hand. I should give it back to her, but the curiosity about what she wrote is very tempting. Although I can’t imagine it’s too good if she’s going to all this trouble to get it back from me.
Who even writes letters anymore? I don’t know anyone who would go to all the trouble to write a letter and mail it out when an email or text message is just as effective.
"Now, where are you going?"
I glance back down to the street below. The brunette is walking away from the firehouse door but stops and turns around.
“Unless you put my name on it, then I didn’t sign the letter. Whoever that guy is, he’ll never know I wrote it. Besides, there’s not much I can do about it now. It was a stupid idea to come down here and think that I would get it back without someone asking a lot of questions that I’m not ready to answer.”
The blonde walks over to her. “Before you go to work, can I buy you a coffee to say I’m sorry?”
The brunette says something, but I can’t quite make it out—something something market.
I lean over the edge to try and hear what she’s saying but notice the Harper’s Market logo on her shirt. She must work there. I’ve been there a bunch of times since I moved to Knight’s Ridge last year. How have I never noticed her? Who is she? Why is she sending me a letter that now she doesn’t want me to read? I have so many questions, but I can’t exactly call down to the women and ask them what is going on.
I watch them walk away towards the center of town and with them the chance for me to do the right thing and return the letter. I flip the sealed envelope in my hands a few times. Even as I’m thinking about the fact that I shouldn’t open this, my finger slips beneath the folded flap and tears the envelope open.
Dear To Whom It May Concern,
I know that it sounds so formal addressing this letter the way I did, but I don’t know whose name to put because I never saw your face. I was one of the people you saved in the apartment fire on Wescott Avenue over a year ago. There are only a few things that I remember about that night, and you are one of them. It’s like my brain, through all the fiery chaos, found your blue eyes to focus on. You were the anchor that held me from losing myself to the overwhelming pain that nearly consumed me. How do you express your gratitude to someone who literally ran into a burning building to pull you out to safety? Simply saying thank you doesn’t feel like it’s enough, so until now, I've put off saying anything at all. I’ve focused a lot of the past year on healing my body, but it’s time to work on the mental and emotional journey of healing. It starts by taking the first steps in acknowledging my survival, but it's hard to move past it without asking the question of why I was survived, and others didn’t? It’s not fair to expect you to try and answer something more significant than the both of us, but the question still hangs over my head every day—and I still haven’t found an answer. I suppose I'll always be looking. But in the meantime, I want to say thank you.
Sincerely Yours,
Fire Girl
