Page 6 of Falling for my First Crush

I don’t know how long we paint, but by the time my canvas is filled with color and the music fades, I feel better; a lot better actually.

“Wow, that looks amazing,” Violet says, making me jump. “I love your use of color.”

“Uh, thanks,” I say. Her praise makes me self-conscious.

“Do you want to do another one?” she asks.

I wipe my hands off on the paper towel laid on the table. Picking up my phone, I gasp. “I can’t,” I say with a squeak. “I’m late for dinner. I have to get home asap.”

“Okay,” she says. “I’ll call you later.”

I wave to her as I take off. Even though I’m twenty-eight years old, being late for the weekly family dinner is still unforgivable on this one day a week. Even though I’m pretty sure I’ll get a talking to once I get home, I still feel good from my painting session. I can see why Violet loves art. Painting just that one picture gave me a sense of release and well-being that I hadn’t known was possible from something like art. I can’t wait to pick up a brush again.

Four

JOE

Iam still thinking about my coffee with Jackie the next day when I roll up to the fire station. The parking lot is an amusing sight - all of us own pick-up trucks. My own variation is silver. I'm still getting to know the other guys I work with, but the truck thing is at least one way we can bond.

Most of the guys at the station aren't even from Cranberry Creek. Trevor is the only guy in the department that I have hung out with outside of work up to this point. So many of my coworkers are part-time, that it’s hard to get to know them. I know I need to make more of an effort, but I'm not sure what to do about it.

Trevor and I went to high school together, so that has been a nice reconnection to make. Now that I saw Jackie at the hospital, I want to reconnect with the whole Moretti family. I wonder how her sisters will respond to knowing I’m back in town… especially Maia.

I’m still thinking about Maia as I walk into the station. Carson, one of the younger, newer firefighters, waves at me as I come through the side door. He’s in the kitchen making something. I can smell onions and garlic. My mouth waters, and then my stomach follows with a loud grumble. I hope he’ll have food ready soon. I can’t survive on crappy coffee for much longer. We all take turns cooking our meals here, and we each seem to have our own specialty. Mine is always something on the grill. I’m not much for knowing my way around the kitchen. That might be a goal in the future: learn to cook something inside.

“Hey man,” Elliot calls from the living room space.

So Elliot and Carson are on this shift with me. I forgot to check the schedule when I went off duty two days ago. Forty-eight hours on, forty-eight hours off. That’s how things are in this station. When I worked fighting wildfires out west, time off was more of a concept than an actual reality. I like the time I get to myself doing this local fire gig.

“Hey,” I call back, as I head to my locker to stash my things and settle in for the next two days. Getting used to the pace of a regular fire station has taken me a bit of time, but I finally feel like I’m getting in the swing of things.

There is another guy at the lockers when I get there, and I realize that we haven’t met before. He must be one of the part-timers. “Hi,” I say. “I’m Joe. I don’t think we’ve met before.”

“Adam,” he says, reaching out to shake my hand.

I wait for him to say something else, but when he doesn’t, I return to putting things away in my locker. This is where I get stuck with a lot of these guys. I know that I should say something to be friendly, but most of them are younger than me by five, six, even ten years. I don’t know what I really have in common with them. I’m not sure how old Adam is. He looks like he might be my age, but what am I supposed to talk about? Sports always seem like a safe bet.

“How about the Brewers this season, eh?” I offer.

Adam looks at me with apparent confusion. “What?” he asks.

I realize that he has earbuds in. Inwardly I sigh, but I try to maintain a neutral expression. Why is it so hard to break down walls here? I grew up in Cranberry Creek. This is supposed to be my home turf. And yet, I feel like a complete outsider. Maybe I’ve been away so long, that this being my hometown means nothing anymore. Or maybe I’m just too stuck in my head about it all.

“I was just bringing up the Brewers, nothing major,” I say with a shrug. “Sorry. I didn’t realize you were listening to something.”

A smile spreads across Adam’s face. “No man, my bad. I was actually just listening to their game,” he says. “So, what do you think of their chances this season?”

Luckily, I actually like baseball, and we fall into an easy conversation about the Brewers and their chances of getting to the World Series this year. It’s probably not that great this season, but we both have some hope. We’re still talking as the gong in the kitchen sounds, signaling that dinner’s ready. The gong is another quirk of this station that has taken some getting used to. It’s loud and tinny, which makes it both annoying and funny.

Carson has made Philly cheesesteak sandwiches, and they honestly smell so good that my stomach roars obnoxiously, like a beast. This elicits laughter from all of the guys, immediately relaxing the tension I struggle with, not knowing my coworkers as well as I wish I could. As we sit down at the table, I realize that I know most of the guys on this shift. Working out west, there were no part-time people. We were all on for weeks at a time. It was exhausting, but fulfilling. We bonded; we were a team…like a family, really. Frankly, if we weren’t a team, someone could end up hurt- or worse, dead. Here, though, there are a lot of part-time guys. It’s an all-male department, which feels outdated to me, but there just haven’t been any women who want to work here. As it is, they have all these part-timers, because they’ve been short-staffed.

A guy I think is named Julius says, “I had a date with that girl I was telling you guys about last week.”

Carson hoots. “The hot one?”

“Same one, yeah,” Julius says. “She was telling me that she’s a fourth generation Cranberry Creeker. That’s what she called herself. I asked her why they all stayed around here, and she seemed offended by the question.”

“Well, yeah,” I say. “Cranberry Creek knows how to hold on to people or draw them back. It inspires loyalty. You can’t trash talk that, man.”

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