Page 25 of Forgotten Dreams

“Did you take her out on dates?” I ask, and he rolls his eyes. “Did you not kiss her?”

“We dated for two months while she was secretly in love with someone else,” he relays, and it whooshes through me. I can’t help but be angry. It makes me picture them together.

“Regardless, I’m not—we’re not—going there. It’s a line that I won’t cross.” My voice is tight.

“I’m sorry you feel like that,” he replies, looking down at his boots. “Really fucking sorry you feel like that because you drive me fucking crazy.” He advances toward me and stops when we both hear the front door open.

“Hey,” Theo states, coming to a stop when he looks at us, “was I interrupting something?”

“No,” I answer, “I was just leaving.” I give him one last look before walking out of the house.

I go to the bakery and grab a cup of coffee before heading to the post office and officially mailing the box out. My heart hammers in my chest the whole fucking time. One side of my brain tells me I shouldn’t be doing this, while the other side tells me this is what needs to be done.

I walk out, heading straight to the end of the street, and see the fire station. It’s different from the way it was pictured in the newspaper article. There was just one garage door, and now the one in front of me has two red garage doors.

Montgavin Fire Department is written across the building on top of two half-moon windows. I walk over to the fire station, pulling open the door to the brown brick building. An empty desk is on my left, and when I look to the right, the brown door opens, and a man enters. “How can I help you?”

“I was wondering if I could speak to your fire chief,” I say nervously. “If he’s available, that is.”

“Yeah, who can I say is here to see him?” He waits for me to answer him.

“My name is Sierra.” He nods at me before walking back toward the door. He’s gone for what feels like five years, but it gives me a chance to look at the pictures on the wall.

Pictures from when the fire station first opened to when they did the expansion.

The door behind me opens, and a man walks in. He’s wearing blue cargo pants, a blue T-shirt with Montgavin FD on it, and a handheld radio with a walkie-talkie on top of it. “Sierra?” he asks, and I nod. “I’m Hudson.” He extends his hand to me.

“Hi, Hudson.” I shake his hand. “Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”

“I can talk to you as long as we don’t get a call.” He smiles.

“Thank you so much,” I reply nervously. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

“Sure.” He nods. “Follow me to my office.” He turns and walks down the hallway and then turns to enter an office. “Can I offer you something?”

“No, thank you.” I shake my head. “I don’t want to take up much of your time.”

I sit in a chair in front of his desk as he puts the radio on top of the desk and then folds his hands together. “I didn’t think I would be this nervous,” I mumble as I open my purse and take out the folded newspaper. “Twenty-five years ago,” I tell him, “I was left here in a box.” I swallow down the lump that forms and blink the dryness away. “I was hoping you would be able to tell me who the fire chief was at that time.” I hand him the paper, and he takes it from me. His eyes go big when he realizes I’m the kid in the picture.

“Wow,” he reacts, “this story is legendary.” He shakes his head. “It is even in one of the photos we have hanging in the area where the guys eat.”

“Well, here I am,” I say, swallowing. “I’ve decided I’m going to look for my birth parents.” His eyebrows pinch together.

“Usually, when they give them up like that—” I hold up my hand to stop him from talking.

“I know, trust me, I know. But I just”—I lift my shoulders—“I just have a couple of questions for the chief or even some of the firemen who were here that night on duty. I was wondering if there was any contact information for any of them that you can give me. Even a name and I can do it myself. The paper didn’t really say much except I was Jane Doe and I was hours old.”

“I can’t give you that, but what I can do is call him and see if he’ll come down and speak to you.”

“I’ll take anything,” I say hopefully. “Anything he can give me I’ll take.”

“Okay, give me a couple of minutes.” He gets up, grabbing the radio and walking out of the room. I pick up the newspaper article he left on his desk, folding it and putting it in my purse. I put my hands on my knees, moving my feet up and down nervously as I wait for him.

He comes back and looks down at the floor, and my heart sinks. “I’m sorry,” he says to me. I let out a sigh and a tear escapes the corner of my eye, and I quickly wipe it away. “He’s gotten to the age where he’s extremely grumpy.” He tries not to laugh, and I can see pity in his eyes.

I get up, not willing to take pity from anyone. “Thank you for trying.” I exhale. “I’ll get out of your hair.” I turn to walk away but stop. “Can I leave you my name and number if he changes his mind? Or if you talk to any of the other men who were on duty that night, and they don’t mind talking to me, they can always get in touch with me.”

“Of course,” he agrees, turning and handing me a pen and paper. I lean down, writing my contact information before turning and handing it back to him. “I’ll see what I can do.”

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