Page 1 of Falling for Red
1
Tuesday, July 1st
“Ican’t leave work right now,” I tell the daycare attendant and tighten the grip of my phone. Glancing at the handful of happy hour regulars, I add, “I’m the only one at the bar.”
Tuesdays at High Five, a reformed small town dive bar in Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, are never slammed. This place is welcoming with newly renovated wood floors and a cozy vibe. It’s what drew me in to apply. When I’m bartending, the music is always low, so I don’t have to yell over it. My noon to six shift has a nice flow, making it worth my time. I can run the place all by myself as long as no one decides to be an asshole.
“She has a fever.” The attendant’s voice is insistent because yes, I know. If you have a fever, you have to go home. Gabby rarely gets sick though. Closing my eyes, I shake my head at the impossible situation.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” I sigh loudly, leaning against the wood bar. It’s a little after four now. Hopefully, one of the other bartenders can come in early.
I dial Aaron Olson, the manager, silently praying.
“Hey, what’s going on?” he answers, his voice laced with concern. I’ve never called him about needing to leave work early, but I understand the unease in his voice. The only time I call Aaron during my shift is to tell him about an incident—like a drunk throwing a punch.
“Gabby has a fever. I need to pick her up.”
“Of course.” There’s a pause, and then he says, “I can be there in a few minutes.”
Exhaling, I feel a rush of gratitude. I’m lucky to be working in a place that gets it—that people have lives. Everyone in Wisconsin is nice, definitely nicer than the people I’ve worked with in Chicago.
“That’s—”
The screech of a fire alarm cuts me off, piercing through the bar’s noise. A collective gasp ripples through the crowd as people start looking around.
“What’s going on?” Aaron’s voice is faint over the blaring sound.
“I don’t know!” I yell back, not seeing anything out of the ordinary, but then I smell the scent of smoke. My gaze darts around the bar. If there is a fire, maybe it’s in the bathrooms? I round the corner of the bar to investigate. Since I began working here, that’s happened a handful of times—people smoking in the bathrooms.
“Shit!” I scream after yanking open the women’s bathroom door. One of the garbage cans is ablaze. Flames are climbing up the wall.
I hang up on Aaron and frantically dial 911. My hands shake as I turn on the sink and dampen a wad of paper towels, tossing them into the fire.
“911. Where’s your emergency?” a woman’s voice asks.
“There’s a fire at High Five, the bar on Main Street,” I shout into the phone, my breath coming in ragged gasps. The heat is oppressive, and panic grips my chest as the flames grow.
Fire extinguisher!I drop my phone on the bathroom sink and sprint back to the bar where we keep one. I can’t wait for help; I need to put out this fire now.
2
“Time to shine,” I shout to the guys, adrenaline already kicking in. A real fire. Not a cat in a tree or something small—an actual fire. In the station, we suit up fast.
“Let’s go, January,” I tease the oldest member of our crew while pushing back my blond hair and putting on my fire helmet. He’s still tying his boots, and the rest of us are ready to go. I don’t want to be like him, fighting fires when I’m approaching fifty, but I love this job and serving the community.
“I’m moving, August,” he shoots back, and I chuckle. Ever since our calendar fundraiser, these new nicknames have taken hold.
“September, December, January.” I nod at the guys as they pile into the truck. “Two minutes out,” I call over the radio, stepping in. The truck zooms down the quiet small-town streets, sirens blaring.
High Five. My buddy’s bar. Everyone in this town has at least one good and one regrettable memory at High Five. It’s a staple here in Lake Geneva, and Nicholas has kept the charm while pouring money into renovating the place since he bought it last year. We can’t let it burn down.
As we pull up, a crowd has already gathered outside. A dozen or so people are standing around the brick building, and all eyes turn to us. I jump out. “Anyone inside?” I shout.
“Claire,” a guy says.
Claire?Why the hell is someone still inside?
We move quickly, rushing into the bar. It’s eerily quiet, the stillness feeling wrong for a place like High Five. Most nights it’s impossible to find a bar stool. I spot smoke in the back corner and gesture to the guys. Without words, we head toward it. Pushing open the bathroom door, I spot her—red hair falling around her face, sitting next to an overturned trash can, a fire extinguisher still in hand. The can is covered in that familiar white, chalky powder.
