Page 15 of Book and Ladder
“What do firemen do on their days off anyway?” Winona asks.
“Depends on the fireman, I guess.”
I’ll be recording a few episodes of my podcast, but that’s nothing I’m sharing with Daisy and her friends.
“That makes sense. I know what I’d do,” Winona says.
“What’s that?” I ask.
“Anything that didn’t have to do with fire. I’d probably even eat cold sandwiches just so I didn’t have to turn on the stove.”
I chuckle.
“Well, have a good day off,” she says, smiling broadly.
Cass smiles at me. Daisy most definitely does not.
Her disregard shouldn’t land a punch, but my jaw clenches anyway.
Back home with my coffee, I reread my last email to M&M. Online correspondence from listeners is pretty regular. I don’t always respond right away. Her message was one I needed to hear after this week’s family dinner—affirmation that my podcast not only hits home, but it’s her favorite. And she resonated with my commentary on loneliness.
She hasn’t answered my last email yet.
My side of the duplex is just the right kind of quiet on a weekday morning. Still, I sequester myself in the walk-incloset in my downstairs guest bedroom. The room serves as an office for my podcast, and the closet has just the right acoustics for recording. My rudimentary setup consists of a pop mic clamped to a wooden tray table, a folding chair, and a whiteboard filled with notes and Post-its.
I scan the board and remove the one with the awesome quote on loneliness:
The most terrible loneliness
is not the kind that comes
from being alone,
but the kind that comes
from being misunderstood.
- George Orwell
Some Post-its have notes about grief, others hold my thoughts about Darcy.
I open my laptop and begin recording my next episode, the one M&M gave me the unofficial green light to publish.
I start with my rehearsed opener: “Welcome to Burning Through the Pages where we talk all things books: tropes, themes, characters and pretty much whatever I want to discuss about the stories you love to read.”
My voice is softer than normal—my mouth close enough to the live mic that I feel the warmth of my own breath. I loosen my spine, drop my shoulders and breathe rhythmically, knowing I’ll edit out any irregularities or bursts of air in post-production.
“I’m probably going to regret this,” I confess into the mic. “But against my better judgment, I’m taking on Mr. Darcy. Hear me out.”
I lay out my case: his stance on male superiority, hispersonal arrogance, and the way he played hard-to-get—all major red flags.
I’m expanding on my first point when a sound at the front of my apartment makes me pause.
I still, listening intently.
Yep. That’s my front door.
Being a firefighter has taught me lightning reflexes—but I’ve probably never moved as quickly as I’m moving, clapping my laptop shut, shoving it and my mic in a drawer, turning my whiteboard around, and collapsing the chair. My heartbeat is nearly audible.
