After all, I do have a mountain of paperwork back at the station. With all the new construction, we have had a hard time keeping up on the certifications for fire safety. There are public safety seminars we should be giving a few times a year, not to mention dropping into the local grade schools and handing out those red plastic helmets to all the kids. Getting them excited about fire safety.
“No, you don’t have to set the barn on fire again,” I reassure Trigger, trying to sound more confident than I feel. “But we are going to be doing some more hands-on work.”
Stephan looks at me sideways.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he asks suspiciously.
“How do you get to Carnegie Hall?” I shrug as I walk away. “Practice, man, practice.”
Chapter 3
Olivia
The sun is like a big accusatory eyeball as it sets in the west. I trudge home, walking up the old-fashioned cobbled sidewalks as the intense light warms the left half of my face.
I glance in that direction. It looks like there is a fire or something going on out there, and the colors are all crazy and bright. A giant middle finger of smoke curls toward the middle of the sky. I keep plodding, one sandaled foot in front of the other. Clop clop.
Oh great. My landlord is home.
I can see him sitting on the front porch of the old Victorian home I live in. It is beautiful and grand, or it was before somebody split it up into four apartments. You can’t tell any difference from the front, though. The curving railing looks just as nice as all the other ones on the block. Roger does a decent job of keeping up with the complicated shrubbery and rose bushes, even if he is a rotten jerk most of the time.
In fact, I realize I don’t want to deal with his shit. Before he can see me where he sits on the wicker loveseat, I duck down the neighboring driveway and cut across the back lawn to take the driveway entrance instead.
I’m not avoiding him, exactly. Not any more than usual. But now that I am unemployed, I really need some time to think.
What the hell am I going to do without a job?
Well, obviously, I have to look for a new job.
My brain swirls. I probably should’ve finished my degree. Or maybe finished that personal trainer course. Or chef school. Anything!
It’s not that I can’t decide, it’s just that I never know if I’m doing the right thing. Should I spend four years getting a degree in something that won’t even exist by the time I am done? What if they teach me all the wrong computer languages?
My parents thought I should have been a nurse. Truthfully, I probably should’ve done it right out of high school. Now I feel like maybe I missed the boat. I could go to nursing school, but I would just be the old maid in the class, with a bunch of eighteen-year-olds showing me up, making me look bad.
Olivia, I tell myself, you have to come up with something. Not just excuses.
Flinging open the refrigerator door, I scowl and squint inside. I know it doesn’t matter how long I look in here, the contents are not magically going to change. A bunch of radishes. Some chicken, left over from a couple of days ago. A few slightly wilted greens. A package of refrigerated ravioli.
Yeah. It’s dinner. If I feel like cooking.
Shuffling over to the front window, I almost flip on the window air conditioner, but then realize Roger will instantly know that I am home. He will hear the machine and in a flash, show up at my door. I just know it.
So instead, I just flop onto the sofa and fling my arms and legs out to keep cool. My flip-flops tumble to the wood floor and lie there like abandoned ships. Whatever. I don’t care.
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
What am I going to do?
The heat is pretty intense. Late summer in Illinois gets really hot, and being on the second floor with all the windows shut is making this place incredibly uncomfortable. It has to be 95 degrees in here. I wonder if I could maybe open a window just a little bit?
As I shuffle to the front window, I hear the doorknob jiggle. My breath catches in my throat.
He wouldn’t just barge in here, would he? That’s crazy. He may be my landlord (and my stupid ex-boyfriend) but he can’t just barge into my apartment, right?
Still, the doorknob continues to jiggle, rattling in its cylinder. It’s the super old-fashioned type, and I don’t even think it is very sturdy. He could probably just snap the thing off in his hand if he wanted to.