Fireproof (10 page)

With his Fire/Rescue shirt hanging loose over his navy blue shorts, he began applying dabs of gel to his spiked hair. It took work, took time, but it was this attention to detail that kept him in favor with the ladies. Sure, he carried some extra weight around his middle. And yes, his hairline was receding, but none of that could overcome the mesmerizing effect of his big baby blues.

He gave himself a wink.

Yep. Just like that, he'd been known to turn a woman to mush.

Or at least that's how he imagined it. Hadn't actually happened yet, but there was still time. He was only twenty-nine, just reaching his prime.

Alone in the locker room, he wiped the steam from the mirror and leaned in till he could see nothing but larger-than-life Wayne. He envisioned a girl on the other side of that glass, eyeing him, wanting him, but intimidated by his devastating good looks.

“Hey,” he said to his pretend partner. “You look
good
.”

He applied double dabs of gel and answered back. “Thanks. I try to take care of myself.”

He let the music move his hips.

He raised his elbows, looked left, looked right, bobbed up and down.

“You like this song?”

He toggled his eyebrows in response. “Oh yeah.”

He looked left, right, again.“You feel that?”Left, right, dip down, and back up. “It's called chemistry. And we got it.”

The music hit a sudden pause. With an exaggerated look at his reflection,Wayne dropped out of sight, all the way down to a crouch, then rose back up as the beat resumed. His legs were dancing, his hips shaking, and his eyes gazing deep into the mirror again. He nodded and gave what he hoped was a seductive smile, even though it looked a little, well . . . goofy.

“That's right,” he assured his imaginary girl. “Wayne won't leave you.”

He put all his energy into the music now, swiveling his head, bobbing, weaving, showing himself and his girl and the entire world that this white boy had some rhythm.

“Yeah,
boy
.”

The click of the door behind him brought the dancing to an abrupt halt. Back to normal. He could see through the glass Terrell entering the locker room, and already the short black man was shooting him a look of suspicion.

“Hey, man,” Terrell said. “You seen my bag in here?”

“No.”Wayne shook his head. “I ain't seen it.”

“All right. It's probably in my locker.”

Wayne applied toothpaste to his brush and waited for Terrell to turn the corner and head for the showers so that he could start dancing again. But why should he be embarrassed? No, Wayne wasn't embarrassed. It was just that the dance of love, the interplay between a man and a woman—that was private. Plus, he didn't want to give away any of his secrets. He'd rather save those for the real deal.

He winked at the mirror.

See, don'tcha worry. Wayne is back.

He double-checked that Terrell was out of sight, then cocked an eyebrow at the mirror. “Where were we?”

He picked back up where he'd left off, dancing, shooting eyes at himself, losing himself again in the dream of a relationship with an attractive woman.

“Ha-ha-
haaaa!
”

Wayne spun his head and saw Terrell peeking at him from around the shower-area wall, his face contorted by rowdy glee.

“Aww, c'mon, Terrell!”

“Woooo.” Terrell mocked his moves, gyrating arms and hips.

“That ain't funny! This ain't no show.”

Terrell doubled over, barely able to control his whoops and hollers.

“This is
me
time.”Wayne's voice cracked. “
Terrell
, where's my privacy?”

Still chortling, the other man stumbled out of sight. “Wayne, you too funny.”

Wayne saw nothing funny about it.

CAPTAIN CALEB HOLT and Lt. Michael Simmons were at a table in the kitchen area, with the lighting limited to one bulb over the stove. They'd eaten Chinese takeout earlier, and the rest of the crew was off watching TV in the living area. The station duties were complete, night was settling over the city of Albany, and they could only hope that nothing disastrous would happen on their watch.

“Forty days?” Simmons said. “Does Catherine know?”

“I'm not gonna tell her.” Caleb stirred his coffee with a pair of chopsticks. “If she wants to go ahead and file, that's up to her.”

Simmons hesitated. “Divorce is a hard thing, man.”

“Well, if it brings peace . . .”

“Caleb, you want the right kind of peace.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“You know what that ring on your finger means?”

“It means I'm married.” Caleb took a sip of the coffee.

“Yeah. But it also means you made a lifelong covenant—you were putting on
that
ring, while saying your vows.”

“Try telling that to my wife. She's not even wearing hers these days.”

“Really?”

“Not for the past coupla weeks.” Caleb shrugged. “Not that I care.”

“Yeah, it's hard to care when you're afraid of getting hurt. You know, the sad part is that when most people promise ‘for better or for worse,' they really only mean for the better.”

Caleb shifted in his seat. “Listen, Catherine and I were in love when we got married, but today . . . We're two very different people, all right? It's just not working out anymore.”

Simmons took a breath and looked around the table. He took hold of the salt and pepper shakers, hefting them for the captain to see. “Caleb, salt and pepper are completely different. Their makeup is different, their taste, and their color. But you always see 'em together.”

“Yeah?”

“So when you . . . Hold on just a second.”

Caleb pressed a fist to his lips and waited.

Simmons set the shakers down and scooted back in his chair to fetch something from a drawer. He came back with a tube of superglue.

“What're you doing?”

Simmons said nothing, simply ran a line of liquid down the side of the pepper container and attached the saltshaker to it.

“Michael.” Caleb stretched out his hand. “Hey, what'd you do that for?”

His friend pressed the two shakers together, letting the glue set, then held the joined pair up for observation. “Caleb, when two people get married, it's for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.”

“I know that. But marriages aren't fireproof. Sometimes you get burned.”

Simmons set his glue project on the table. He fixed his captain with a stern eye. “Fireproof doesn't mean that a fire will never come, but that when it comes you'll be able to withstand it.”

Caleb cleared his throat, shot a stern glare back, then snatched up the shakers.“You didn't have to glue them together.”He started to tear them apart.

“Don't do it, Caleb.”

“What?”

“If you pull 'em apart now, you'll break either one or both of 'em.”

This was ridiculous. Caleb saw what Simmons was up to now, and he didn't like it. He set the shakers back down—hard. He said, “I am not a perfect person, but better than most. And if my marriage is failing, it is not all my fault.”

“But, Caleb, I have seen you run into a burning building to save people you don't even know. Now you're gonna just let your own marriage burn to the ground.” Simmons punctuated this last remark with a swipe of the hand, as though taking out an entire building.

This confrontational attitude not only stunned Caleb, it angered him. What right did this man have butting into his personal business? They were coworkers, yes. Friends for the past five years.

But that gave Simmons no right to act like he had all the answers.

Caleb leaned across the table.“Michael, you are my friend, and I've allowed you to speak freely with me on this job. Don't abuse it.”

Simmons stared down, his eyes dark and unreadable.

Caleb stood and marched out of the room. He had a headache, and he still had a full night ahead. He hoped things would stay quiet so he could get a little sleep—assuming he'd be able to sleep at all.

HE WENT JOGGING the next morning after work, clearing his head by sweating out his frustration. As he rounded the bend on the return leg of a three-miler, he saw the postal truck pulling away from his house.

He stopped at the box. Collected the mail. And there it was, in a padded tan envelope, as promised by his father.

Well, let's see what good this'll do.

CHAPTER 14

C
aleb waited till he was in the house to rip open the envelope. Standing in the living room, he pulled out a small, brown-leather journal. Despite its small size, it had weight to it. Significance. It looked old enough to have been pulled off a shelf in King Arthur's court—an ancient relic, fit for old people. Just because it'd worked for his mother and father did not mean it would work for him and Catherine.

He flipped to the first page and read the title:

The Love Dare
.

With a quick perusal, he saw the entire book had been written in his father's hand. How touching. He propped himself on the arm of the couch and scanned the introductory section.

As he read, he imagined his father's voice.

My son,

This forty-day journey cannot be taken lightly. It is a challenging and often difficult process, but an incredibly fulfilling one.

If you will commit to a day at a time for forty days, the results could change your life and your marriage. Consider it a dare from others who have done it before you.

I love you,

Dad

Caleb was intrigued now. Figured it couldn't hurt to read on.

Day 1

The first part of this dare is fairly simple. Although love is communicated in a number of ways, our words often reflect the condition of our heart.

For the next day, resolve to say nothing negative to your
spouse at all. If the temptation arises, choose not to say anything. It's better to hold your tongue than to say something you'll regret.

“Be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry” (James 1:19).

Caleb was still perspiring, his pulse still up from his run, and he decided it was time for a shower. This book, this love thing, seemed like a well-intentioned gesture from his dad, but he couldn't imagine something so simplistic having any lasting effect.

“Say nothing negative . . .”

That was like asking him to stop breathing for a day. And even if he succeeded at holding his tongue, Catherine would be sure to take advantage and give him all the berating he could handle. It'd be like walking into a boxing ring with his hands tied behind his back.

Ding, ding, dinggg!

“And in one corner, we have Capt. Caleb Holt, a hero at his job
but a big whopping failure within the walls of his own home.

“And in the other corner, Catherine Holt, public relations director,
beautiful, tenacious, and never one to back down from a fight . . .”

Until now.

She wanted out. Those were her very own words.

AT 7:42 A.M. Caleb was heading out for another shift at the fire station. From the hallway, he heard Catherine pour herself a mug of coffee over the sink, then turn away as he entered. She was in a bathrobe, hair already done and makeup on. She'd be going to the hospital soon, and maybe she could do him a favor on the way.

He dropped his gym bag and a dirty uniform shirt on the bar. He pulled on his captain's jacket, hurrying, trying not to give her time to think before he presented his request—just two people, nothing more than roommates, taking care of business.

“Do you have time to take this to the dry cleaner's today?” he said.

Catherine's reply was sharp and immediate. “You'd think, after two days off, you would've already taken care of that.” She didn't even turn to look at him.

Caleb propped both hands on the counter, ready to go at it. Ready to tell her exactly what he thought of her attitude.

“Say nothing negative . . .”

In bed this morning, he'd decided this would be Day One, yet here he was, wanting to take that back already. Maybe he could start tomorrow,
after
giving her a piece of his mind.

“Say nothing . . .”

Okay, he could do this.

Caleb gripped the counter, rolled his neck, and held back the torrent of words that flooded his mind. At last, he shot an exasperated look at his wife's back, stuffed his shirt back into his bag, and stormed out the front door as she stirred sweetener into her drink.

Off to a great start.

CHAPTER 15

I
n the station, Caleb found five guys gathered at the meeting room table. They had open books, sheets of paper, and sharpened pencils. It was like elementary school all over again, except this was life-and-death knowledge at their fingertips.

Eric was saying, “If nobody's in the house, you pull cover lines to protect the houses on either side, then attack the fire through the front door.”

“Not bad.” Caleb moved to a covered cake dish on the counter. He took off the lid and started cutting himself a slice. “Just be sure to remember that when you're at a fire.”

“Hey, Cap'n,” Terrell said. “What's the story on that cake?”

“If you're not an officer, it's a dollar a slice.”

“For real?” Eric said.

Wayne rolled his eyes. “C'mon, rookie. You can't fall for everything.”

Caleb held up a coin. “Terrell, you tell me which hand the coin is in, and you can have as much cake as you want.”

Terrell stood and studied his captain. Caleb feigned to move the object from his left hand to the right, while both remained closed. He shrugged, waiting for a decision.

“It's in the other hand,” Terrell said.