Wax

Twenty Nine

Zales had tapped me on the shoulder and jerked a thumb towards the gym as soon as we got off and set up our gear for the next call. Probie stood behind her, over her shoulder with his head lowered. I nodded once.

We hit the treadmills after minutes of stretching. Probie on my right. Zales to my left. She didn't bother about small talk or opening with a casual attempt at 'what was up'—just jumped the gun like the person she was after starting up the machine at a speed of five miles per hour. I rang up a seven on my own.

"Bagel boy?" I heard her say, pausing at the nickname even though it was really the only thing I was expecting. My silence sort of confirmed it, and so she returned her gaze to straight ahead. Out the glass and onto the greens behind the fence.

Probie on my right was trying hard not to look like he was eavesdropping on our conversation but frankly, I couldn't care less. Vanilla wasn't some well-kept secret. And I was affected enough by what happened last night to have it show on my face. Either way, I wasn't sure if word had gotten around about that picture of me in chefs whites.

"I mean I've known you for five years, more or less, but spacing out like that—chief's not gonna let you off easy just because you're experienced. You know that, right? And yeah, you listen, Probie. 'Cuz what he did back there? That's dumb as fuck and you should never space out like that on a call. Bad example. Do not learn."

I turned to him. "She's right." And turned back. I caught Zales rolling her eyes.

The new guy cleared his throat. "I won't. But you don't look too good, sir. Maybe you'd like to swap roles with me for the rest of today? I could—"

"Woah woah woah," Zales slowed her treadmill to a walk, glancing over at Probie. "Look at you, all ready to replace this sucker! Plus, give it a month or two and he'd be Vance. Although technically you're still on probation until February so don't let your guard down, you got that? Do things right and before you know it, Cox is out of the game."

I blessed her with a middle, then gave Probie a nod of thanks, following up by turning him down. "Appreciate your offer, buddy. But I'll snap out of it." And then his shoulders sort of fell so I added that if it was exposure and experience he wanted, I didn't mind dropping him a couple of practical tips after dinner. He lit up.

"Yo a private lesson?! I mean uh. Of course, sir. I'd really appreciate that. Thank you."

They pretty much left me alone right after, deciding that I felt bad enough about spacing out in the middle of a call and that harping on the matter wasn't going to make me feel any better, so they dropped it all completely. Even over lunch and the next couple of calls, no one said a thing; and for the rest of the day, it was never brought up. Either Zales gave 'em a heads up about me not wanting to talk about it or they experienced some miraculous boost in reading minds and knew I wasn't in the state to talk.

I'd be lying if I said I wasn't thinking about him the entire day. What he was doing. How he was holding up in the office. It was in these pockets of time that he came back in to sit in my head. Him and his voice. And that look in his eyes. The one that cracked.

Probie and I were in the engine bay after dinner on inventory checks when we got a call for a small kitchen fire two streets down. I was dishing out verbal advice, tips and tricks and occasionally demonstrating with the equipment we had on hand and he wrote everything down on a notebook. We dropped it all and headed for the engine. Zales hopped into the driver's seat after gearing up.

On our way down, I felt my phone in the back pocket of my bunker pants. It wasn't supposed to be there—it's never going into the structure with me, for safety reasons—so I fished it out and stuffed it into a duffel bag that stays in the rig. The phone was vibrating when I did.