Page 1 of Grouch-ish

Chapter 1

[Brock]

“I’m giving you a leave of absence.”

What? My battalion captain could not be serious but his narrowed eyes glaring at me from the other side of his firehouse office desk suggest he is one hundred percent in earnest.

“Is this a joke?” I still counter.

“You have a bad attitude.”

I do not have a fucking bad attitude.

“You’re angry.”

I don’t have anything to be angry about.

“Since the divorce . . .”

Okay, there is that.

“And your kids headed out.”

Well, there is not that.

“And then Nat.”

What the fuck? Now that’s just hitting below the belt.

“You need a break.”

“What I need is to work,” I bark, possibly giving evidence of that attitude he’s mentioning.

“It’s the holidays.” Battalion Captain Frank Klaus, rhymes with louse, continues.

Aw fuck. No . . .

“And, effective immediately, you’re on furlough until January 6.”

“Why the sixth?” That’s longer than the holidays. Why a furlough at all? It was one simple punch. We were horsing around. Dane and I are like that. Until he had to go shooting off his mouth, and bring up my ex-wife, who is marrying my former best buddy during said holidays.

I wasn’t angry. The divorce was roughly five years ago. I got nothing to be angry about. She made her bed, which happened to be our bed, that we’d slept in together, in our house, that we owned together.

Where I found her with Kenny.

Fucking Kenny of all people.

I swipe a hand over my short hair where new gray flecks appear every other day with all the changes in my life. Melissa leaving. Nick and Eleanor off to college. My younger brother Zebb getting married and having another kid in his forties.

Fuck me. That would be the last thing I’d want. I already have two kids. Two amazing kids. Top of Santa’s list for good kids.

But it’s been strange with them both gone. The house too empty. The nights too quiet.

Working for the Chicago Fire Department—CFD—has been my salvation. Work, and a glass or two of Jameson whiskey every night. Best Irish whiskey there is.

Maybe it was more than two glasses at O’Malley’s the other night. And maybe Dane and I got into that row in public. And maybe I shouldn’t have punched him for running his mouth.

“Because the sixth works with the retreat I’m sending you on.”