Page 19 of The Troll’s Summer Flame

“You need to rehydrate,” I point out.

“Who’s the nurse here, genius? I’m sure I used protection, too, before you ask. I don’t remember it, but I’m sure I would have. With Keith. Kevin. Karl. I think it starts with a K.”

“Sounds like an amazing trip. I’ll let you and Mr. K sort out breakfast and the hair of the dog,” I whisper.

“Wait, why’d you call? Are you flying out?”

I hesitate. “No. No, I’m not. I called because I wanted to talk to you. I had a date.”

“What? You were moaning that the only eligible men you met were divorced dads, and they were very much off the radar.”

“I met a hunky fireman. With size nineteen shoes.”

“Firemen? Never, ever date a cop or a fireman. Understand?”

“Why?”

“It’s a rule. Nurses shouldn’t date the hot guys who come into the ER.”

“I’m not a nurse, I’m a teacher, and he didn’t meet me at the ER, he saved Chopin from a tree. We went bowling and to this cute little outdoor market. He bought me candlesticks and fudge. He’s coming over tonight. I’m going to make pandesal and chicken adobo. I think. Or, I could go with Dad’s favorites, and make scrambled egg sandwiches,” I tease.

“Just don’t date someone because you’re in your feelings about not being on the trip. Don’t sleep with some stranger.”

“Uh. Girl. I know your brain is marinated—possibly pickled, at this point—but you just slept with some stranger.”

“I know. But I’m on vacation.”

“You have dumb double standards when you’re drunk. How are Danica and Shane?”

“I hope they’re better than me.”

“I hope so, too. Call me later if you want.”

“Will. Love you.”

“Love you.”

Suddenly, I’m okay about missing the vacation.

Mostly.

“C’mon, cat,” I grab Chopin from the edge of the dresser and head to the piano. “Music, then groceries.”

“What are you doing?”

“Signing off on the 4th of July safety inspection for the high school field. Did it this morning with Mr. Joe, and I made sure someone is scheduled to take the pumper truck over a few hours before to douse everything, just in case.”

“I mean, what’s that racket?” Sunderland comes over to the on-duty desk where I’m sitting in a too-small chair, going over duty rosters and 4th of July plans.

“That racket is Chopin.”

“I’ve never heard you listen to music. Ever.”

I shrug. “Not a big music guy.”

My mother hated human music. We didn’t have a radio, but we would hear it from passing cars. Human music was like listening to cows and pigs squealing, she said. Listening to your dinner talking. Then my father would glare at her, explaining how that’s how trolls were killed, by angry humans, how humans had guns now, and trucks to chase us in and run us down, and how other meat was safer to get, and couldn’t call for help. How blood on our hands caused us to be trapped in the night, and that’s why trolls were poor and vicious.

“That music teacher turn you on... to this kinda music?” Sunderland leaves the pause dangling just a breath too long to see if I get riled. Old cuss. He knows how to rankle me, something very few others can claim.