Now I feel restless. Like I need to go celebrate but have nowhere to go. Add to that, when I look at the clock, I realize that it’s only seven thirty in the morning. I awoke with a start at five o’clock, the lyrics I’ve been struggling with suddenly coming to me, demanding I write them down. Since Grady was on shift, I got up and decided to have a go at them.
I don’t care how early it is, though, I want to commemorate this small victory. Going to a bar before breakfast and ordering a celebratory drink isn’t exactly something most would approve of. I grin, picturing Petunia and me sitting at a high-top table together, and shake my head. Pigs probably aren’t allowed in bars.
Meaning the four-legged kind at least.
I have thirty minutes before Grady is off shift. Maybe I’ll drive into town and see if he wants to meet up for Bertha’s pancakes to celebrate. Syrup may not be wine, but at least it’s something.
Once cleaned up and with a quick dash of makeup on, I text Grady.
Me: Heading to Mama Bertha’s to celebrate with pancakes. Want to meet me there after your shift?
But when I reach Bertha’s café and still don’t have a response, I decide to head to the fire station in case he’s tied up on a call and ran over on his shift. I take the meandering route through the tree-lined neighborhoods of Sunnyville toward the firehouse.
I get a little lost, but right as I find my bearings at the stop sign on Cherry Blossom Drive and Willow Bend Street, a truck parked on the opposite side of the intersection grabs my attention.
It’s silver and has the firefighter emblem in the back rear window on the left-hand side. It’s either Grady’s truck or someone else in town has the identical truck complete with decal placement. It’s a possibility, but right when I’ve dismissed the idea, I see Grady on the porch of the house across the street.
I’m not sure why something calls on me to go through the intersection and park against the curb so I can watch, but I do. There’s something about Grady’s posture, about him dressed in his Class A’s, about him standing in a random front yard that demands my undivided attention.
I feel like I’m part stalker, part crazy ex-girlfriend and know I’m invading his privacy and should drive away, but I don’t. I sit there on the side of Willow Bend and watch as the little boy—Brody—from the farmers’ market comes running out and jumps into Grady’s arms.
My breath catches. The way Grady hugs him, as if he never wants to let him go, causes a huge lump to form in my throat. The way he buries his head in that place where little kids smell like little kids—the crook where his neck meets his shoulder—and breathes him in has my vision blurring with tears.
The two stay like that until Brody tries to wiggle away. Grady sets him down, and Brody pulls on his hand and leads him toward the front door where Shelby stands with one arm crossed over her stomach and the other elbow bent so her fingertips are touching her lips. The moment her son’s attention is focused on her, her face transforms with the smile that lights it up, but it’s as if a switch is flipped, erasing the grief there moments before.
A car door slams. Then another. Another truck has parked in front of Grady’s. Four more firefighters in their Class A’s climb out and shout animatedly at Brody as they cross the street. Each one high-fives Brody and then swallows him in a huge hug before setting him down and ruffling his hair. They then all walk over to Shelby and give her a kiss on the cheek or a hug in greeting.
Every part of me sighs seeing these gruff men being so sweet to this little boy and widow. To their extended family.
And before I know it, there are several more guys climbing out of their vehicles walking toward the house. My eyes swivel from the men to Brody and back again.
The yellow school bus lumbers down the street ever so slowly. The Star Wars backpack Shelby is holding in her hands looks way too big for Brody. The eight adults walking Brody down the driveway and waiting at its edge. I finally get it.
It’s Brody’s first day of school.
I bring my hand to my mouth as the school bus pulls up to the curb in front of Brody’s house. Each firefighter lines the sidewalk so Brody has to give them a high five as he makes his way to the opened school bus door. Some do a spin and make him guess where to hit their hands. Others kneel down and give him an easy target. Bowie stands there with a camera, taking photo after photo as Brody interacts with each one of them. They all have reassuring smiles on their faces as he passes them. And when he gets to the end of the line, Grady is standing there, grin huge, hug even bigger, before he helps Brody slip his backpack on his shoulders. He then kneels down and gives him what looks like a man-to-man chat that simultaneously breaks my heart and fills it.
Then Shelby steps in and gives her own pep talk to Brody before she takes his hand and walks him to the door of the waiting bus. The guys erupt in a roar of cheers and excited waves as they wait for him to take his seat at the window. At their second wave of cheers, I assume Brody waves back, and it keeps going until the doors shut and the bus slowly makes its way to the intersection.
Shelby watches the bus make the turn, and from the time it passes between us, blocking my view of the firefighters on the driveway, to when it clears, Grady has stepped forward and now has his hand on her shoulder in a show of silent support.
But then her shoulders shake.
And her hand comes up to cover her mouth as the bittersweet feelings the day has evoked barrel through her. Grady tries to pull her into him for a hug, and she fights him at first, determined to stay strong. But he wins out. The minute he envelops her in his arms, her shoulders sag as her arms wrap around him and hold on for dear life.
It’s then that my heart breaks. If I thought I was emotional before, dear God, I was wrong. The tears don’t stop. The small taste of the personal torment Grady lives day in and day out has hit me squarely in the solar plexus so hard I wonder how he breathes most days.
And yes, I’ve peeked long enough into this life that is not mine, but this moment seems so much more personal than watching them high-five Brody.
I can’t take my eyes off them. I can’t stop my mind from spinning and turning. I can’t look at Grady anymore—or at the group of men who made time to see a little boy off for his first day of school—and lay the sins of my father at their feet.
How I ever thought Grady was anything like my father is beyond me . . . because after what I just witnessed—after every bit of heartfelt kindness he’s shown me—they are nothing alike. Not even close.
It takes me a few seconds to accept the revelation. To reverse years of conditioned thinking. But it’s really not that hard because firefighter or no firefighter, Grady Malone just proved to me he’s in a class all his own. He’s a man worth so much more than I pegged him for.
And after a few minutes more of watching them, I put my car in drive and pull away from the curb as Grady and Shelby stand there, finding a solace in each other from a pain that may never be cured.
I drive.
In an endless loop through town.
Off to Miner’s Airfield, where I sit on the side of the highway and watch the parachutes exploding against the blue of the sky. I’m sure my sister-in-law, Emerson, is up there somewhere, directing the jumpers in her skydiving class.
Then again, maybe she isn’t.
Maybe Grant has put his foot down since she’s pregnant and is not allowing her to do it anymore.
How do I not know if that’s happened when I typically know everything about my brothers? Am I that out of touch? Have I really cut myself off from my life? Have I really been so damn focused on myself, on the guilt, that it’s all I’ve been able to see for the past however long?
“Christ,” I mutter and lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. All I see is Brody and his infectious smile. All I hear is his whispered words in my ear, asking me if I thought his daddy knew it was his first day of school. All I know is how fucking hard it was to hold back the tears and pretend everything was perfectly normal
when inside I was dying.
And is it sadder than fuck that right now I’m out here at Miner’s when every part of me wants to text Dylan back and say screw the damn pancakes, I only want her.
But I didn’t. Not even I’m that much of an asshole.
If I went home and did what I wanted to do to her to ease my own fucked-up head, I’d be using her. Using her to make it through the next day. The next night. The next everything.
The kicker? We both know she’d give it to me. It’s the kind of beautiful she is. But then what? She leaves and feels more used than Jett made her feel, and I’m left needing more, still broken, still spiraling.
I start the truck and pull out of the airfield, telling myself I’m going to hit the gym and work out until Brody’s first day is over so I can check on him and see how it went. But for some reason, my truck doesn’t head there. Instead, my hands take the familiar turns back to my house. Left on Hollister. Right on Danville. Left on Prosperity. And then the long drive to my house.
I sit in the truck and stare at it for the longest of time. What would it be like to come home every day to the same woman? To Dylan?
To have a family. A little boy like Brody with inquisitive eyes and a quiet smile. Or one like Luke, who’s loud and rowdy and likes to cause trouble but has a good heart. What would it be like to come home every day after shift and have them run and jump in my arms like we used to with my dad?
Christ. What the fuck am I thinking?
I shift in my seat and feel the stretch of my scarred skin on my back and know that’s the crazy talking. The crazy that will never be. Can’t be.
Could I really put a wife and kids through what Shelby and Brody go through every day?
No.
Does lightning strike twice? What are the odds of walking into a fire and being hurt twice?
Slim.
Christ. I repeat what seems to be my word of the day and sigh.
Then I get out of the truck and head inside. I have every intention of walking in, heading for the shower, and crashing. While we didn’t have any fires last night, we did keep busy with non-stop medical calls, and I’m exhausted.
But when I open the door, Dylan’s standing in the middle of the kitchen, eyes wide, smile soft.
“Hey.”
“Hey.” I take a seat on one of the kitchen chairs and without another word, pull her into me. I rest my forehead against her abdomen and squeeze my hands on her hips.
She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t ask. She just threads her fingers through my hair and rubs my scalp as I take whatever it is I need from her without her needing to know why.
We remain like this for some time, with me breathing her in, and Dylan selflessly giving me the comfort I need.
“It was Brody’s first day of school.”
“Hmm.”
“I played the part of dad.” My voice is barely audible, but the kiss she presses to the top of my head says she heard me.
“I saw you,” she murmurs, and her confession surprises the hell out of me. “I was wandering, wasting time until you texted me back . . . I saw you guys. You broke my heart and made it whole all in one fell swoop. I owe you an apology. You’re nothing like my dad. You’re a good man, Grady Malone. A damn good man.”
“Not hardly.”
“Maybe if I say it enough times, you’ll start to believe it.”
That means you’ll have to stick around.
The thought ghosts through my mind, and I realize I want her to stay. For so many reasons.
But all of those reasons are overshadowed by what I had to do today.
By the constant reminder of why I can’t have more.
Why I can’t want more.
Why she can’t stay.
Why she needs to forget everything and run.
“I know that look.”
I glance over to Emerson. “What look?”
Desi laughs that cackle of hers. “The I’ve fallen for a Malone man and I can’t get back up look . . . although, I’m not sure why you’d want to if one of them have fallen on top of you.”
“I have not fallen for a Malone man. I’m with Jett—”
“Such bullshit.” Desi laughs. “You so have and your secret is safe with me.”
“You two have had too much to drink and are now hallucinating.” I laugh and try to play off the raised eyebrows she’s giving me—the ones that are saying she knows the truth but won’t tell—as another round slides in front of us.
“Pregnant woman here,” Emerson says and points to herself. “Not drinking.”
“Then pregnancy brain,” I reassert.
“You are such a liar,” Desi scoffs. “You’ve seen Grady, right? All ripples and perfection and—”
“I’ve seen him, all right,” I murmur as I take a sip and think about yesterday. Grady coming home from being dad on Brody’s first day of school. The silent desperation in his every movement and expression. The way he held me, pulled me in, and didn’t take his hands off me until a long time later when we were naked beside each other in his bed and his breathing evened out.
“She’s fucked him.”
I’m not sure what else was said while I was thinking of all things Grady, but those three words definitely catch my attention. “Excuse me?” I sputter out a laugh.
“It’s written all over that face of yours,” Emerson says.
“Dreamy eyes,” chimes in Desi. “Check.”
“Squirming in your seat because . . . just damn.” Emerson sighs and then winks. “Check.”
“You guys are incorrigible.” I shake my head.
“We might be, but you know it’s true.”
“Double check,” I finally confess, garnering a holler from Desi.
“I have a million does-he-know-how-to-use-his-hose jokes I can throw at you, but I’ll spare you,” Desi says as she taps her wine glass to mine. “Just tell me one thing . . .”
“Oh God.” Emerson puts her hands over her eyes, worried about what comes next.
“Does he find you hot and leave you wet?” Desi throws her head back and laughs as I roll my eyes. She slaps a hand on the table. “I’ve always wanted to ask that.”
“Hey, Desi,” I say as I crook my finger for her to come closer. “You know what they say about firefighting, right? It’s all about the size, the equipment, and the technique . . . I’ll vouch that Grady’s the total package.”
“Well, hot damn. At least there’s one Malone man left. I still have hope.”
“Grayson is so not your type,” Emerson says.
“For the night he could be.” She lifts her eyebrows and laughs.
“Who’s gotta go pee? This prego,” Emerson says and raises her hand.
“C’mon,” Desi says as she slides off her own stool. “I’ve gotta go, too.”
I watch the two of them weave through the bar toward the bathroom as I play with the stem of my wine glass. This is just what I needed.
“Management says you’re not allowed in here for another week,” the bartender at my back says.
“I didn’t start shit,” a voice says, and I hate that every part of me hunches over to hide. It’s Wes Winters. The last time we saw each other, he was making an excuse as to why he couldn’t get hard and rabbiting out of Grady’s house. The night of reckless sex Grady said I needed to have in order to get over Jett ended up an embarrassing catastrophe.
But at least I got the good end of the stick. I smile and straighten my shoulders. I’ve got Grady Malone. Does Wes really even matter anymore?
Desi and Emerson come back and are getting seated when something is said that gets all of our attention.
“Why are you not allowed in here?” a male voice asks.
“Because of that asshole, Grady Malone. The fucker took a shot at me a few weeks back,” Wes says, and I can see Emerson slide a glance over to her side to see who is speaking.
“Malone? He’s usually chill. Why’d he have a beef with you?”
“He didn’t like
the truth.”
The three of us look at each other, and suddenly, there is a pit of dread dropping into the bottom of my stomach. Like I want to turn this show off but can’t stop watching it, either. Because the only tie that connects Wes to Grady is me.
“The truth?” the friend says and laughs. “You’re worse than an old lady, Winters. Quit beating around the bush. What the hell happened?”
“Malone got all fired up because he overheard me talking about his roommate. Shit, I had beer goggles on when she asked me over to her place, and once I got there, I couldn’t fucking follow through. I’m all about getting laid, but even a drunk man has standards, and she . . . dude, you know me. I like ’em petite, and she’s definitely not petite, if you know what I mean.”
My cheeks grow red and heat flushes my entire body as Emerson and Desi give me the dreaded look of sympathy. Every part of me wants to crawl under the table and die from humiliation.
“That’s cruel,” the friend says.
“But it’s the truth,” Wes jokes in a boisterous voice. “So he threw a few punches to defend her honor and then probably went home and gave her a good pity fuck until someone better-looking comes along.”
I lower my eyes and stand slowly.
“Don’t listen to him.”
“He’s a prick,” they both say in unison, but I lift my eyes and meet both of theirs. “It’s okay. Please stay. I’m gonna go.”
And with that, I slink quietly out of the bar, mortification skewing my every thought and self-loathing at an all-time high.
I walk the streets of downtown Sunnyville. Each step another thought I shove away. Each street crossed another attempt to hide the heat of the tears coursing down my cheeks. Each house I pass, a way to evade the mortification that I’m slowly drowning in.
And each foot up Grady’s driveway is another stick prodding my shame to morph into anger and irrationality.
I haven’t thought of what I’m going to say to Grady, but the minute I walk in the door, I freeze. He’s sitting at the barstool bringing a spoonful of Cheerios to his mouth, and it stops mid-motion when he sees me.