“What I’d really love is a glass of wine, but that’s frowned upon since I’m pregnant and all.” She laughs, and yet I can hear the adoration in her voice over her impending baby.
“Damn doctors.” I roll my eyes and take a seat across from her again. “What can I do for you?”
“I have something for you, hot off the presses and I thought you might want to see.”
“What are you talking about?”
There is a mischievous smile on her lips as she reaches into her monster-sized purse. “Did I mention to you one of my clients is Marcy Holden?” That gets my attention. “I stopped by her studio to book some pregnancy photos—that I’m sure Grant will bitch about having to take with me—and she happened to get her first shipment of these in. She thought that since I’m Grady’s sister-in-law and everything that I might swing some by the station. So I did. But not before I grabbed an extra to bring to you.”
She pulls the calendar out of her purse, and for some reason I’m hesitant to look at it. I’m nervous for Grady and how his photo turned out, considering how anxious he was.
“Have you looked at it?” I ask and then feel stupid when I see it wrapped in plastic.
“I figured I’d let you do the honors.”
I glance at her as I take it from her hands and slowly peel the wrapping off. The front cover is a picture of all twelve guys with their turnouts on, their jackets unfastened to reveal their shirtless chests underneath. If I may say so, the Sunnyville Fire Department has some hot firefighters. Grady’s smile is wide in the photo, and it’s more than obvious they were all laughing about something.
When I flip to the first page, both of our breaths hitch. It’s a picture of Brody in his dad’s gear. The uniform almost swallows him whole, but it’s the smile on his face and tears welling in his eyes that grabs my heart and doesn’t let go. And beneath his photo is a thank-you note for supporting the fireman’s widow fund.
Talk about a knife to the chest.
I lift the first page to January and laugh when I’m met with Bowie and his cheesy grin. He’s attractive in his own right, but I can’t get past picturing the silly antics of his. Dixon’s up next, and I’m impressed with how much the camera likes him. Emerson and I go through each month, making small comments here and there, but it’s when I hit August that the gasp falls from both of our mouths.
My first thought is Grady’s going to lose his mind.
My second thought is oh my God, that’s the Grady I know.
The image is in black and white. It isn’t of Grady in his turnouts, flexing his muscles. It isn’t him looking serious (and uncomfortably stiff) back at the camera. It’s of Grady looking back over his shoulder when the shoot was complete, relief in his eyes, and a genuine smile on that handsome face of his.
It was when he was looking at me.
Marcy captured the moment perfectly. The authenticity of it. The emotion in Grady’s eyes, and the pleasure in his smile.
And his burns.
They are part of the picture—like they’re a part of him. Probably the only part of the picture he’ll notice, but deep down, I know no one else will see them because they’ll be too busy falling in love with Grady Malone.
Just as I have.
I inhale an unsteady breath as the reality of the thought hits me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.
“Holy shit.” It’s Emerson who speaks. The words are drawn out and full of unexpected awe.
“That about sums it up.” I laugh nervously.
“Don’t tell Grant I said it, but his little brother is seriously hot.”
My laugh turns more genuine as my hands clutching the calendar relax some, but my eyes never leave the photo. “I won’t.”
“This picture . . . it’s everything.”
“It is,” I murmur.
“He’s going to hate it,” she says.
I love it. “I know.”
“It shows his burns, but no one is going to notice them because they are going to be staring at—”
“The look in his eyes,” I finish for her. We both fall silent for a moment as we take in the picture again. The dark contrast of his burns against the lighter parts of his skin. How they seem so muted when compared to the look on his face. In his eyes. The smile on his lips that lights his face.
“I’d love to know what he was looking at,” she says.
Me.
I don’t say it, though. I don’t trust my own voice not to betray the emotion rioting through me from realizing that I love him. To betray the hope this picture brings—that he feels the same. But then comes the devastation in knowing that it doesn’t matter whether I love him or not, because the calendar’s prelude—the opening picture of Brody and the sadness it exudes—is exactly why Grady will never acknowledge or act on the feelings his eyes reflect.
“I’m not sure.”
“Special delivery,” Dixon says as he walks into the common room and tosses a pile of calendars on the table we’re all sitting around.
“For fuck’s sake. Do you have to ruin my appetite?” Bowie laughs. “I see these assholes shirtless all the time, and believe me, it’s enough to make me gag if I have to eat and look at their hairy chests at the same time.”
“Says the king of bear rugs on his back,” Dixon fires back as everyone but me laughs.
I can’t laugh. I’m too busy staring at the calendar. My palms coat with sweat and my pulse rages in my ears. For a man who used to stare at himself in the mirror every day to see which muscles were popping better, the fear of seeing what I look like through the eyes of someone else is terrifying.
Grabbing a calendar off the table, I head to the bay, needing a moment to come to grips with what I’m going to see and, at the same time, feeling like the biggest pussy on the face of the earth. I turn the calendar over in my hands, looking at the cover picture and thinking of the raunchy joke the probie Johnson said to make us all laugh.
With a deep breath, I flip it open. And there’s Brody. Brave, funny-as-shit, and incredible. My heart sinks. That little boy is fucking everything to me, and I know Drew would be so damn proud of the little man he is becoming. I bite back the guilt—the voice that convinces me his loss is on my shoulders—and listen to Dylan’s voice from our hike. I focus on her words; I have to live to the fullest or I’m letting Drew down. It’s the same shit everyone else has said to me, and yet, her voice has replayed over and over in my head since then.
I smile at Brody’s picture. He’s the reason I agreed to do this calendar. No matter what I find when I come to August, I’ll accept it. I’ll deal with it. I’ll move forward because it was done for him.
The guys look hilarious as I go through the months. Puffed-out chests and unsuccessful attempts at smoldering expressions. Things I laugh at only because I know the fuckers in real life, yet I know women will buy the calendar and appreciate them.
And then I get to August.
I close my eyes and flip up the page.
Then I open them.
It’s my scars I see first. The black-and-white film mutes their harshness, and as much as I try to stare at them, find the disgust I feel daily, it’s the expression on my face that draws my attention. My eyes. My smile.
This isn’t the photo Marcy took for the calendar. This isn’t the expression I gave her.
This is how I looked at Dylan.
This was the face of relief. The photo session was over, Marcy hadn’t asked a thing about my scars, and most importantly, Dylan had been there patiently waiting in silent support. I hadn’t been alone.
A part of me feels betrayed. Like Marcy took this photo—this side of me that I don’t show anyone—and put it on display. The other part of me is a little shocked. Shocked that when I look at the picture, I don’t feel revolted by the scarring on my back. In fact, they are the last things my eyes focus on when they should be the first. There is also this final part of me that is freaked out by what I see in my expression. Or rather, how I’m lookin
g at Dylan. I know that look.
I’ve seen that look before. It’s how Grant looks at Emerson. How my dad looks at my mom. And how Drew looked at Shelby.
I don’t know how to feel. Everything inside me is a mess of contradictions because when this calendar goes out, everyone who buys it will see the one part of me I’ve kept hidden since the accident. Yet at the same time, they’ll see the other side of me I’ve tried to keep hidden from even myself—my feelings for Dylan.
Well . . . fuck
“Dude, you are so fucking screwed.”
I look up to see the guys all standing there with the calendar in their hands and huge grins on their faces. “What are you talking about?”
“You know we’re doing an event to sell these, right?” Bowie says.
“An event where we all sit down and sign our month,” Mack interjects.
“Yeah. So?” I’m not getting it.
“Your line is going to be so goddamn long with women with hearts in their eyes and cleavage on display. It’s going to be sickening,” Veego says while the rest of the guys make kissing noises. “Pretty-boy Malone kicking ass and taking names, er, phone numbers, without even having to try.”
“Whatever.” I laugh, the tension slowly easing from my shoulders.
“You’re the only fucker who doesn’t have a body shot in this whole calendar, and yet you’re the one who looks the hottest,” Dixon says with a roll of his eyes.
“You checking me out now, Dix?” I ask and climb down from my spot on the rig where I went for privacy.
“No, but lucky for you, that roommate of yours will be heading out soon, because I have a feeling this calendar is going to be getting you some serious revolving-between-the-sheets action.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” I say as Bowie catches my eye and nods to me.
And I can’t help but wonder what for.
Because I did the calendar and I didn’t fuck it up, or because he knows that Dylan leaving might be a little harder on me than I’m letting on.
My money is on both.
I look at the calendar in my hands again as my feet falter and the guys move on, still razzing the shit out of me as if I was beside them.
And for the first time since I woke up from the accident, I look at a picture of me and realize the scars may not matter as much as I thought.
I stand at the back door and watch her. She’s working through lyrics, that much I know from how she constantly repeats the same set of lines over and over. The only difference in how she normally works is this time she’s doing it giving Petunia a bath. Both are covered in suds as Dylan works her hands up and down Petunia’s back. Her laughter floats into the window and catches my attention just as much as the way she swings her hips.
I watch the two of them and wonder when it happened. When did Dylan seamlessly work her way into my everyday life so that something like this—her washing my pig—feels so goddamn natural that I don’t question it?
“I can say I don’t care.
That I’ll walk away without fanfare.
But you know it’s a lie.
This is so much more than goodbye.”
My chest tightens when I hear the lyrics. I need to see her. But the minute I put my hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. There is so much I want to say, need to say, but know I can’t.
Should I show her the calendar? Let her see for herself the words I can’t bring myself to say? The emotions I feel but struggle to permit myself to have.
We both have our own lives to move on with when our playing house comes to an end. We both have promises we made to ourselves we need to keep.
I have promises I need to keep.
Then why is it so hard for me to let go of the doorknob and leave her be without saying a word?
If we’re simply enjoying each other and our time left, why does this feel so complicated?
Because it is.
“Can’t say all of Sunnyville didn’t show up in support of the calendar sales,” Betsy Malone says and shakes her head as we both stare at the same person. Her son.
“Let’s just hope Grady walks away without his ego so big he can’t fit through the front door.” He’s all smiles as he sits and patiently talks to the ladies who have waited in line to get their calendars signed.
They run the gamut when they get to Grady—from giggly to flirty, from shy to rambling—but I love that he’s patient with every one of them. Taking a picture if they ask. Talking to their kids if they’re with them. The perfect ambassador for the station.
And that isn’t saying all of the other guys aren’t doing the same, but my eyes are fixed on Grady and Grady alone.
They seem to be there a lot these days.
“I’m sure you’ll bring him down to earth if it is,” she says with a wink. “And if not, he has two brothers chomping at the bit to razz the hell out of him.”
I laugh and think of the shit they’ve given him since the calendars went on sale. Bumper stickers about hose sizes slapped on the back of his truck. A blow-up doll delivered that was some kind of retaliation for something he did to Grant. A box of blow-pop suckers delivered to the station. And the list goes on.
“I’m sure they will.”
“Emerson says you’re almost done with your songs.”
“I have two left to finish, but for the most part, yes.” It pains me to admit it.
“So you’ll be leaving us?” she asks and then shakes her head with a silly roll of her eyes. “Sorry. Of course you will. I was having motherly daydreams that you’ll fall in love with . . . Sunnyville and decide to stay.” And by Sunnyville, she really means Grady. “Like I said, silly.”
“He’s a good man, Betsy.” I chew the inside of my cheek and fight back the sting of tears as I stare at him. “We’re just in different places of our lives right now.”
“That’s a load of phooey. If you love him, then love him.”
I smile softly and am thankful my sunglasses hide the truth in my eyes. “Even if I did, Grady won’t allow it. He’s made it clear that dating is all he’ll ever allow, and I want more than that. Someday I want marriage, kids, the white picket fence.” I hate that my voice breaks on the last words.
“Look how far he’s come since you’ve arrived. He did the calendar. He’s more comfortable in his skin.”
“He is, and I’m so very glad I was a part of helping him get there . . . but there are some opinions I can’t sway.”
“If you stayed, who knows what could happen.”
My heart will be broken. That’s what will happen.
But I think of the calendar Grady is signing. The picture of him looking at me. The smile on his lips. The sincerity and warmth in his eyes. And I wonder what we might miss out on because he refuses to take a chance.
Because he refuses to face everything and rise.
In an attempt to dispel the conversation in which I know Betsy means well but is pressure applied to the wrong party, I fold my arms over my chest and lean against the wall and take it all in. The event. Grady accepting the enthusiasm of the photo he was so uncertain of in the first place. Even the pang of jealousy as I wonder which of these women will take my place when I’m gone.
“Dylan, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I turn from where my gaze sits on Grady to find Shelby and Brody standing before me.
“You’re right, B-man. She is as pretty up close as she is from far away.” Shelby ruffles Brody’s hair and looks to me with a shy smile. “It’s so nice to finally meet you, Dylan. I’ve heard a lot about you from Grady.”
I smile, suddenly nervous for some reason as if I’m meeting the other woman in Grady’s life. “So nice to finally meet you too.”
“Quite a turnout, isn’t it?” Shelby puts her hands on her hips and turns to look at the crowd.
“It is. Hey, Brody,” Betsy says. “I think you should be over there autographing the calendars with the guys, don’t you?” His eyes light up and cheeks flush red. “You a
re the first picture in the calendar . . . and you know that’s the most important one, right?”
Brody’s eyes widen as he looks from me to his mom and then back again. “It is?”
“Absolutely. How about I take you to Grady and let you sign next to him while your mommy and Miss Dylan chat for a bit?”
We watch as Betsy walks an animated Brody across the parking lot to where the tables are set up beneath E-Z Ups. There’s an awkward silence between us, because I’m really not sure what to say but feel like I need to say everything. I’m sorry about the loss of your husband really doesn’t feel like enough, though.
“Grady is a very special man,” Shelby says eventually. She doesn’t look my way, and her voice is soft, but there is so much emotion packed into those six words that I can feel them.
“He is.”
“He needed someone like you, you know. It’s like you’ve brought him back to life.”
I hold back the hiccup of a sob that threatens. First his mom’s words and now Shelby’s, which are both hard to hear since the one person I want to hear them from hasn’t said them. Won’t say them. I clear my throat and begin to speak when she reaches over and grabs my hand and clutches it tightly in hers.
If anyone else did that to me, I’d yank it away, but with Shelby, I can sense she needs this connection somehow. Her hand trembles and grip tightens as she sniffs back her own tears.
“Those first months after Drew died, I couldn’t bring myself to visit Grady. I was so angry with him for not being able to save Drew, but at the same time I understood that I married a man who loved the beast as much as he loved me. Unfortunately, the beast won.” She pauses to collect herself and then begins again. “I had questions. Was Drew in pain? Did he know it was happening, or did he pass out from smoke inhalation unaware? Those two things haunted me. And then when I finally had the courage to see Grady in the hospital, I saw the suffering he was enduring as they scrubbed the dead skin from his burns. He tried not to scream, but let tears silently fall because he believed he deserved the punishment. My heart broke all over again. He lived, but it didn’t make his pain any less.”