by Denise Wells
Four years, two months, and five days.
One thousand, five hundred, and twenty-six days.
Thirty-six thousand, six hundred and twenty-four hours.
Two million one hundred and ninety-seven thousand four hundred and forty minutes.
One hundred and thirty-one million, eight hundred and forty-six thousand and four hundred seconds.
All to ready myself for the unthinkable. It’s a lot of fucking time. Filled with immeasurable options. And I couldn’t do it. I wasn’t ready. I failed again.
My only hope is if some sort of afterlife exists—whether that be heaven, paradise, Mecca—she’ll make fast friends, she always has. I can only hope that her body rejuvenates, and her brain forgets. May she never know the pain her passing brings me. God, please don’t let her know that I am destroyed. Or that I don’t think I can ever put myself back together again.
Every piece of me that ever lived has died along with her. Never to be resurrected again.
1
Brad
THREE YEARS LATER
“Where your kids?” Brianna asks.
“I don’t have any,” I say as I dig another post hole for Chance to fill with cement. I’m helping him build a swing set in the backyard for his three kids—the gruesome three-some, as Kat had called them. They were just under a year old when she passed. She wouldn’t even recognize the kids if she could see them now.
“Why?” Brianna asks.
“Because my baby mama died.”
“I sorry,” she says, patting me on the thigh. It’s kind of fucking cute. “Turtle died,” she continues.
“You had a turtle?” I ask.
“No.” She giggles.
“Oh.”
“Turtle is fish. Daddy flushed him like poo.”
“Oh.” That surprises me, though I’m not sure why other than I thought flushing fish was always some big parental secret kids were never to know about.
“Did you flush your baby’s mama?”
“No,” I say. “We cremated her.”
“Like ice cream?”
“Like fire.”
“I not understand.”
“Hey, Mathews, you mind not introducing my kid to D-E-A-D things?”
“You’re the one who flushed her turtle.”
“It was a fish,” he grunts as one of the boys, I’m not sure which one, jumps on his back while he’s leaning over to pour cement from the bucket into the hole. “Brian, off my back or I’ll bury you in cement.”
“I Braden!”
Chance straightens and looks at the boy. “No, you’re Brian.” Brian/Braden slides down his back to the ground.
“Braden!” Brian/Braden stomps his foot.
“Well then, where’s Brian?” Chance asks.
Brian/Braden shrugs his shoulders.
The two boys, Brian and Braden, are identical twin balls of energy zipping around, chattering constantly, and forever underfoot. Brianna, the girl, is softer spoken, but sure minded as hell. I’ve tried my best to ignore the kids while we’ve been working, but Brianna, the only fraternal triplet, has taken a liking to me. And by liking, I mean she won’t leave my side and insists on asking me hundreds of questions.
“Which one is he?” I ask Brianna, keeping my voice low, in case Chance wants to cheat.
“Is Brian. They trick Daddy all time.” She sighs.
We finish the final anchor hole and sit back to wait for the cement to dry. Chance tosses me a cold beer and we take a seat on the patio furniture with Brianna in tow.
I’ve only recently started hanging out with friends again. And by recently, I mean today. Kat’s death hit me hard. Harder than I ever imagined it would.
I took a leave of absence from work for almost a year, locked myself in the house with a fuck-ton of booze, and didn’t leave or talk to anyone for months. Didn’t shower, barely ate, just laid on the couch, watching everything that came on channel nine, because I couldn’t find the remote. Can’t say my social interactions were much better when I went back to work. But that’s a story for another time.
The best thing I’ve done for myself lately is working out multiple times a day to make up for all the muscle I lost during my pity party. I’m in better shape now than I’ve ever been.
This is in part because our friends staged an intervention to get me off booze and out of the house. And in part because I promised Kat, before she died, that I would continue to live my life. For a long time, I wasn’t doing that. Not even close. So, after three years, it’s what I’m trying to do now.
I hate every fucking minute of it.
Remi comes out to sit with us and watch as the two boys run around. “Brad, what do I have to do to get you to sign up for the auction?”
“What auction?”
“The law enforcement bachelor auction. It’s to raise money for the families of the fallen fund.”
“No.”
“Brad—”
“Fuck no.”
“What if I let you drink something stronger than beer?”
“Let me?”
She looks at me, eyebrows raised. I try to return the look, only sterner than she, and fail. I’m in the wrong here anyway. I’m the one who was drinking too much. The one who said he would stick to beer and wine from then on out. But Remi is the one who keeps me on track and makes sure I stick to it. She’s the one who checks in with me every day to gauge my emotional well-being versus my alcohol consumption. Between her and Ethan, not a day goes by where I don’t get a phone call with a pep talk. Not that I’m complaining, I am appreciative to have friends who love me so much.
“Hey”—she holds her hands up in surrender—“I’m just trying to help you, and this would be a non-threatening way to do something social.”
“Please tell me how being auctioned off is non-threatening?”
“Well, you’re such a peach to be around, you probably won’t get anyone bidding on you anyway.” She smiles.
I’m not amused. “Now I’m definitely not doing it.”
“You promised Kat you would—”
“Fuck you, Remi.” I hate her for bringing Kat into this. How dare she use the few final words Kat and I had together against me.
“Fuck you, Brad.” Her race reddens.
“Bad word, Mommy,” Brianna says.
“Sorry, baby,” Remi tells her then turns to me, her expression fierce, index finger pointing. “You aren’t the only one who lost her. You don’t have exclusivity on mourning. Don’t be an asshole.” She wipes at her eyes and turns away from us for a moment. Knowing she still tears up over Kat is morosely satisfying. Because I’m not alone in that.
“Bad word, Mommy,” Brianna says again.
“Baby girl.” Chance pulls Brianna to stand between his legs. “Mommy might say some bad words for a little while with Uncle Brad. Can you go play with your brothers?”
“No, I stay with Uncle Brad. He sad.”
“He’s always sad, baby,” Remi says, facing back our way, looking more composed once again. “It’s because he can’t pull his head out of his aaa . . . apricot and move on with his life.”
“His head is apricot?”
Remi sighs. “No, Mommy was making a simile.”
“Metaphor,” Chance says.
“It’s a simile, I’m saying his A-S-S is an apricot.”
“It’s a metaphor,” Chance says.
Remi waves her hand at him. “He’s just sad, Brie. That’s all.”
“He sad he has no babies. The mama died like turtle,” Brianna says.
Remi raises an eyebrow at me.
I run my hands through my hair. “That’s not exactly what I said,” I mutter.
“I just want you to be happy,” Remi says.
Brianna comes over to me.
“Up.” She holds her arms out. I pick her up and place her in my lap, wondering all the while what it is about me that this little girl likes. She turns and places her palms on my cheeks, angling my head in her directi
on.
“You be happy,” she says. “Listen to Mommy. She the smart one.”
I laugh at that.
“I’ll think about doing the auction, how’s that?” I tell Remi.
“I will take that as a yes,” she says.
“Except it’s not one. And if I say yes, what do I have to do?”
“You are bid on by attendees, and the highest bidder wins.”
“And I’m the prize?”
“Yes, but only for a day, or maybe a date and a dance. I don’t remember exactly. But it’s not a big deal. In the past it’s been women who need a hot handyman.”
“I have to do work?”
“Usually, without a shirt on,” Chance adds.
I rub the back of my neck and look at Remi, eyebrows raised.
“Come on, calendar boy, you are no stranger to posing as eye candy,” she teases, referring to the times I’ve taken part in the SSFD Annual Calendar. Shirtless. And once, without pants.
I shrug in response and she claps her hands. “Yay!”
“My shrugging is not me saying yes.”
“Close enough,” she says. “I’ll take it. I can’t wait to tell Tenley we’ve got another bachelor.” She stands and heads for the house.
“Remi, I haven’t said yes,” I say after her.
“Yeah, yeah.” She waves a hand in the air dismissively.
“And, who’s Tenley?”
“Sadie’s friend. She’s coordinating the whole thing,” she calls back as she disappears into the house.
I look to Chance. He shrugs and take a long pull on his beer.
“As long as we’re clear, I haven’t said yes,” I say aloud, hoping whoever needs to hear it, does.
2
Tenley
If you had told me two years ago that on the eve of my thirty-fifth birthday, I would be planning the town’s law enforcement bachelor auction, I would have laughed at you. Laughed at you and said, “Fuck that. I’ll be on my way to a long weekend in Vegas with my girls.”
Except that my girls are all busy having or raising babies. Sadie, my bestie, is eight months pregnant with her first baby and furiously nesting. The other two girls we hang with, Remi and Lexie, are their own kind of busy. Remi has four-year-old triplets, so she’s always on the go. Lexie is pregnant with her second baby.
Which leaves me here, at nine o’clock on a Friday night, finishing the auction setup at the town’s largest banquet hall. Alone. Sadie was going to help me, but some baby store was having a liquidation sale, and she and Lexie planned to divide and conquer.
I’m sad to not experience more of the pregnancy thing with Sadie. We’ve been friends since we were kids, and back then, we’d always said we would get married and have babies at the same time so our babies would grow up to either be best friends or married.
That was before my mom left my dad and me. And I realized a happily ever after is not in my story. It is in Sadie’s, however. So, she is experiencing hers and is happy as can be. And I am . . . well, shit, I’m arranging tablecloths and centerpieces so other women can bid on the possibility of an HEA with an eligible bachelor.
I put my earbuds in and turn the music back on. I make playlists based on the mood I’m in or want to be in. For instance, right now I want to forget about the fact that tomorrow is my birthday, that I’m here alone working for free, and that all my friends have a life. So, I’m listening to my Pump It Up list, where every song on it is guaranteed to make me happy and want to sing and dance. Even if none of the songs really go together.
I finish three more tables, when I suddenly feel I’m not alone. I turn and look, but there’s no one else in the room with me. The doors are all locked; I double-checked already. Deciding it must be my imagination, I shake it off and continue setting up tables. A noise in the background, one not belonging to the song, makes me stop. I pause the music to listen but hear nothing.
So, I keep going.
It happens again.
I pause the music and wait. Then I hear the faint sound of knocking. Pounding, actually, on the back door. I’m not expecting anyone, so I’m reluctant to open the door.
As I near the originating point of the sound, I hear yelling along with it.
“I know you’re in there. Would you just open the goddamn door?”
I don’t know who this person thinks they are or what their issue is, but yelling at me is not the answer.
I push open the door. “What?!” I yell.
“About fucking time,” a guy dressed in turnout pants and boots, and a navy-blue t-shirt, mutters. He looks vaguely familiar as he pushes his way past me into the hall, a large box filled with firefighters’ helmets and jackets in his arms.
“Excuse me?” I ask.
“I’ve been knocking out there for over ten minutes,” he says. “Are you deaf?”
“No.” I pull one of my earbuds out. “But I am listening to music. Plus, I wasn’t expecting anyone.”
“Well, how did you think this shit would get here?”
“I don’t even know what this shit is,” I reply. The guy sets the box down on a table I’ve already dressed and arranged knocking the centerpiece over in the process. Water from the vase seeps through the tablecloth, spreading toward the end of the table.
Really? There are ten bare tables, you couldn’t just use one of those.
Dick.
I grab the towels I was using to dust with and move to wipe up the water.
“Helmets.” He pulls one out of the box and shows it to me. “Jackets.” He repeats the gesture with a jacket. “Just like you asked.” He watches as I right the centerpiece, pull the tablecloth out from under his box, wad it into a ball, then wipe down the remaining water on the table.
I turn. “I didn’t ask for that.”
“Well, someone did.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“Wow, you always this accommodating?” I ask. “Or is this for my benefit?”
“I don’t even know you, lady.”
“Exactly.”
“Look, all I know is I’m stuck on fucking desk duty, which apparently makes me the fucking station gopher, and I was ordered to deliver this box, while the rest of the guys are in the field.”
“Oh, poor baby. Want me to set something on fire so you can put it out and feel like part of the club?”
“That’s not even funny.” He looks at me, disgust in his eyes.
I shrug. “Why, because you aren’t really a firefighter?”
“I’m a firefighter,” he scoffs, gesturing to his clothing.
“Could be a costume.” I toss my hair over my shoulder. “Maybe your sad little way of picking up girls.”
“If I was picking you up, sweetheart, you would know.” He steps toward me, his face fierce. He’s actually really good-looking. Like, if Ryan Gosling had an older, crankier brother.
I wave my hand at him. “Pfft.”
“So?” He looks at me.
“So?”
“Where do you want it?”
“You seemed pretty determined to put it on my carefully dressed table and fuck it all up, so what’s wrong with just leaving it there?”
“It’s decoration or something,” he says.
“You want me to put dirty jackets and helmets around as decoration?” I wave my hand around the room I’ve spent two solid days working on. I’ve transformed it from a stuffy meeting hall to a tropical oasis, complete with a sand dance floor and a faux roasting pig on a spit.
He looks around the room, as if for the first time. His jaw drops. “Oh wow, it looks great in here.”
“Was that a compliment?”
He turns and smiles. “Yeah, I’m sorry. I’m just pissed about being the station errand boy. I didn’t mean to take it out on you. Not entirely, anyway.” He holds out his hand. “Brad Matthews.”
Now I remember him.
He’s Sadie’s husband, Ethan’s, best friend. I just haven’t
seen him in a few years. Maybe since Sadie’s wedding even. I take his hand and shake it firmly. “You’re my Bachelor Number Nine,” I say.
“Huh?” His brow wrinkles. “No, I’m not doing this thing. That’s not me.”
“I think it is,” I say. I grab my notes from a nearby table and glance at them. “Yeah, Brad Matthews, firefighter, forty-five years old, Bachelor Number Nine.”
His eyes cloud over, and the asshole personality returns. “Yeah, well, count me out. I won’t be here.”
“Then why did you sign up?” I ask.
“I didn’t sign up.”
“You’re on the list,” I say.
“Not because I signed up,” he argues.
“Well, someone signed you up then.”
“Fucking Remi signed me up.”
“It’s too late to back out now,” I say.
“The hell it is.”
“We've already printed the programs, sent out the invites, and run the promos. The event is tomorrow night. It’s definitely too late.”
“Too bad, because I won’t be here. And neither will Remi Bauer, because I plan to kill her.”
He turns and leaves the same way he came in. I’m left wondering what the hell to do about a possible last-minute cancellation, which will throw off the timing of the entire evening. And just where am I supposed to put a bunch of smoky-smelling helmets and jackets at a party that is all about coconut bras and grass skirts?
3
Tenley
“God, that was like three years ago almost,” Sadie says over video chat. She’s at her house, packing her outfit and things she’ll need for tonight’s auction event, while I’m at mine, doing the same.
“She was at your wedding though, right?” I ask.
“Yeah, but that was right before she died. She went downhill fast after that.” Sadie is telling me Brad’s story. I knew I’d met him before. It was at Sadie’s wedding. She continues, “That was the last time Kat was out with friends before she passed. I want to say she died a few weeks later. And Brad fell apart. Locked himself in his house and wouldn’t come out for a really long time.”
