April Embers_A Second Chance Single Daddy Firefighter Romance

by Chase Jackson

  I knew that he was just talking out of his ass, but that was the last straw. I chucked off my boxing gloves and stormed out of the weight room.

  “What the hell is his problem?” were the last words that I heard before the heavy metal door slammed shut behind me.

  I was halfway down the hallway when I heard the weight room door thrust open and a pair of footsteps sprint after me.

  “Hey man, wait up!”

  I glanced over my shoulder and saw a member of the crew jogging towards me. He was wearing Adidas track pants and a Firehouse 56 sweatshirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing two forearms covered in tattoos.

  “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said, rolling to a stop a few paces away from me. He stuck out his hand, closing the distance between us. “Bryce McKinley.”

  “Rory McAlister,” I said, slapping my palm against his and giving his hand a firm shake. His eyes scanned the tattoos that covered my own arms, and his gaze landed on three digits inscribed above my right wrist.

  “860?” he asked, reading off the numbers. “That’s the Hartford area code.”

  “Yeah,” I shrugged, shoving my hand into my pocket to hide the tattoo. “Just a reminder of where I came from.”

  As if I could ever forget…

  “I got the same tat,” he grinned as he pushed up the sleeve of his sweatshirt to reveal a gothic-style ‘860’ inscribed on the inside of his elbow.

  My initial instinct was to make a snide or sarcastic remark, but I stopped myself. Bryce hadn’t been one of the guys mocking me back in the gym… he didn’t deserve my bitterness.

  “Listen,” he said, rolling his sleeve back down. “I just wanted to say that you shouldn’t let those guys get to you--

  “I’m not,” I snarled, sounding a bit too defensive.

  “Ok,” he held up his hands in surrender. “Look, I know they seem like a bunch of pricks now, but I swear they’re good guys once you get to know ‘em. Even Troy.”

  “I bet,” I remarked dryly.

  Bryce cocked his head and studied me through narrowed eyes.

  “You’re a dad, aren’t you?” he asked finally.

  “Huh?”

  “You’re a father,” he repeated. “That’s why you stormed out when Troy started talking shit about kids. That’s your soft spot.”

  “Look, I just want--”

  “Hey man, it’s cool. I know that feeling,” he cut me off, raising his hands again -- this time to silence me. “I’ve got that soft spot, too. Those guys can run their mouths all day long, but the second they mention kids… it flicks a switch inside of me. It’s been that way ever since my daughter was born.”

  I rubbed the back of my neck and glanced up at Bryce. He was silent, obviously waiting for me to fill in my own blank.

  “I’ve got a daughter, too,” I said finally.

  “How old?”

  “Seven.”

  “I bet that’s a fun age,” Bryce grinned. “My daughter, Ava, just turned five. She started kindergarten a few weeks ago, and I swear one of these days I’m gonna blink my eyes and she’ll be heading off to prom or her high school graduation.”

  “They grow up fast,” I agreed, feeling myself grin as I thought about Charlie. “It seems like just yesterday I was teaching her how to tie her shoelaces, and now she’s lecturing me…”

  “God, we sound like a couple of soccer moms,” Bryce chuckled. Then he sighed and glanced back up at me, “Look, I know it’s tough joining a new crew and figuring out where you fit in, but you can’t let those guys get to you. You just gotta remember that they’re talking out of their asses. They don’t mean any harm.”

  “Yeah,” I nodded, staring at the ground. “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Bryce slapped his palm against my back, then added, “And hey, if you ever want to double up on dad duty…”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” I nodded appreciatively.

  Bryce gave me another slap on the back, then he turned and walked back towards the weight room. I let out a heavy sigh, and I realized that some of the tension had melted away from my shoulders.

  I walked through the station towards the rear exit door that opened onto the gravel parking lot at the back of the firehouse. It was raining outside, and the sky was heavy and grey. Rain pelted the earth in thousands of needle-sharp shards.

  The thin metal awning over the door provided eight square feet of shelter from the storm, and I pressed my back against the brick wall of the firehouse as I plucked a pack of menthol cigarettes from my pocket.

  I was about to prop one of the cancer sticks between my lips when I noticed the car idling at the back of the lot.

  A Kia Soul. In a parking lot full of muscle cars and pickup trucks, it stood out right away.

  The headlights were on, shooting two beams of yellow light through the rain. The windshield wipers were slashing back and forth furiously, but in between passes I could make out the outline of a face behind the glass.

  I rolled my back off the wall and stepped forward, squinting my eyes to get a better look. The windshield wipers flicked aside a curtain of raindrops, and I saw her face.

  Holy shit…

  The unlit cigarette dropped from between my fingers and fell towards the wet gravel.

  Des?

  The car headlights blinked off, then back on; a single strobe to beckon me forwards.

  ‘Ancient history,’ her voice echoed in my head.

  Well if we’re just ancient history, then what are you doing here, Des?

  I stepped out from under the awning and immediately felt the rain eat through my t-shirt, mixing with the sweat that had prickled on the back of my neck from my workout.

  She watched as I crossed the parking lot. When I got close, she leaned over the center console and popped open the passenger side door.

  “Quick!” she yelled out. “Get in the car!”

  I pulled the door open the rest of the way and ducked inside. And then, once I had blinked the raindrops out of my eyes, I found myself staring face to face with Desiree Leduc.

  CHAPTER TWELVE | DESIREE

  “What are you doing here?” he wanted to know. His voice was low and gravelly, almost disappearing under the patter of raindrops that hammered down on the metal roof of my car.

  For a split second, I forgot what I was doing at Firehouse 56. Then I felt the weight of his jacket on my lap, and I remembered.

  “I just came by to return this,” I said, lifting up the heavy collar of the fireman’s jacket. I forced myself to swallow the lump that had swelled up in the back of my throat, then I added, “I was going to bring it in, but as soon as I got here it started raining. I was just waiting for the rain to stop, and uh…”

  I bit my tongue to stop myself from rambling, and I sank back into the driver’s seat.

  The truth was, I had barely noticed the rain. It could have been a perfectly sunny day and I still would have spent the last forty-five minutes glued to my seat, desperately trying to sum up the courage to get out of my car and walk into the firehouse.

  He remained perfectly still and silent; even the raindrops that dotted his skin seemed to be frozen in place. His eyes were blazing hot, burning through me despite the blast of sharp, cold air that was blowing at full force out of the A/C vents.

  “Thanks,” he said finally. Then, “I hope you didn’t have to skip school to bring that to me?”

  “Huh?” I was confused at first, then I understood. “Oh, no. We all got the week off -- students, faculty, everyone. The school is closed while they repair the damage to the cafeteria.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Not quite,” I grimaced. “This used up all of the snow days for the school year. If we lose anymore days now, it’ll be coming out of our summer vacation.”

  “Is that how it works?” Rory asked.

  “Yeah,” I nodded. “Every year the administration builds a few extra days into the academic calendar to account for w
eather-related cancellations, but if we go over that allowance then we need to make up for it, and… I’m rambling. You probably couldn’t care less about this stuff.”

  “No, it’s interesting,” Rory insisted. “I always wondered why those bastards were so stingy about giving us snow days.”

  I had forgotten about the way his eyes always used to twinkle playfully when he would tease me, and seeing that subtle sparkle again made my heart flutter.

  “Well I’m glad I could shed some light on that,” I said, blushing furiously as I drummed my thumbs on the steering wheel. Then I took a deep breath and said, “Listen, there’s something else I wanted to say.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes,” I bit my lips together and glanced up slowly. “I owe you an apology, Rory.”

  His eyebrows lifted in surprise, but he said nothing.

  “The other day, in the ambulance…” I shook my head and my eyes fell down to my lap. “I shouldn’t have lashed out at you like that. I was just… shocked.”

  ‘Shocked’ was an understatement. ‘Stunned off my ass’ or ‘shattered to the core’ probably would have been more accurate, not to mention ‘absolutely mortified.’

  I forced myself to take a deep breath, then I continued,

  “After you left Hartford, I wasn’t sure if I would ever see you again. I didn’t know where you went, or if you’d ever be back.”

  I glanced up at him, and I saw emotion flooding his eyes.

  “You were just... gone,” I continued. “I didn’t know if you had moved to another state, or another country. I didn’t know if you had changed your name, or found a new family. I didn’t even know if you were alive or dead--”

  “Des…” he cut me off, shaking his head. His brow was furrowed, and his eyes were completely dark. “I told you where I was. I told you everything. You didn’t respond to a single one of my letters, but I still wrote you--”

  “Wait… what?” I gasped, lurching forward in my seat.

  “I wrote you,” he repeated. “Constantly.”

  “What do you mean, you wrote me?!” I asked breathlessly. “You mean like letters? Pen and paper?”

  “Yes,” he exhaled sharply. “Pen and paper, in an envelope with a postage stamp.”

  My mouth fell open, but I was speechless.

  “God, Des…” he said. “I must have written to you at least once a week. Maybe more often than that, at the beginning.”

  “I don’t understand,” I shook my head slowly. “I never got any letters…”

  His eyes flicked up and his lips fell apart.

  “You never got my letters?” he repeated, frowning. “Any of them?”

  I shook my head again.

  Rory took a deep breath as his head rolled back against the passenger seat, then he released it with a heavy sigh. His eyes drifted up, staring blankly through the windshield. His face was totally blank.

  “That doesn’t make sense,” he said slowly. “I double-checked the address, and I dropped every letter off at the post office myself…”

  I was trying to make sense of it myself, and then a horrible thought crossed my mind. My throat tightened and my heart dropped in my chest.

  “My dad must have kept them from me,” I said. “That’s the only explanation. He must have known that they were from you…”

  My father was the kind of man who always needed a scapegoat or a fall guy; someone to take all of the blame. For a long time, that person had been my mother… but when Rory came along, my father saw him as the perfect target for all of his irrational anger and hatred. It didn’t matter that Rory protected me or treated me with more kindness than anyone else had; my father couldn’t see beyond his black t-shirts and shaggy hair. Once my father had decided that Rory was a ‘bad influence,’ there was no changing his mind.

  When my father learned that Rory was gone, he had the gall to laugh and mutter “good riddance.” I thought that that was my father’s lowest moment… but if he was hiding Rory’s letters from me, that meant he had stooped even lower.

  “I should have figured,” Rory said finally. “I just assumed that you weren’t writing back because you were still upset that I had left.”

  “Oh, God…” I choked on my own words and I felt my eyes well with tears. I brushed them away quickly and forced myself to stare into the A/C vent, until the brisk air had dried away any trace of tears and left my eyes scratchy and dry.

  In the years that followed Rory’s disappearance, I had searched desperately for any clue or shred of information that could help me find out what had happened to him. It had never crossed my mind that the answers were delivered right to my mailbox, sent by Rory McAlister himself. And it never crossed my mind that my father would hide those letters or keep the truth from me.

  “How long?” I asked in a soft, shaky voice. “How long did you write?”

  “For years,” Rory said. “Even though you never wrote back, I didn’t want you to think that I was giving up on you. I didn’t want you to think that…”

  He didn’t finish that statement. I felt the tears burning back into the corners of my eyes, and I bit the inside of my lip and shook my head, trying to hold them in.

  “All this time,” I croaked, “I thought you were the one who gave up on me. But really… I was the one who gave up on you.”

  “Des, don’t say that,” Rory said. He reached across the center console and he found my hand in my lap. His fingers tangled through mine, until our hands were knotted together.

  “It’s true,” I insisted, sniffling softly. “God, what must you have thought?”

  I didn’t want to know the answer to that. For years, Rory and I had held each other up; we had supported each other, when we had no one else in the world.

  I thought about Rory writing letter after letter, only to get nothing in return. My silence must have felt like betrayal; like abandonment...

  I shook my head slowly. I knew exactly what my silence must have felt like, because I had felt the same thing myself. For years, I had felt hurt and betrayed and forgotten…

  Suddenly Rory’s gaze wandered towards the car radio, and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully.

  Oh, fuck… a bolt of realization tingled through my numb chest.

  Underneath the sound of the rain pattering overhead, I could hear the chorus of Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear us Apart’ humming through the car speakers.

  The track was playing from Rory’s CD; I had been listening to the playlist on repeat since the day I dug the disc out from the box underneath my bed… and I had been listening to it moments earlier, as I tried to build up my courage in the parking lot. When I spotted Rory through the rain, I had completely forgotten that it was playing...

  He probably doesn’t even remember making this CD, I tried to convince myself. He was always burning CDs and playlists… why would he remember this one?!

  But the look on his face told me that he did remember it. He reached slowly for the console and his fingers tapped the ‘eject’ button. Immediately the music stopped, and the radio churned mechanically before spitting out the CD.

  My heart drummed against my chest and my cheeks burned bright red, no doubt matching the shade of the firehouse walls.

  Rory pulled out the CD, then he narrowed his eyes as he inspected the red heart drawn on the label. I had inspected the same heart countless times, trying to decipher what it meant. Now, it was his turn to look confused as he traced his fingertip around the shape he had drawn in Sharpie eleven years ago…

  “You still have this?” he sounded surprised.

  “Of course I do,” I exhaled. In my head, I added, it was the last piece of you that I had left…

  He smiled and chuckled softly as he inspected the red Sharpie heart that he had drawn on the label, then he fed the CD back into the car radio. The playlist automatically started over from the first track, ‘Lovesong’ by The Cure.

  Goosebumps prickled over my arms as I got deja vu. I had listened t
o that song hundreds of times, but now it sounded different. I was taken back to the last time we had listened to this song together. It was that night at the park; the last time I ever saw Rory McAlister.

  “Did you ever figure it out?” Rory asked, glancing at me. The corners of his lips were turned up in a tiny smile. “What I made the playlist for, I mean.”

  I swallowed heavily and shook my head.

  “No,” I admitted. But it sure as hell wasn’t for lack of trying...

  “Really?” his eyes flicked towards me, and he frowned slightly. “You mean the red heart didn’t give it away?”

  His eyes burned straight into me, and I felt my own red heart drumming harder and heavier in my chest.

  “I thought it’d be obvious,” Rory said softly. “Too obvious.”

  I shook my head slowly.

  “They’re love songs,” he said. “Love songs for people that feel unlovable.” Then he lowered his eyes, pointing them towards the floor, and added softly, “People like you and me.”

  My shoulders slumped back and my mouth fell open softly. It all made perfect sense, but… how had I not figured that out earlier? How had I not connected the dots, when it was right there in front of me all along?

  “Oh,” was all I could say. Then, “But… why did you make me a playlist full of love songs?”

  He narrowed his eyes and cocked his head.

  “Des… isn’t that part obvious?” he whispered.

  It should have been obvious. I could feel the heat burning from his eyes and pulsing through his skin, igniting a thousand tiny sparks that spread like wildfire through my veins.

  Our faces were inching closer and closer, and when I closed my eyes were right back on that picnic table at the neighborhood park. Our hands were laced together, and I could feel the warm, familiar thud of his pulse twitching through his skin.

  It should have been obvious, but I wanted to hear him say the words; after years of confusion, I wanted to know.

  And more than anything, I wanted him to kiss me… just like I had wanted him to kiss me all those years ago, when we sat side by side on the picnic table listening to same gloomy love song.