by K. Bromberg
Every part of my body vibrates with an anger I haven’t felt since the day I woke in the hospital bed and was told that Drew didn’t make it. Four sets of eyes stare at me with a shock and concern that’s incomparable to anything I’ve seen before.
“We just want to help you in whatever way you need it,” Mack says. “But you won’t let us. You walk around like everything is fucking perfect when we know it isn’t. It isn’t for us, for fuck’s sake so how can it be okay for you?”
“We’re here for you. That’s all we’re saying,” Dixon chimes in when I want to tune him out.
“We’ll help you work through it on the next call, but we need you to tell us how to do it,” Bowie says. And it’s harder to ignore him when he knows more than any of them about the panic attack I get when I’m on scene. He’s the one who trades places with me—goes into the fire while I take his command—so I don’t lose it.
“There’s nothing you can do,” I whisper, embarrassed and unable to meet their eyes. I look at the pictures on the wall. Every member of the firehouse has their picture there . . . even Drew. It’s still there with the chip in the corner of the frame. Seeing his goofy grin kills me more than any of their words do. He should be here instead of me. Shelby should have her husband, and Brody should have his dad. No one needs me. Why was he the one who died? “Just let me get through this week. Let me get through what we have to do on Monday. Then I’ll wrap my head around all of this.” I look up and meet each one of their eyes.
Do they still trust me?
Do they still think I am capable? Still believe in me?
I swallow my pride and anger and take a deep breath in an attempt to dial back the emotions eating me whole. “Thank you for your concern. Thank you for caring. Thank you for giving me time.”
My eyes sting as I walk from the common area to the bunkroom. I don’t know how to work in a place that holds all the incredible memories I never want to forget but can’t bear to be reminded of.
How do I live a life that does exactly that?
How do I move forward when I’m terrified the past will repeat itself?
“Where’s your truck?”
I climb into the passenger seat and glance over at my dad. “Dylan has it.”
“Dylan? Why would you let that musician-creep drive it?”
I laugh harder than I should as he pulls away from the station. “Dylan is the girl staying with me. Remember Damon McCoy from that sleep-away football camp you sent me to when I was in high school? She’s his sister.”
“Oh.”
“The musician-creep is Jett.”
“Jett? As in like an airplane type of jet?”
“Exactly.”
“It’s easy to confuse your old man,” he says with a laugh but then falls silent as he slides a look my way.
Christ. Not again.
“Who talked to you?” I sigh. First the guys at the start of shift yesterday and now him.
“No one.” But his lack of explanation as to what I’m referring to is an answer in and of itself. “I heard you got in a fight the other night with the Winters kid.”
The Winters kid. I feel like I’m back in grade school again the way he says it.
“The fucker deserved it.”
“Grady—”
“He disrespected Dylan, so don’t give me a lecture on how fists don’t solve problems. I get it. I know better. I’m not twelve anymore, and I didn’t pledge my life to upholding the law. But this time around, he deserved it. You don’t brag about sleeping with a woman when you didn’t and then say rude shit to disrespect her.” There’s more anger in my tone than there should be, but I’m so sick and tired of being pushed right now.
I look over to my dad to see his lips pursed. It’s his tell when he has a shitload to say but is holding back.
“And this Dylan woman,” he finally says, “what did she think of you protecting her honor?”
“She doesn’t know.”
“Hmm.” He nods but gives nothing more on the subject. “You’ve missed the last couple of Sunday dinners. You know what that does to your mom. Maybe you should bring this Dylan around the house sometime since it seems you don’t want to leave her.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to leave her. It’s that I’ve been on shift. And bringing Dylan to the house would only encourage Mom’s matchmaking you-should-marry-this-girl-and-give-me-grandbabies frenzy. No thanks.”
“She means well.” After forty years, there is still affection in his voice every time he speaks of her.
“I know she does.”
“So are you?”
I’m pretty sure I choke on the air I’m breathing. “Am I what?”
“Are you going to marry this girl and give us grandbabies?”
If whiplash were possible, I’d have it from the breakneck speed I turn to look at my dad. “We aren’t even . . .”
Aren’t what? We aren’t dating but we’re fucking?
Classy, especially after I was just talking about respect and women.
“Grandbabies aren’t in the future.”
“But you like her.” It isn’t a question. Just a statement.
I chew the answer on my tongue before nodding. “Yeah, she’s pretty cool.”
“You got in a fight for her, Grady. That means she’s more than pretty cool in your eyes. In fact, it says you more than like her.”
“Seriously?” I laugh, feeling like I’m on the playground bickering with a classmate.
“A songwriter, you say?” he asks, switching gears like the seasoned interrogator he used to be.
“I didn’t say what she did.” He has definitely been talking to my brothers. “But yes, she’s a songwriter.”
“Does she sing too?”
I think of her voice. How it’s throaty and sexy with that hint of rasp to it when she sings. “Yeah. She has a great voice.”
“So is she going to transition to singing for herself instead of hiding behind the scenes?”
Let the cross-examination begin.
I know my dad, and right now he’s angling at something. “No,” I respond as we turn down my street. “I keep telling her she has a hell of a talent, and it’s too bad she isn’t putting it to use.”
My dad pulls up to the curb in front of my house and looks at me for a beat. “Kind of like you.”
“What?” My fingers tense on the door handle.
“You have a hell of a firefighting talent.” He shrugs. “Too bad you aren’t putting it to use.”
Trigger pulled. Point made.
I stare at him, wanting to lash out but knowing it will do no good. Being the ex-chief of police, his ties run deep in this community. Someone at the fire department talked to him. Someone voiced his concern. Without me saying a word, he knows I haven’t been back into a fire since the accident.
“I know. It’s a rough time of year for me.” I slide from the car, wanting this conversation to be over and done with.
“Hey, Grady?”
I lean down and meet his eyes. “Yeah, Dad?”
“It’s okay to forget what hurt you, but just remember to never forget what it taught you.”
“What did it teach me, other than to fear the one thing I love?”
“Fear has two meanings, son. Forget everything and run. Or face everything and rise.” He gives me a soft smile as I try to process what he just said. “You’ve been doing the first for a while. That’s understandable. It’s been a long road, and a part of me wants to tell you to run forever and not look back, because I almost lost you once. That’s the safe bet. But that isn’t you. That isn’t the son I know. You’d die without being able to do your first love, fighting fires. So now? Now you take it day by day, call by call, nightmare by nightmare . . . but you face everything about it and rise.”
I nod as he starts the car and drives off without another word. I watch his car until I can’t see the taillights and then stare after it a bit more.
Face everything and rise.
<
br /> My dad’s words ring in my head as I walk in the house, their poignancy hitting closer to home than I want to admit. It’s too much for me to think about.
So I don’t.
Instead, I grab a beer from the refrigerator and flip through the mail sitting on the counter as Dylan’s voice comes strong and focused through her closed bedroom door.
She’s working. Figures.
Jett’s gone. That’s a bonus.
I move to the hallway, Petunia beside me, and listen to her sing. Every part of me wants to open the door and sit on her bed to listen to her while she works. Watch that little crease she gets in her forehead when she’s concentrating. Study the way her fingers work with skill over the strings of the guitar. Listen to how she varies the same line over and over with one word changed, an inflection altered, to try to see what sounds better.
But I don’t do any of those things because I’ve been thinking about her way too much and thinking about a woman when it isn’t only how I’m going to get her back in bed is not something I can rationally afford. I mean, hell yes, I’ve thought about how I want her back in my bed, but I’ve also thought about so many other things. Things that make me think of Shelby and Brody and the fact that they’ll live the rest of their lives without Drew. Things that tell me I need to stop playing house with her and go back to being roommates.
I run a hand through my hair and force myself to retreat from her door and the comfort her voice brings. It’s when I walk into my bedroom and find the T-shirt and boxers I lent her washed and folded and set on the corner of my bed that it hits me.
In order to be roommates, we’ll no longer sleep in the same bed.
And without her in the same bed, my dreams will return. My nightmares.
With her beside me, they didn’t haunt me. It may have been only three nights, but they were the most peaceful three nights I’ve had in a long time. Not to mention one night of incredible sex.
I stare at the bed for a few moments before shaking my head.
Quit being such a pussy, Malone. Suck it up.
But instead of taking a shower like I planned to, I drop my bag right inside the door, shuck my shirt, and head out back to work on the playroom.
I need something to do with my hands that doesn’t involve them being on her skin.
So I begin to work. Nail after nail. Board after board. But it’s my dad’s words that keep ringing in my ears.
“It’s okay to forget what hurt you, but just remember to never forget what it taught you.” It taught me I’m not infallible. It’s taught me I can’t let someone close to me, because one day, I may be the one who doesn’t come home.
“I should have seen that coming a mile away,” Grady says to no one, followed by an exasperated laugh that pulls me out of my bedroom to see what he’s talking about.
He’s standing at the back door, looking out at the yard, and I hate the little flip-flop that my belly does seeing him there.
“Seen what coming?” I ask.
He turns, his smile crooked and hair disheveled from sleeping. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“It isn’t that late—oh it is,” I say when I look at the clock to see that it’s past ten. “I worked late. I was on a roll and didn’t want it to stop. You worked late though, too. I mean in the backyard. Not at the station. But you never called for me to pick you up. So I was surprised when I heard the hammer. I should have come out and said hi. I should have . . .”
Am I rambling? Stop rambling. When did these nerves start around him? And are they why I stood in the kitchen and watched him but was too chicken shit to go out and talk to him? Add to that it felt awkward not heading to sleep in the same room as him.
“I know you did. You were still going at it when I went to bed.”
“Sorry if I was too loud and kept you up. I lost track of time.”
“No. Don’t apologize. I like listening to you sing.” I blush, suddenly self-conscious knowing he was listening. “It’s Sunday.”
I nod my head.” And . . .?”
“My family has a Sunday tradition of having dinner together.” I narrow my eyes as I try to see where he’s going with this. “Do you have plans today?”
“No, why?”
“Do you want to go to dinner with me?”
“But it’s not dinner time.” I smile.
“You’re right. It isn’t. Let me start over.” His grin widens. “Good morning, Dylan.”
I laugh. “Good morning, Grady.”
“I’m going to apologize in advance for this, but I’d like to know if you have any plans today.”
“If I didn’t, your approach is telling me I should pretend I do,” I play along.
“No, it isn’t that bad.” He chuckles. “It’s just my mother scheming to meet the girl who’s staying at my house and make an excuse for me to show up to a family Sunday dinner. When my dad drove me home last night, he was asking about you . . . so I should have expected an invitation from my mom like the one I just received.” He holds up his cell as if I can read the text or email from where I stand.
“For what?”
“They’re having a barbecue at the lake house. They invited a bunch of people, so don’t worry, it won’t just be you and me and them trying to figure out what’s going on between us . . . but you were invited.”
Invited. As a friend or as . . .?
“To Sunday dinner during the day?”
“Yes. Something like that.” His dimples deepen and every part of me wants to melt at the little-boy appeal they give to such a virile man’s body.
“The lake house?” I ask, my first thought is that there’s water, which means wearing a bathing suit, and bathing suits and I don’t get along in the least. Or rather, we do get along but the mirror and me wearing a bathing suit aren’t exactly the best of friends.
And my second thought is I’m still trying to figure out what’s going on between us, so it isn’t fair for his family to know before I do.
“Yes, the lake house. Sunshine. A rope swing over the water. Good food.” He shrugs and smiles. “You can’t stay locked away writing forever, can you?”
“Actually, I can.” I laugh, thinking of how many days I’ve felt like a vampire because I’m knee-deep in an album and hardly see the sun.
“But I won’t let you.” He grins. “Grab your suit and sunscreen. I’m not letting you say no.”
Bathing suit.
The two words I dread more than many others.
And looking around at the perfect bodies on display, my insecurities are justified and then some. There’s Grant and his wife, Emerson. A shirtless Grant is a perfect example of why the Malone boys seem to have the reputation for being unfairly gifted in the looks department. And then there’s Emerson, who even at a few months pregnant, looks stunning with her little baby bump.
Next up is Grayson and his mini-me son, Luke. The two are more than adorable together, but I shouldn’t expect anything less, considering I’m convinced that there isn’t a rogue gene in this family.
There’s a myriad of other friends, too, some from Grady’s fire station, I believe, but they are floating out on the water on inner tubes, so I’ve yet to meet them beyond a wave across the distance.
“You have a lovely place here. The scenery is incredible.” And it is. Pine trees line the water’s edge, and the sun glistens off the lake. It looks like a postcard.
“It is, isn’t it?” Betsy Malone, Grady’s mother, stares at me with a soft smile on her lips and excitement in her eyes. “So, Grady tells me you’re a songwriter?”
“Yes.”
“And he met your brother at football camp? Do I have that right?”
I smile. “Yes.”
“And your parents live in Los Angeles too?”
I hope she doesn’t notice the stiffening of my smile. It’s not always the most comfortable to admit I have no clue where my dad is and the only reason I know my mom’s whereabouts is because the address of her latest rehab facili
ty is on the bill sitting in my inbox. “Yes, in the Los Angeles area,” I lie with ease to hide my discomfort.
“And are you staying in Sunnyville long?”
“Leave her alone, Mom. You’re going to scare the poor woman off before Grady has a chance to,” Grayson says as he leans over to steal a piece of watermelon off the table where we’re sitting.
“Shush. I’m just trying to get to know her better, and be nice to your brother.”
“She wants to see how long you’re going to be in town,” he says and lifts his eyebrows. “She’s plotting out when she can expect her next grandchild to be born.”
I sputter out a laugh as Betsy reaches her hand out to pat my arm. “No, I’m not, dear. I just wanted to know more about you.”
“Famous last words.” He laughs. “I bet if you ask Emerson, she’ll tell you that she got asked the same questions, and look what happened. Now she’s pregnant.”
I can’t help but smile at his ribbing and the annoyed look on Betsy’s face as she shoos him away before turning her attention back to me. “So will you be here for very long?”
I bite back my laugh because Grayson nailed her intentions on the head. And I’m not the least bit fazed, either. Grady warned me that she’ll try to corner me and figure out when the next Malone is coming.
Is she forward? Yes. Is she also adorable and madly in love with her sons and her family? Absolutely, and no one can fault her for that.
“Four or five more weeks,” I answer, and her smile falls a moment before she refortifies it.
“But you’ll be back, right? I mean you like Grady enough to come back?”
“Yes, I like Grady,” I say, my voice softening as I look at him throwing the football to Grayson’s son, Luke. And for a moment, I watch the two of them, and when I realize I am, I snap my eyes over to see Betsy staring at me with a knowing look on her face.
“Uh-huh.” That’s all she says.
