by K. Bromberg
“Leave poor Dylan alone, Betsy,” Grady’s dad says as he sits on the picnic bench beside me and nudges my elbow. “Just ignore her. She’s been known to run off some of the women the boys have brought home in the past.” He winks as she swats at his arm and laughs. There is a brief exchange of a look between the two of them, and their love for each other can be felt as if it were tangible.
Laughter erupts on the lawn when Grady tries to evade Grayson’s tackle, but he gets his hands in Grady’s shirt and pulls him down.
“He’d be better if he ditched the shirt,” Chief Malone mutters under his breath. “It’s just us, for Christ’s sake.” There’s hurt there. The parental kind. It’s hard to hear it and not feel for both parties.
“He’s getting there,” Betsy murmurs in response, but the chief’s face is still full of concern as he watches his son.
I can’t imagine what it must have been like to watch their son go through the horror of his accident and the long, dark time it took to recover. Physically. So often, we focus so intently on the injured person that we give zero thought to the family standing behind them, supporting them, loving them, and helping them heal. It’s unfathomable to me. First they went through the fear of losing their son and then were forced to watch him struggle. Because they have to know what he’s going through, and it has to be so hard to stand by in silent support as he figures it out on his own.
Hell, it’s killing me, and I’ve only been here such a short time in the overall time of his recovery.
The scanner goes off behind me. Some call. Somewhere. I shake my head at the fact that the Malones seem to bring work with them everywhere.
“I know,” Betsy says and laughs when she realizes what I’m shaking my head at. Thankfully, the chief is oblivious to my reaction since he’s homing in on what dispatch is relaying. “That damn scanner is like an extra appendage for all of my boys, but you get used to it. What’s worse is that when they’re out on the line, you find comfort in hearing it because you know what they’re doing. It’s ten times better than the horrors you’re imagining in your head.”
I hold her eyes and nod. She’s right . . . and yet, it’s still funny that on this rare occasion when all three of her sons are off duty, they are still, in a sense, on-duty.
“What can we say? We’re creatures of habit,” Grady’s dad says, surprising me when he reaches back and turns the scanner off. “Are you having a good time, interrogation notwithstanding?”
“I am, thank you. It’s just what the doctor ordered.”
Betsy and the chief look to where Grady has tackled Luke to the ground and is tickling him before looking back toward me. The smile, the joy, on his face causes a flutter in my chest I try to ignore, but can’t. “It most definitely is,” Betsy murmurs.
“Are you glad you came?” Grady asks and pulls my attention from where Luke and Grayson and a few others are taking bets on who can clear the longest distance by swinging from the rope into the water.
“Yes. You?” I murmur as Luke flies with a shriek through the air and lands with a huge splash into the water.
“Yes. I’m glad you came too.” There’s something about the way Grady says the words—suggestion riding shotgun with playfulness—that grabs my attention and doesn’t let go. He sits beside me on the dock with a smirk on his lips as we let our toes dangle in the water, feet lazily kicking back and forth.
His comment may have suggestion written all over it, but there hasn’t been a single moment during the course of the day where anyone who looked at us would have thought there was anything more between us than roommates.
I study him and wonder how this works. Are we just going to ignore the fact that we had sex two nights ago and never talk about it? Are we not going to acknowledge that every time we look at each other, I stare at his lips because I want him to kiss me and he undresses me with his eyes? Or do we sit here and ignore the sexual tension that increases with every accidental touch of a hand or brush of our bodies against each other’s?
“What?” I ask after he never looks away and I’ve grown self-conscious under his silent observation.
“How come you haven’t braved the lake yet?” he asks, making me cringe internally.
So much for doing a good job of hiding from the water, or more importantly, having to wear a bathing suit in front of everyone. Luckily, my eyes are hidden behind my tinted lenses or else he’d probably see right through every excuse on the tip of my tongue.
“No reason.” I try an excuse anyway.
“He really did a number on you, didn’t he, Dylan?” There’s so much compassion laced with a hint of anger on my behalf that it opens the door to the hurt and lays down a welcome mat for it.
I sigh. Then start to speak. Stop myself. Then try to explain. “It wasn’t so much Jett as it was every other woman who wanted to be with him.”
“You mean every other woman who wished she were you so they’d tear you down with lies to justify why they couldn’t hold a candle to you? You mean those women?”
It sounds stupid when he says it. It’s even worse that despite it sounding stupid, the women were still successful in affecting how I saw myself. See myself. But at the same time, it isn’t exactly hard to look at the proof—Jett screwing what’s-her-ho—to reinforce the way I feel.
Add to that, I hate that Grady’s observation means so much that a mixture of shame and wounded pride makes my eyes burn. “They’re not lies when they’re the truth.”
His sigh is audible, and the shake of his head reads almost disappointed. “That’s not how I see it.”
“C’mon, Grady. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better about myself but . . . I’m not blind here. I know my body isn’t like the Hollywood crowd. I’m well aware that when the media used to take pictures of Jett and me, he radiated on the page while most of them Photoshopped the hell out of me. The ones that didn’t, told a nasty story to justify why rock-god Jett Kroger was with someone who didn’t meet the public’s ideal for him.”
“The media doesn’t know shit. That I can tell you. Heroine chic is the furthest thing from sexy. And it’s women who do this. They’re the ones telling the men what they should like when they don’t know shit other than their own insecurities. You really want to know what a man likes?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“Sure am. Men like women who eat. They like women they can take to dinner and won’t push food around on a plate because they’re afraid to be seen actually putting food in their mouths. You know, like we all have to do in order to survive. Men like women who are muscular and strong and don’t look like they’ll break if we toss them around in bed.”
“Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but the smile on my lips is genuine.
“Men like women who are confident, who know how to handle themselves, and who don’t fucking care if their thighs touch or not, because it isn’t when they’re pressed together that men are thinking about. It’s when they’re spread apart that we’re hoping for. Crude? Yes. True? Hell, yes.” My laughter rings out at something I should probably find offensive, and yet the context in which he’s saying it—to explain to me why I have a bad self-image—is endearing. “You have this confidence I can hear clear as day when you sing in your room and work through a song, but it disappears the minute you’re asked to go to the lake because you might have to wear a bathing suit.”
“Grady . . .”
“What? It’s the truth. I saw you hesitate the minute I asked, and I thought it was because you didn’t want to go with me. Then we got here and you avoided going anywhere near the water, and I figured out why.” He looks to where Luke yells as he sails through the air again. “I hate the way you see yourself, Dylan.”
“And I hate the way you see yourself, Grady.” Maybe he needs to listen to his own words.
He brings his bottle of beer to his lips ever so slowly without looking my way. “I agreed to do the calendar. Happy?” There’s no edge to his voice like I’
d expect there to be, just a sad resignation.
“Not happy, no. I detest that it makes you uncomfortable, but at the same time, I think if you don’t participate, you’ll regret it later.”
“Mmm.” That’s all he says, and I hate that he still hasn’t looked my way.
“I can be there during the photo shoot if you want,” I offer then feel like an idiot who has overstepped the minute the words are out. “I mean . . . if you need silent support.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t say yes or no, so I fall quiet, suddenly uncomfortable with this conversation. We sit like this for a bit while I swing my legs, run my toes through the water, and lift my face to the sun to welcome the warmth.
“Tell me about your dad.”
Every part of me tenses at the mention of the man who abandoned us, so I keep my eyes closed momentarily and concentrate on the sun’s heat on my cheeks. I know it’s my turn to offer up a part of myself, so I grow a pair, and let out a deep breath while I try to find the words.
“What is there to say other than he loved his job more than he loved us.” Grady grimaces at my explanation. “One day, he was there, a part of everything we did. The glue that held us all together. And then the next, he was telling my mom that having a family—damn responsibilities, is I think what he called us—wasn’t part of life for a firefighter. That he needed to be able to chase the next flame when it came without worrying.”
“That’s a euphemism if ever I’ve heard one.” I can hear the disgust in his voice, and it makes me feel better if at all possible.
“Pretty much. There were four of us, the McCoys on Mistress Court . . . and yes, the irony of our street name is not lost on me. One day we had the white picket fence in suburbia, and the next there was nothing. My mom was a shell of herself. Damon was angry all the time. My dad participated from afar for a while. Then less and less with each subsequent year until there was nothing left. Not even a card on Christmas. The white picket fence became faded and fell down. Weeds grew where the grass used to be green.”
“And what happened to little Dylan?”
“Little Dylan grew up with a distrust of firefighters—and men in general. As you can see with Jett, she had every right to feel that way.” I hate that my voice swells with emotion I can’t hide. Grady notices, and it has him slowly swinging his eyes my way.
“Your brother is obviously good now, married and happy with the twins. I know how you are. What about your mom?”
I focus on my fingers where they pick at the paint on the dock. I feel embarrassment all these years later when I have to talk about my mom. “She’s on her who-knows-what-number stint in rehab.” My voice is quiet, my disappointment in her always present.
“I’m sorry, Dylan. I didn’t know.”
“How could you? It’s not something I’m proud of or like to admit. And it’s definitely something I’m sick and tired of footing the bill for . . . but it’s my mom. What am I supposed to do, walk away?” I shake my head and try to push the emotion from my voice.
He makes a noncommittal sound. “Just another reason why you can’t walk away from this album, right?”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, grateful he connected the dots between the money and my need to stay beyond making a name for myself.
The two of us slip into a comfortable silence as the others frolic in the distance, their laughter reaching our ears and making me feel even sadder for some reason when I should be anything but.
“I’m sorry for what your family went through, but not all guys are assholes.”
“True.” The word is measured, and yet anyone hearing it will know I don’t truly believe it.
“And not all firefighters abandon their families. Plenty of guys have a good solid relationship and are successful at it.”
“And where do you fall?” I ask, desperate to turn the conversation off me and onto him.
Now it’s his turn to flinch, his feet hesitating mid-swing. I’ve hit a nerve. “I’m a different situation altogether.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Are you going to be the forever bachelor?”
“Yes, but not for the reasons you think.”
“You lost me,” I say with a laugh because he isn’t making sense.
“I’m not afraid to settle down because I’ll miss the single life. It definitely has its perks . . . as you can see, I come from a close-knit family. Don’t tell my mom, but I’d love to be a dad and give her those grandkids she nags me for, but I can’t . . .” His words are followed by a sigh that holds so much sadness and grief it’s almost palpable. “After Drew’s death, I watched Shelby lose every part of herself while trying to be strong for Brody. Having Brody ask me when I’m going to bring his dad home from the station. I just . . . I can’t knowingly be with someone, have a child with someone, and then continue to risk myself every time I get a call.”
“But they’ll know it’s a possibility too. They’ll walk into a relationship with you knowing your job is what you love. It’s who you are. They’ll understand and take the chance because they love you.”
I know he hears me because he nods as he looks at his feet splashing in the water, but he doesn’t respond. I don’t expect him to either. He’s been so emotionally scarred by the events of the fire and the aftermath.
“Grady! Don’t be such a pansy. Get your ass over here and let me beat you!” Grayson yells, pointing to the rope swing where he is across the shore.
Grady finally looks at me. “So, Dylan? Are you going to be confident and take that cover-up off and show off those curves of yours? Or am I going to have to carry you into the water in your clothes so you have nothing to wear home that’s dry except your suit?”
“You wouldn’t dare?” I say as I push myself up from my spot on the dock as he does the same.
“Either way, I win . . . so try me.”
“It goes both ways, Malone.”
“It does, does it?” he asks, a smile slowly curling up the corners of his lips, sensing a challenge.
“Yes. If I have to wear my bathing suit, you have to take your shirt off.”
His smile falters momentarily as he angles his head and stares at me from behind his lenses. And then without saying a word, he pulls his T-shirt over his head and walks off down the dock.
“You better not chicken out on your end, McCoy. I know where you sleep at night,” he calls over his shoulder before jumping from the wooden slats to the shore and heading toward his brother.
I catch the glance his mother gives his father and the one Grayson gives to Grant right before all four sets of eyes turn in my direction.
Knowing I did that for Grady makes me stand a little taller as I follow in his footsteps on the sandy shore. They love him despite what he considers imperfections.
Now, let’s hope they can turn a blind eye to mine.
“Your family is incredible.” My grin hasn’t faded since we pulled away from the lake house and started our trip home. Neither have my thoughts. After watching Grady play with Luke and seeing how good he was with him, all I keep thinking about is how much Grady is going to miss by not being a father.
And of course, I’ve thought of every way imaginable to broach the subject again with him, but for what? He’s been through hell and back. He has concrete reasons for his opinions. There’s no way anything I say will change his way of thinking.
“You and Luke get along really well.”
“He’s a good kid,” Grady says. “I don’t know how Grayson made a kid that cool, but he definitely must have gotten those genes from me.”
“Oh, please. It’s obvious you’re good with children. I hope I’m not overstepping when I—”
“Don’t go there,” Grady warns, and before I can respond—apologize—for doing what I told myself I wasn’t going to do, the scanner interrupts me.
I wait for Grady to turn the sound down as he typically does, but this time, when his fingers are on the button, they don’t move. Codes are being given le
ft and right and despite the dispatcher’s calm demeanor, I can tell she’s unsettled.
“Everything okay?” I ask when his arm tenses.
“Yeah. Sure. Fine.” His answer is distracted at best, and the easy-going banter we’ve enjoyed the entire drive home dissipates.
He pulls into the driveway and stares at me. His jaw is set. His shoulders are square. His hands keep flexing on the wheel.
“Hop out. I’ve gotta take a drive.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask for a second time, knowing in my gut it isn’t.
“Feed Petunia for me. I’m not sure when I’ll be back.”
I climb out of the truck and turn back to stare at him through the open window, but he only looks behind him as he reverses and drives off without another glance.
“He forgot his phone.” Grant is standing in the doorway to the house with his hand extended and Grady’s cell in it.
“Thanks. He isn’t here, but I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”
“Where’d he go? You guys couldn’t have left five minutes before us.”
“I don’t know. There was a call on the scanner, and Grady said he had to take a drive.” Grant swears under his breath and sighs. His reaction makes me uneasy. “What is it?”
“The one time Emerson convinces me to turn it off.” He laughs, starts to speak, and then stops. He runs a hand through his hair with the same mannerism that his brother does and it makes me smile. “He’s having a rough go of it.” I can tell it pains him to tell me, almost as if he’s betraying his brother by talking about it with me.
“You’re the second or third person who has used that phrasing.” Damon, Desi at the grocery store, and now Grant. “What exactly does a rough go of it mean? What am I missing?”
He twists his lips and then continues. “The guys at the station are worried about him. We’re all worried about him, in fact.”
“But he told me he agreed to do the calendar. It’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it? It shows he’s coming to terms with his burns?”
