One day soon, she’d open them and get started on closing that final door between her and her biggest mistake.
4
Brent smelled like sweat and smoke, and felt like he’d been run over by an elephant. The entire truck was silent, but the firehouse was in sight. One more block and they’d be out of their gear and into the showers. Thirty minutes and they’d have some food on the table.
They still wouldn’t talk about the fire.
He’d worked at other houses that were better at stuff like that—debriefing, the shrinks called it—but not No. 11.
For the most part, he appreciated the silence. It was his comfort zone, for sure.
But he’d spent too much of the last year being quiet. Work was quiet, unless it was bullshit nothing chatter about women, cars, food. Home—ha—was a silent tomb. He didn’t even listen to music because his apartment leaked into the upstairs space, and he didn’t want to upset Mr. Subramanian, his landlord, a widower who lived on the main floor.
“I don’t know why the ventilation system was built this way,” the older man apologized as he showed Brent the space. “If you have a date, let me know and I’ll spend the night at my daughter’s. Offer to babysit for her so she can go out with her wife.”
Brent had nodded along, but there had been no dates. Not for him. Mr. Subramanian brought women home sometimes, but he’d memorized Brent’s work schedule.
The old guy was getting more action than Brent ever had. On the other hand, the old guy was a nice human being who knew how to communicate straight up about such basic human acts as dating—he was one step away from suggesting a sock on the door, with a straight face.
Of course he got action.
Brent was a hermit, grateful that his fellow firefighters didn’t want to talk about the near-death experiences they faced with some frequency. And an asshole who dodged his wife’s persistent text messages.
“Hey man, we’re here.” Kacey, the youngest firefighter in their house, knocked her helmet against his. “Earth to Brent.”
He gave her a tight nod, then followed her off the truck. His gut twisted at the thought of opening his locker. It had been a few days. Jess was due to send him another message. He wouldn’t even open it—couldn’t, although heknewthat was wrong, fuck fuck fuck—and if he saw that notification on his screen…
Well, he didn’t need to check. He could go straight to the shower.
But he didn’t.
His first shot was to the locker room.
The screen was dark, though. No missed messages.
He stared at it. Relief blasted through him, but just like everything else, that was mixed up now, too. Relief was supposed to feel good, not like a cold, clammy dump of dirty water.
Fuck.
Call her, you idiot.
But he couldn’t. He didn’t know what he would say, and she’d need him to say something. Anything. To explain why he left, why he stayed away, when all he wanted to do was crawl back into her bed and sob like a fucking baby.
5
Jess’s phone vibrated on her desk. She shot a quick glance sideways at it, but it wasn’t Brent. It was never Brent.
The name on the screen made her smile nonetheless. Evan was happy to blow her phone up at all hours of the day and night. Always about business, of course, but it was refreshing to have any kind of reliable phone contact with a man.
“You’re working late,” she said when she answered the call.
“I bet you are, too.” His voice was rich in her ear, amused and knowing, and she smiled.
“At my desk as we speak. Poking holes in a transactional email campaign for a client.”
“I love it when you talk like that.”
She laughed. “I subscribed to your mailing list, too, you know.”
