I sat there for a moment, watching him disappear into traffic, then pulled out my phone. I scrolled through my contacts until I found the number I'd been avoiding for weeks.
Izzy.
My thumb hovered over her name, and for a moment, all my old fears came rushing back. What if she wouldn't see me? What if I'd destroyed things too completely to repair? What if I wasn't worthy of the love I'd thrown away?
But then I heard Kellen's voice in my head:You're a good nurse. Don't let this job make you forget that.
And underneath that, something else:She's worth fighting for.
I pressed the call button before I could change my mind.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Then, just as I was about to hang up, she answered.
"Jimmy?"
Her voice was cautious, surprised, but she'd answered. That had to count for something.
"Izzy," I said, my voice rough with emotion and too much bourbon. "I know I don't deserve it, but... can we talk?"
There was a long pause, and I held my breath, waiting.
"Where?" she said finally.
chapter
thirty-three
The call cameon a Thursday morning, a month deep into what had become my new normal — mechanical coffee, mechanical shower, mechanical existence in an apartment that felt more like a holding cell than a home. I was sitting at my kitchen table, staring at incident reports that didn't need reviewing, when my phone rang.
"Izzy?" Margaret's voice was small, fragile in a way that made my chest tighten. "I'm sorry to bother you, honey, but I... I'm trying to go through some of Michael's things. His clothes and... I can't do it alone. Would you... could you come sit with me?"
The request threatened to overwhelm me, but I pushed down the emotion immediately. This was duty. This was what you did for family.
"Of course," I said, already reaching for my keys. "I'll be right there."
"Thank you," she whispered. "I just... I can't face it by myself."
Twenty minutes later, I was standing in Cap and Margaret's bedroom, surrounded by the detritus of a life well-lived. The room still smelled like him — Old Spice aftershave and the faint scent of smoke that never quite washed out of afirefighter's skin. Margaret was sitting on the edge of the bed, holding one of his uniform shirts like it might disappear if she let go.
When she spoke, her voice seemed to echo strangely in the half-empty space, bouncing off surfaces that had absorbed thirty-two years of shared conversations and now had only one voice left to fill them.
"I don't know where to start," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
"We'll take it slow," I said, settling beside her. "One box at a time."
We worked in companionable silence for a while, sorting through the accumulated possessions of thirty-two years of marriage. Tax forms from the early 90s. Old warranty papers for appliances that had been replaced years ago. A shoebox full of takeout menus from restaurants that no longer existed. The mundane paperwork of a shared life that somehow felt more intimate than love letters.
Margaret kept getting distracted by memories, and each one felt like a small explosion in my chest.
"Oh, this old thing," she said, pulling out a faded Station 4 t-shirt with holes in the shoulders. "I can't believe I even remember this, but..." She paused, a small smile crossing her face. "Aaron used to — God, he was maybe three? — and Michael would come home justdestroyedfrom a shift. Awake for twenty-four hours, sometimes forty-eight if they had mutual aid calls. And this little voice would go 'WRESTLE ME, DADDY!' and I'd think, 'Please, no, Aaron, Daddy needs to sit down,' but Michael..."
She trailed off, her fingers tracing the worn fabric.
"He'd just drop right to the floor," she continued, her voice thick with memory. "Right there in the hallway, still in his work boots, and they'd have these elaborate wrestling matches. Michael would make these ridiculous sound effects, let Aaron pin him for the count. 'OH NO, I'M DEFEATEDBY THE MIGHTY AARON!' he'd yell. The neighbors probably thought we were insane."
Someone who would have made time,I thought, the realization hitting me like a sucker punch.Someone who would have gotten on the floor, no matter how tired.
