“Yeah, we know.”
“Youknow?”
“Brother, we’ve known for weeks. You either had a brain transplant or you’re in love. It’s not exactly subtle. So what’s the problem?”
“I don’t know how to be in love. How do you do it?” After all, he’s married.
Knee bouncing, he says, “You run into burning buildings for a living.”
“That’s different. I know how to control fire.”
“You can’t control love, man. That’s the point.”
I take a long inhale. “My dad loved my mom. Then he died and destroyed her.”
James is quiet for a moment. “Or maybe he loved her socompletely that even though it ended in grief, she’d choose him again.”
The words hit differently than I expected.
“You think so?”
“I know. Your mother talks about your dad like he’s her hero. Losing him hurt. But having him? I can only believe that was worth it.”
I sputter, “She talks about my?—?”
“Of course, he’s a legend,”
“Until recently, she hadn’t talked to me about him for almost twenty-five years.”
“Maybe because she thought it would upset you.”
Before I can respond, the door opens.
Winnie walks in, and my entire body blazes. She’s wearing stylish, fitted jeans and a long-sleeve shirt, her hair in loose waves, and her lips are the shade of a rose petal. She looks beautiful and exactly like home. “Sorry, I didn’t know you had company.”
“Just leaving.” James stands, winks at me, and disappears before I can stop him.
She fidgets with the strap of her bag. “I wanted to show you something.” I wanted to ask her something. Tell her something.
She pulls out a couple of old pictures. It takes me a second to recognize the Fourth of July parade from when I was a kid, followed by one from Halloween. My father looms large in his dress uniform, Captain Kendrick beside him, and me in my ridiculous toy firefighter costume.
My throat tightens. “Where did you find these?”
“Grandma Joyce must’ve taken it at the parade years ago. I found them in her photo albums. Also this one.”
The third one is of my dad, mom, and me at the Founders Festival. My eyes prickle.
Winnie’s voice is soft and she glances at the wall, covered in photos detailing Huckleberry Hill and its legacy. “I thought maybe you’d want these.”
I can’t speak. Can only stare at the photo of a little boy who thought his dad was invincible. That his family would be forever.
“Patton?” She touches my arm gently.
“Thank you,” I manage.
Oreo chooses that moment to trot over and sit at Winnie’s feet, leaning against her legs like she’s his favorite person in the world.
Me too, boy. Me too.
