Page 65 of Worth the Fight

“Oh, I get it. This isn’t you worrying about my well being. This is you worrying about me having your back on a call. This is you worrying if my head’s straight enough to save you if you get in trouble . . . or if I’m going to let you die like I did Drew? Right? That’s what this is?” Mack tries to talk, and I cut him off. “Well, fuck you. Fuck all of you.” My fists clench, and it’s hard to draw in air as I turn my back to them and pace the room. Fury and hurt and distrust eat at every part of me . . . just like the guilt does.

“Grady.”

“Stop Grady-ing me! Just stop! You don’t know what it was like. You don’t live with what happened in your head. His voice asking for help. His screams begging. Having to hear his PASS alarm going off and not knowing how to save him. You don’t close your eyes every goddamn night and worry about how bad the nightmare is going to be this time, do you? You don’t get called to a scene where a fire is hot and worry about whether it’s going to happen again. So you’re fucking right, I’m messed up. But you can bet your ass that when I walk into a fire, it’ll be because I’m ready and know without a shadow of a doubt I’d do it again to save one of your sorry asses. If you don’t like that, or don’t believe I’m capable of doing my job, take it up with command. Kick me out of the department. But don’t you ever”—I slam my hand down on the kitchen counter so hard it stings—“tell me you worry about me having your back.”

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?

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

GRADY

“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.”