Page 71 of Worth the Fight

“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.