Page 73 of Worth the Fight

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

DYLAN

“He forgot his phone.” Grant is standing in the doorway to the house with his hand extended and Grady’s cell in it.

“Thanks. He isn’t here, but I’ll give it to him when he gets back.”

“Where’d he go? You guys couldn’t have left five minutes before us.”

“I don’t know. There was a call on the scanner, and Grady said he had to take a drive.” Grant swears under his breath and sighs. His reaction makes me uneasy. “What is it?”

“The one time Emerson convinces me to turn it off.” He laughs, starts to speak, and then stops. He runs a hand through his hair with the same mannerism that his brother does and it makes me smile. “He’s having a rough go of it.” I can tell it pains him to tell me, almost as if he’s betraying his brother by talking about it with me.

“You’re the second or third person who has used that phrasing.” Damon, Desi at the grocery store, and now Grant. “What exactly does a rough go of it mean? What am I missing?”

He twists his lips and then continues. “The guys at the station are worried about him. We’re all worried about him, in fact.”

“But he told me he agreed to do the calendar. It’s a step in the right direction, isn’t it? It shows he’s coming to terms with his burns?”

“It is, a big one for him personally, but it’s the scars we can’t see that are worrying me. One of his crew, Bowie, called me a few weeks back. He said Grady isn’t engaging on the job. If there’s a fire, he can’t bring himself to breach the building.” My heart falls. “Bowie said he’s fine on medical calls but show up at a hot scene, and he freezes.”

“Which doesn’t instill any confidence in the guys,” I conclude and then think back to Grady’s rejection of whatever meeting was going on at the station yesterday. The exchange with Veego. I thought Grady’s unexpected request to take me to the station was to get back at Jett . . . and now I wonder if it was to prevent them from pulling him into a confrontation he didn’t want to have. It all makes sense now, and I grieve for Grady. “I was there the other day. I thought it was just about the calendar.”

“He’s too proud to let anyone know he’s having trouble.” Grant’s concern for his brother is so real. It’s almost as if he’s trying to wear the burden to carry it for his brother.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“I wish I knew, but all I can think of is that he needs more time. I don’t know. None of us have been through this before. I wish there was a way to help ease the survivor’s guilt or else when he actually gets the nerve to walk back in the fire, I fear he’s going to be looking for punishment.”

“He’s punished himself enough.”

“He has. And he’ll always blame himself so there’s no use trying to tell him different. I know from experience.”

“Then what do we do?” I all but plead.

“We have patience. And we find a way to show him every day that if he doesn’t start to live again, he’s wasting his second chance at life.”

* * *

The front door shutting startles me awake. My guitar falls off my lap and onto the floor with a musical thud as I scramble up and look toward the kitchen.

Grady stands there, shoulders sagging, eyes wary, and every part of him on edge. Our eyes meet for the briefest of seconds, his more like a glare of contempt before he throws his keys on the counter and walks back out without a word.

It’s the first time I’ve ever felt uncomfortable in his home, and frankly, I’m not sure what I should do or what is going on.

And then I hear it.

The pound of the hammer. The deep, resonating thud, thud, thud of his aggression being taken out on wood and metal in what appears to be the only way he knows how to cope. I stand at the window and watch him, the scanner’s steady, controlled chaos the background to my thoughts.

I’m not sure how long I stand there and watch Grady move here and there beneath the spotlight illuminating the small part of the backyard where he works, but the tension in his movements never seems to diminish.

My feet move without thought, the need to comfort more important than the awkwardness of intruding on his private moment. Outside I wait, not saying anything but knowing he is aware I’m there.

And still he doesn’t say a word.

“Is everything okay?” I finally bite the bullet and ask.

He grunts in response.