Page 79 of Worth the Fight

Shelby watches the bus make the turn, and from the time it passes between us, blocking my view of the firefighters on the driveway, to when it clears, Grady has stepped forward and now has his hand on her shoulder in a show of silent support.

But then her shoulders shake.

And her hand comes up to cover her mouth as the bittersweet feelings the day has evoked barrel through her. Grady tries to pull her into him for a hug, and she fights him at first, determined to stay strong. But he wins out. The minute he envelops her in his arms, her shoulders sag as her arms wrap around him and hold on for dear life.

It’s then that my heart breaks. If I thought I was emotional before, dear God, I was wrong. The tears don’t stop. The small taste of the personal torment Grady lives day in and day out has hit me squarely in the solar plexus so hard I wonder how he breathes most days.

And yes, I’ve peeked long enough into this life that is not mine, but this moment seems so much more personal than watching them high-five Brody.

I can’t take my eyes off them. I can’t stop my mind from spinning and turning. I can’t look at Grady anymore—or at the group of men who made time to see a little boy off for his first day of school—and lay the sins of my father at their feet.

How I ever thought Grady was anything like my father is beyond me . . . because after what I just witnessed—after every bit of heartfelt kindness he’s shown me—they are nothing alike. Not even close.

It takes me a few seconds to accept the revelation. To reverse years of conditioned thinking. But it’s really not that hard because firefighter or no firefighter, Grady Malone just proved to me he’s in a class all his own. He’s a man worth so much more than I pegged him for.

And after a few minutes more of watching them, I put my car in drive and pull away from the curb as Grady and Shelby stand there, finding a solace in each other from a pain that may never be cured.

CHAPTER THIRTY

GRADY

I drive.

In an endless loop through town.

Off to Miner’s Airfield, where I sit on the side of the highway and watch the parachutes exploding against the blue of the sky. I’m sure my sister-in-law, Emerson, is up there somewhere, directing the jumpers in her skydiving class.

Then again, maybe she isn’t.

Maybe Grant has put his foot down since she’s pregnant and is not allowing her to do it anymore.

How do I not know if that’s happened when I typically know everything about my brothers? Am I that out of touch? Have I really cut myself off from my life? Have I really been so damn focused on myself, on the guilt, that it’s all I’ve been able to see for the past however long?

“Christ,” I mutter and lean my head back against the headrest and close my eyes. All I see is Brody and his infectious smile. All I hear is his whispered words in my ear, asking me if I thought his daddy knew it was his first day of school. All I know is how fucking hard it was to hold back the tears and pretend everything was perfectly normal when inside I was dying.

And is it sadder than fuck that right now I’m out here at Miner’s when every part of me wants to text Dylan back and say screw the damn pancakes, I only want her.

But I didn’t. Not even I’m that much of an asshole.

If I went home and did what I wanted to do to her to ease my own fucked-up head, I’d be using her. Using her to make it through the next day. The next night. The next everything.

The kicker? We both know she’d give it to me. It’s the kind of beautiful she is. But then what? She leaves and feels more used than Jett made her feel, and I’m left needing more, still broken, still spiraling.

I start the truck and pull out of the airfield, telling myself I’m going to hit the gym and work out until Brody’s first day is over so I can check on him and see how it went. But for some reason, my truck doesn’t head there. Instead, my hands take the familiar turns back to my house. Left on Hollister. Right on Danville. Left on Prosperity. And then the long drive to my house.

I sit in the truck and stare at it for the longest of time. What would it be like to come home every day to the same woman? To Dylan?

To have a family. A little boy like Brody with inquisitive eyes and a quiet smile. Or one like Luke, who’s loud and rowdy and likes to cause trouble but has a good heart. What would it be like to come home every day after shift and have them run and jump in my arms like we used to with my dad?

Christ. What the fuck am I thinking?

I shift in my seat and feel the stretch of my scarred skin on my back and know that’s the crazy talking. The crazy that will never be. Can’t be.

Could I really put a wife and kids through what Shelby and Brody go through every day?

No.

Does lightning strike twice? What are the odds of walking into a fire and being hurt twice?