Page 9 of Worth the Fight

But I don’t buy it. I find it hard to believe the man who hasn’t been anything but happy and welcoming is having a hard time.

I hear cries beginning in the background and smile when I think of my brother being a dad—to twins no less.

“I’ve got to go . . . Tessa is starting up.”

“Give her a kiss for me.”

“Hey, Dyl? I know you like to be left alone while you work, which is why I figured Grady’s place would be perfect for you, but don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t.”

I end the call and wander through the house aimlessly. It’s decorated in warm colors with the sparseness that bespeaks of a single male living here. There are touches of his personality here and there in pictures of who I can assume by resemblance are his family or his brothers at the fire station, but it’s missing that feminine touch. There are rugs on the hardwood floor but there are no random tchotchkes cluttering the space. No throws on the back of the couch to add a touch of color. No candles half-burned on holders.

And yet while it is void of those little touches, Grady’s house still screams comfort to me. It feels like a place anyone can walk into and feel at ease.

I run my hand along the back of the brown leather couch as the squelch of the scanner becomes background noise I don’t think I’ll ever quite be comfortable with.

It’s the view that pulls me to the kitchen window. Past the fenced-in backyard where the half-built shed is on one side of the yard and a small covered patio with a fireplace is on the other. There are acres and acres of fields with grapevines growing. Their rows line the hills and their stakes make an optical illusion I stare at for some time, lost until the parachutes in the far distance near where I saw the airport on my drive into town catch my attention. Then I notice the space. Wide-open space without high-rises, or neighbors nearby, or the constant sounds of the city.

It’s beautiful. It’s foreign.

I stare as the tears burn my eyes and the emotions I continue to bury try to fight their way to the surface.

I’m so lost in my thoughts that I yelp when something wet and warm hits the back of my leg.

What the hell?

When I whip around, I’m met with the ugliest, cutest thing I have ever seen. All fifty-or-so pounds of her.

The pig is whitish-pink with black spots. She has a fine layer of wiry hair coating her skin, and her pink snout is wet and quivering as she sniffs the air.

I know what I’m seeing, but it actually takes me a few seconds to really believe that I’m standing in Grady’s kitchen having a staring contest with a pig.

“And who, may I ask, are you?”

She shifts her feet, but her eyes stay fast on mine.

“Do you have a name?” I look for a collar, but then realize how stupid that sounds to be treating a pig like a dog . . . and yet, there is a pig in front of me. One that is very comfortable in . . . I bend over to check out the pig’s underside just to be sure of her gender . . . her surroundings.

Her tail twitches some, and I laugh. I’ve resorted to speaking to a pig. Maybe I’m going crazy.

“Well, I’m going to eat some breakfast,” I say. “No worries though. It isn’t bacon. Just cereal.”

Yep. Definitely crazy.

It’s when I set the phone on the counter behind me that I see the handwritten note.

Dylan,

Don’t be alarmed by Petunia. I forgot to warn you about her, but the vet dropped her off this morning. She’s perfectly harmless . . . mostly. She has a doggy door so no need to take her out.

Grady

I stare at the note for a few seconds as Petunia grunts from the floor.

“Well, Petunia . . . it’s just you and me today.”

CHAPTER FOUR