“I hope you don’t mind that I stopped over without calling first.” Emerson stands in the doorway and smiles, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and her little baby paunch finally showing.
“No. Please. Come in.” I open the door wider and do a mental rundown of if I look presentable or not. Too many late nights working and a lot of Grady covering the station for the crews called up north to cover the wildfire slowly being contained means makeup and hair have been left by the wayside. “I could use the break. It feels like I’ve been working on the same lyrics for days without any progress.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’m down to finishing my final three songs.”
“And then you’ll be leaving us?” I notice her pursed lips and hate what my response has to be.
“Yes.” I clear the emotion in my throat that the knowing look in her eyes causes.
“I’m sure you’re excited to get back to your everyday life. The hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. Hell, now that Jett’s out of the picture, I’m sure you’ll have a blast living it up, playing the field, and meeting someone new.”
“Hmm.”
“He is out of the picture, right?” she asks with wide eyes and raised brows.
“Yes. He is. It’s definitely over.” This time my response has more resonance to it.
“Then yay, you get to go back home with a fresh start.”
“Sure.” There is nothing convincing in how I say the word. In fact, the thought of leaving here and playing the field is the farthest thing on my mind because there’s one problem with each one of those suppositions. None of them include Grady.
Or the comfort of the scanner that convinces me he’s okay and near, even though he isn’t. Like now.
Emerson angles her head and studies me for a beat, but when she finally speaks, she leaves the topic alone and moves on. “I don’t know how you do it,” she murmurs as she sits in the chair across from me. “If I had to be that creative all the time, I think my brain would fry.”
“And if I had to jump out of airplanes for a living, mine would fry.” I laugh and then shrug. “There are many days the creativity isn’t there. But when I feel a song and I’m on, I can write it in less than an hour. Other times, like now, it takes days.”
“What’s the song called you’re working on now?”
“‘Hard to Say Goodbye.’” Our eyes meet briefly, and I know she can see the truth in mine. That I’m writing a song about my imminent departure, but she just smiles softly and nods as I stand and move nervously into the kitchen. “Would you like some water? A soda?”
“What I’d really love is a glass of wine, but that’s frowned upon since I’m pregnant and all.” She laughs, and yet I can hear the adoration in her voice over her impending baby.
“Damn doctors.” I roll my eyes and take a seat across from her again. “What can I do for you?”
“I have something for you, hot off the presses and I thought you might want to see.”
“What are you talking about?”
There is a mischievous smile on her lips as she reaches into her monster-sized purse. “Did I mention to you one of my clients is Marcy Holden?” That gets my attention. “I stopped by her studio to book some pregnancy photos—that I’m sure Grant will bitch about having to take with me—and she happened to get her first shipment of these in. She thought that since I’m Grady’s sister-in-law and everything that I might swing some by the station. So I did. But not before I grabbed an extra to bring to you.”
She pulls the calendar out of her purse, and for some reason I’m hesitant to look at it. I’m nervous for Grady and how his photo turned out, considering how anxious he was.
“Have you looked at it?” I ask and then feel stupid when I see it wrapped in plastic.
“I figured I’d let you do the honors.”
I glance at her as I take it from her hands and slowly peel the wrapping off. The front cover is a picture of all twelve guys with their turnouts on, their jackets unfastened to reveal their shirtless chests underneath. If I may say so, the Sunnyville Fire Department has some hot firefighters. Grady’s smile is wide in the photo, and it’s more than obvious they were all laughing about something.
When I flip to the first page, both of our breaths hitch. It’s a picture of Brody in his dad’s gear. The uniform almost swallows him whole, but it’s the smile on his face and tears welling in his eyes that grabs my heart and doesn’t let go. And beneath his photo is a thank-you note for supporting the fireman’s widow fund.
Talk about a knife to the chest.
I lift the first page to January and laugh when I’m met with Bowie and his cheesy grin. He’s attractive in his own right, but I can’t get past picturing the silly antics of his. Dixon’s up next, and I’m impressed with how much the camera likes him. Emerson and I go through each month, making small comments here and there, but it’s when I hit August that the gasp falls from both of our mouths.
My first thought is Grady’s going to lose his mind.
My second thought is oh my God, that’s the Grady I know.
The image is in black and white. It isn’t of Grady in his turnouts, flexing his muscles. It isn’t him looking serious (and uncomfortably stiff) back at the camera. It’s of Grady looking back over his shoulder when the shoot was complete, relief in his eyes, and a genuine smile on that handsome face of his.
It was when he was looking at me.
Marcy captured the moment perfectly. The authenticity of it. The emotion in Grady’s eyes, and the pleasure in his smile.
And his burns.
They are part of the picture—like they’re a part of him. Probably the only part of the picture he’ll notice, but deep down, I know no one else will see them because they’ll be too busy falling in love with Grady Malone.
Just as I have.
I inhale an unsteady breath as the reality of the thought hits me like a sucker punch to the solar plexus.
“Holy shit.” It’s Emerson who speaks. The words are drawn out and full of unexpected awe.
“That about sums it up.” I laugh nervously.
“Don’t tell Grant I said it, but his little brother is seriously hot.”
My laugh turns more genuine as my hands clutching the calendar relax some, but my eyes never leave the photo. “I won’t.”
“This picture . . . it’s everything.”
“It is,” I murmur.
“He’s going to hate it,” she says.
I love it. “I know.”
“It shows his burns, but no one is going to notice them because they are going to be staring at—”
“The look in his eyes,” I finish for her. We both fall silent for a moment as we take in the picture again. The dark contrast of his burns against the lighter parts of his skin. How they seem so muted when compared to the look on his face. In his eyes. The smile on his lips that lights his face.
“I’d love to know what he was looking at,” she says.
Me.
I don’t say it, though. I don’t trust my own voice not to betray the emotion rioting through me from realizing that I love him. To betray the hope this picture brings—that he feels the same. But then comes the devastation in knowing that it doesn’t matter whether I love him or not, because the calendar’s prelude—the opening picture of Brody and the sadness it exudes—is exactly why Grady will never acknowledge or act on the feelings his eyes reflect.
“I’m not sure.”