“What was Marcy here for?”
It takes everything I have to look up from what’s in my hand and over to Bowie—but I do for just a second. “She wanted to drop something by for me.”
“Don’t tell me she’s giving you preferential treatment now after the calendar? What? You get a modeling contract?” He rolls his eyes, and I laugh at how ludicrous he sounds.
“Not hardly.” I’m distracted so I’m not fast enough when Bowie snatches the photo from my hand. “Give it back, Bow,” I warn with venom snapping in my tone.
“Whoa!” He holds his free hand up as his eyes grow big before handing it back to me and whistling. “And you let that go . . . why exactly?”
I don’t answer him. I can’t. Because my eyes are back on the photo Marcy gave me.
It’s Dylan. Her smile is wide. Eyes alive. Expression sincere. There is a hint of some kind of silky thing from her shoulders down that my dick is begging to know what it looks like, but it’s her face that holds my mind. And my heart.
The picture is equivalent to mine in the calendar.
Except she isn’t looking at me like I was her.
She’s happy on her own. She’s seeing her worth on her own.
Who am I to ask her back here, to pull her away from her life and everything the confidence in her eyes says she will succeed at? Hold her back when fuck if that look on her face says she’s about to fly.
“I didn’t let her go. She wasn’t mine to keep,” I murmur, my fingers itching to touch the picture as if I can feel her skin when I do.
“And sometimes men are dumbasses who don’t see what’s right in front of their faces.”
“Oh. Wow. Look how far you’ve gotten on this place.”
I knew I heard tires crunch on the driveway, but when I look over to where my mom stands, she is by far the last person I expect to see standing in my backyard.
She walks around the playroom. It’s been framed, drywalled, and stuccoed. The roof is papered and shingles are loaded.
“It’s almost done,” I say and step back from where I’m working and stare at her. “That’s how long it’s been since you’ve been here.”
“I’ve been staying away,” she says as she runs her hand over the wall.
“And why’s that?” I chuckle, although I’m pretty sure I know.
“I was just trying to make sure you had your space.”
“Space? You mean privacy so I’d fall madly in love with Dylan, right?”
“No. I never—”
“C’mon, Mom.” I tip my beer to my lips and shake my head. “You’re about as subtle as a flying brick.” I walk to the mini refrigerator I have plugged in and am surprised she accepts when I offer her a beer. “I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you once again, but she’s gone now.”
“Well, of course, she’s gone. Did you ask her to stay?”
“That’s the question of the day, isn’t it?” Jesus Christ. First Bowie and now my mom. But even with the thought, the photo flashes through my mind and twists up my insides.
“I don’t know about that. It’s my question, though.” She falls silent. “I saw Mallory at the store today.”
“Great.” Not sure why she’s telling me this.
“She said she hasn’t seen you in some time.”
“I’ve been a little busy.” I turn my back to her and pick up my tape measure.
“I know she’s typically your temporary bed partner, and I thought since—”
I choke on air. “Christ, Mother.” I turn to face her. “Really? You really want to go there?”
“I’m not going anywhere. Don’t think I’m dumb. I was young once and liked to have a little fun.” She blushes a bit, and as much as I abhor the thought of thinking about my mom having sex, I also love the shit out of her for trying to talk to me and get on my playing field. The woman has a heart of gold despite being determined to expand the Malone clan. “There’s nothing wrong with a little companionship now and again . . . so long as you’re safe. But Mal said she called you last week, and you didn’t return her call. She just wanted to make sure you were okay.”
“So what’s the question here? Am I okay? Why am I not sleeping with Mallory? Am I not sleeping with Mal because I’m still stuck on Dylan? What, Mom? Give me a roadmap here so I can figure out what your question is?” I run a hand through my hair and walk over to sit on the porch steps.
“You don’t need to be rude.” She traces the label on her beer before meeting my eyes. “I know you turned Mal down because she was temporary and Dylan was permanent.”
“Can’t be too permanent since she isn’t here.” There’s more bite to my tone than she deserves.
“I hate to see you hurting, Grady.”
“I’m not hurting. I know hurt. This is just . . . this is how it has to be.”
“Says who? Says the gods of guilt you’re living your life by?”
“Says the four firefighters who lost their lives a few weeks back. Says their wives and kids who will never see them again. Says Brody and Shelby. Who am I to make someone go through that?”
“You listen to me, Grady Scott Malone, and you listen good. All that talk is nonsense. This is the job you love. The person you are. Any woman who is good enough for you, who loves you, accepts this possibility when she decides to be with you. I accepted it with your father. Emerson accepted it with Grant. Families accept it every day when their son, brother, father, daughter, sister, mother, goes off to serve our country. So, I love you, but I’m sick of you hiding behind your profession. It’s an honorable profession. One that makes me proud to be your mother. Stop demeaning it by using it as your excuse.”
I stare at my mom, eyes blinking, ears rejecting her harsh rebuke that I more than deserve but still don’t want to hear.
“Dylan isn’t going to wait around for you forever.”
“Who said she’s waiting around at all?”
“Seriously?” she asks wryly with a shake of her head. “You men are blind as damn bats. Take a week, Grady. Men do better with deadlines, so take a week to get your head together and figure out what you want. Whatever you decide to do after that week, do it. Move forward, because you can’t keep doing this to yourself.”
She walks over to me and presses a kiss to the top of my head like she used to do when I was little.
“You don’t drown by falling in the pool, Grady. You drown by not trying to swim out of it,” she says before running her hand up and down my back and walking off.
I hear the clink of her beer bottle as she tosses it into the trashcan.
I hear her engine turn over and the crunch of her tires as she backs down the driveway.
And I sit and stare at the moon above, the same moon looking down upon Dylan somewhere, and wonder how to start swimming when I’ve been treading water for what feels like forever.