“What’s the deal?” I ask with major attitude the minute I walk into the common area.
Veego, Bowie, Dixon, and Mack are all sitting around the table with somber expressions on their faces. Their eyes all flicker to each other while they wait for Bowie, the highest in command, to speak first.
“Take a seat,” Bowie says and kicks a chair out for me. I grit my teeth and refuse to sit when he motions to it. I’m pretty sure I need to remain standing for this one.
“Please tell me this isn’t about the goddamn calendar.” Dylan’s words outside resonate in my head. Make me feel even guiltier that I’m not willing to strip my shirt off to help Brody and Shelby.
Shit.
I don’t have a choice, do I?
“Because if it is, I’ll do the fucking thing. You happy?” I throw my hands up. “Can I go now? Class dismissed?”
I know I’m being an asshole, but a confrontation is the last thing I need right now. I have the memory of Dylan in my bed and the reality of Shelby’s request in my head. The one she called me about earlier that I can’t quite wrap my head around how I’m going to be able to do it and not lose it myself. Talk about the highest high to a heartbreaking low.
“The calendar’s a good start, but it’s the least important of what we need to talk about,” Veego says and looks toward Bowie to continue.
“We’re worried about you, Malone,” Bowie says matter-of-factly.
“What? Am I not pulling my weight around here? The rig’s clean. The grocery shopping is done. The—”
“When’s the last time you were active on a call?” Mack speaks up and gets to the heart of the matter.
“I’m active on all calls.”
“Let me rephrase, when was the last time you were engaged on a call, Malone?” It’s Dixon’s calm voice that grates on my nerves and ignites my temper. “You know, walked into the fire beside us instead of stood there and watched us go at it alone.”
“Fucking Christ.”
“You were out six months. On desk duty for what? A year?” Bowie asks.
“Uh-huh,” I say void of all emotion and recall how miserable it was being a desk jockey while I waited for the medical doctors and the department psychologist to deem me physically and mentally fit to return. “And on active duty for six months. Your point is what exactly?”
“How many fires have you been engaged on?”
“There haven’t been many fires in Sunnyville since I’ve been off desk duty, so I couldn’t tell you.”
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Okay then, I’ll be a dumbass and ask the question you all seem to know but aren’t letting me in on. What the fuck is going on?”
“Can we trust you to be there?” Mack asks, and I can tell that having to ask that question makes all the guys uncomfortable.
“Can you trust me?” I blink as if it’s going to help me understand what they’re asking.
Trust is knowing your brother is there even when you can’t see him. Two-in. Two-out. No matter the cost.
I think of Drew saying those words to me. Of the two of us reciting them as we sat at a beach bonfire and polished off a six-pack. The tap of our beer bottles against one another’s. The promise made to always look out for each other.
And with the memory comes the anger at the rest of the guys looking at me. The disbelief that they’re questioning me.
“Oh, I get it. This isn’t you worrying about my well being. This is you worrying about me having your back on a call. This is you worrying if my head’s straight enough to save you if you get in trouble . . . or if I’m going to let you die like I did Drew? Right? That’s what this is?” Mack tries to talk, and I cut him off. “Well, fuck you. Fuck all of you.” My fists clench, and it’s hard to draw in air as I turn my back to them and pace the room. Fury and hurt and distrust eat at every part of me . . . just like the guilt does.
“Grady.”
“Stop Grady-ing me! Just stop! You don’t know what it was like. You don’t live with what happened in your head. His voice asking for help. His screams begging. Having to hear his PASS alarm going off and not knowing how to save him. You don’t close your eyes every goddamn night and worry about how bad the nightmare is going to be this time, do you? You don’t get called to a scene where a fire is hot and worry about whether it’s going to happen again. So you’re fucking right, I’m messed up. But you can bet your ass that when I walk into a fire, it’ll be because I’m ready and know without a shadow of a doubt I’d do it again to save one of your sorry asses. If you don’t like that, or don’t believe I’m capable of doing my job, take it up with command. Kick me out of the department. But don’t you ever”—I slam my hand down on the kitchen counter so hard it stings—“tell me you worry about me having your back.”
Every part of my body vibrates with an anger I haven’t felt since the day I woke in the hospital bed and was told that Drew didn’t make it. Four sets of eyes stare at me with a shock and concern that’s incomparable to anything I’ve seen before.
“We just want to help you in whatever way you need it,” Mack says. “But you won’t let us. You walk around like everything is fucking perfect when we know it isn’t. It isn’t for us, for fuck’s sake so how can it be okay for you?”
“We’re here for you. That’s all we’re saying,” Dixon chimes in when I want to tune him out.
“We’ll help you work through it on the next call, but we need you to tell us how to do it,” Bowie says. And it’s harder to ignore him when he knows more than any of them about the panic attack I get when I’m on scene. He’s the one who trades places with me—goes into the fire while I take his command—so I don’t lose it.
“There’s nothing you can do,” I whisper, embarrassed and unable to meet their eyes. I look at the pictures on the wall. Every member of the firehouse has their picture there . . . even Drew. It’s still there with the chip in the corner of the frame. Seeing his goofy grin kills me more than any of their words do. He should be here instead of me. Shelby should have her husband, and Brody should have his dad. No one needs me. Why was he the one who died? “Just let me get through this week. Let me get through what we have to do on Monday. Then I’ll wrap my head around all of this.” I look up and meet each one of their eyes.
Do they still trust me?
Do they still think I am capable? Still believe in me?
I swallow my pride and anger and take a deep breath in an attempt to dial back the emotions eating me whole. “Thank you for your concern. Thank you for caring. Thank you for giving me time.”
My eyes sting as I walk from the common area to the bunkroom. I don’t know how to work in a place that holds all the incredible memories I never want to forget but can’t bear to be reminded of.
How do I live a life that does exactly that?
How do I move forward when I’m terrified the past will repeat itself?