It’s like scoring the perfect Michael Kors bag on sale.
At least that’s the best way to describe the feeling when I complete a song and know it has the it factor that will make it a hit.
When I walk out of my room, Petunia is staring at me as if she isn’t too impressed with the cheer I sent up when I saved the finalized lyrics on my Mac.
Now I feel restless. Like I need to go celebrate but have nowhere to go. Add to that, when I look at the clock, I realize that it’s only seven thirty in the morning. I awoke with a start at five o’clock, the lyrics I’ve been struggling with suddenly coming to me, demanding I write them down. Since Grady was on shift, I got up and decided to have a go at them.
I don’t care how early it is, though, I want to commemorate this small victory. Going to a bar before breakfast and ordering a celebratory drink isn’t exactly something most would approve of. I grin, picturing Petunia and me sitting at a high-top table together, and shake my head. Pigs probably aren’t allowed in bars.
Meaning the four-legged kind at least.
I have thirty minutes before Grady is off shift. Maybe I’ll drive into town and see if he wants to meet up for Bertha’s pancakes to celebrate. Syrup may not be wine, but at least it’s something.
Once cleaned up and with a quick dash of makeup on, I text Grady.
Me: Heading to Mama Bertha’s to celebrate with pancakes. Want to meet me there after your shift?
But when I reach Bertha’s café and still don’t have a response, I decide to head to the fire station in case he’s tied up on a call and ran over on his shift. I take the meandering route through the tree-lined neighborhoods of Sunnyville toward the firehouse.
I get a little lost, but right as I find my bearings at the stop sign on Cherry Blossom Drive and Willow Bend Street, a truck parked on the opposite side of the intersection grabs my attention.
It’s silver and has the firefighter emblem in the back rear window on the left-hand side. It’s either Grady’s truck or someone else in town has the identical truck complete with decal placement. It’s a possibility, but right when I’ve dismissed the idea, I see Grady on the porch of the house across the street.
I’m not sure why something calls on me to go through the intersection and park against the curb so I can watch, but I do. There’s something about Grady’s posture, about him dressed in his Class A’s, about him standing in a random front yard that demands my undivided attention.
I feel like I’m part stalker, part crazy ex-girlfriend and know I’m invading his privacy and should drive away, but I don’t. I sit there on the side of Willow Bend and watch as the little boy—Brody—from the farmers’ market comes running out and jumps into Grady’s arms.
My breath catches. The way Grady hugs him, as if he never wants to let him go, causes a huge lump to form in my throat. The way he buries his head in that place where little kids smell like little kids—the crook where his neck meets his shoulder—and breathes him in has my vision blurring with tears.
The two stay like that until Brody tries to wiggle away. Grady sets him down, and Brody pulls on his hand and leads him toward the front door where Shelby stands with one arm crossed over her stomach and the other elbow bent so her fingertips are touching her lips. The moment her son’s attention is focused on her, her face transforms with the smile that lights it up, but it’s as if a switch is flipped, erasing the grief there moments before.
A car door slams. Then another. Another truck has parked in front of Grady’s. Four more firefighters in their Class A’s climb out and shout animatedly at Brody as they cross the street. Each one high-fives Brody and then swallows him in a huge hug before setting him down and ruffling his hair. They then all walk over to Shelby and give her a kiss on the cheek or a hug in greeting.
Every part of me sighs seeing these gruff men being so sweet to this little boy and widow. To their extended family.
And before I know it, there are several more guys climbing out of their vehicles walking toward the house. My eyes swivel from the men to Brody and back again.
The yellow school bus lumbers down the street ever so slowly. The Star Wars backpack Shelby is holding in her hands looks way too big for Brody. The eight adults walking Brody down the driveway and waiting at its edge. I finally get it.
It’s Brody’s first day of school.
I bring my hand to my mouth as the school bus pulls up to the curb in front of Brody’s house. Each firefighter lines the sidewalk so Brody has to give them a high five as he makes his way to the opened school bus door. Some do a spin and make him guess where to hit their hands. Others kneel down and give him an easy target. Bowie stands there with a camera, taking photo after photo as Brody interacts with each one of them. They all have reassuring smiles on their faces as he passes them. And when he gets to the end of the line, Grady is standing there, grin huge, hug even bigger, before he helps Brody slip his backpack on his shoulders. He then kneels down and gives him what looks like a man-to-man chat that simultaneously breaks my heart and fills it.
Then Shelby steps in and gives her own pep talk to Brody before she takes his hand and walks him to the door of the waiting bus. The guys erupt in a roar of cheers and excited waves as they wait for him to take his seat at the window. At their second wave of cheers, I assume Brody waves back, and it keeps going until the doors shut and the bus slowly makes its way to the intersection.
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.