He closed the folder with deliberate precision, sliding it into his briefcase with the kind of careful movements reserved for handling evidence in a losing case. Each motion calculated, contained, giving away nothing except in the white of his knuckles against the leather handle.
“We’ll discuss this again when you’re calmer.” His tone had gone flat, professional—the voice he used for difficult clients. “When you’ve had time to think rationally about what you’re giving up.”
They left without another word, the door closing with a soft click that somehow sounded more final than any slam could have. Through the window, I watched the Lexus reverse out of the driveway, taillights disappearing into the dark like periods at the end of a sentence I’d finally finished writing.
The red glow of taillights faded into nothing, leaving the moths dancing in the porch light and the steady hum of crickets filling the space where accusations had hung moments before.
Doc pushed himself up from his recliner, and before I could think about it, I was in his arms. He smelled like Old Spice and peppermints, the same as he had when I was seven and scared of thunderstorms. His flannel shirt was soft against my cheek, and for a moment I let myself be that kid again—the one who believed her grandfather could fix anything with a hug and a root beer float.
“How you feeling, kiddo?” His voice rumbled through his chest, warm and steady.
I pulled back enough to peer up at him, trying to sort through the tangle of emotions knotted beneath my ribs. My hands were shaking, but not from fear. Not exactly.
“I’m not entirely sure.” The honesty of it surprised me. “But I think... relieved?”
The word came out like a question, but as soon as I said it, I knew it was right. Like I’d been holding my breath for years and finally remembered how to exhale.
Doc’s weathered face crinkled into something that wasn’t quite a smile but held more warmth than one. His hands settled on my shoulders, solid and grounding.
“I’m proud of you.” He squeezed gently and tilted his head in that way he had when he was about to call someone on their BS. “Though I’m guessing your parents aren’t the only ones who needed to hear all that.”
Heat crept up my neck. Of course he knew. This was Huckleberry Creek—everyone knew everything, and Doc had probably known about Diego and me before we’d even figured it out ourselves. He’d certainly been there to pick up the pieces four years ago when I’d made my grand exit, though he’d never said a word against my choice. Not then, not now.
“There someone else you need to talk to?” The knowing look in his eyes held no judgment, only that gentle push he’d perfected over decades of nudging people toward their own truths.
I thought about Diego’s face when I’d told him about the promotion. The hurt that had flashed across it before he’d shuttered it away. The way he’d said, ‘When you figure out where I fall in all that, let me know,’ like he was already bracing for goodbye.
“Yeah.” My voice came out rough. “Yeah, there is. But there’s something I need to do first.”
Doc patted my shoulder once more and headed for the kitchen, leaving me standing in the living room with my truth finally spoken and one more conversation waiting in the dark.
CHAPTER 18
DIEGO
The morning heat pressed against everything like a wet cloth, making the firehouse bay feel smaller than usual. Sweat beaded between my shoulder blades despite the industrial fans churning overhead. The familiar cocktail of motor oil and last night’s Chinese takeout hung in the air, but all I could smell was the ghost of Gillian’s shampoo on my pillow.
I scrubbed harder at the boot in my lap, working the brush into grooves that were already spotless. Third time this morning. The leather gleamed like black water, but I kept at it, anyway. Better than thinking about how she’d looked when she told me about the promotion. Better than remembering the careful way she’d said, ‘I don’t know,’ like she was trying not to break something that was already cracked.
Metal scraped against concrete as Moose dragged a chair across the kitchen floor. Through the doorway, I caught him and Donkey having one of their silent conversations, all raised eyebrows and head tilts. Twitch bounced into view, mouth already opening, then snapped it shut when Donkey elbowed him in the ribs.
They weren’t used to this. Hell, I wasn’t used to this. I was supposed to be the steady one, the guy who kept his head wheneveryone else lost theirs. Paladin, unshakeable in the face of fire. But Gillian had always been my match striking against rough paper—one touch and everything ignited.
The brush stilled in my hand. Fourth time wouldn’t make the boots any cleaner, wouldn’t make her decision any different. I set the boot down and reached for its partner, needing something to do with my hands that didn’t involve punching walls or calling her to say things I’d probably regret.
An engine rumbled outside, close enough to echo off the bay walls. Not one of ours—wrong pitch, too smooth. A car. My shoulders tensed as the motor cut off, followed by the distinctive click of heels on concrete. Not the practical shoes the paramedics wore. These had purpose, rhythm, like someone walking toward something instead of away from it.
The morning sun slanted through the open bay door, turning dust motes into floating sparks. A silhouette cut through the brightness, and my chest seized up like I’d taken a hit without my gear on.
Gillian.
Her hair caught fire in the sunlight, copper and gold spinning together as she stepped into the bay. She wore one of those little sundresses that drove me crazy and a pair of oversized sunglasses that shielded her eyes. Despite them, her gaze found mine across the distance, steady and sure in a way that made my pulse kick into overdrive.
The boot slipped from my hands, hitting the floor with a thud that seemed to echo forever.
She was the last person I expected to see here. The last person I wanted to see before I’d gotten my head straight, before I’d figured out how to armor myself against whatever goodbye she’d come to deliver. But there she stood, morning light at her back, looking at me like I was the only thing in the bay worth seeing.
Behind me, Twitch’s leg stopped bouncing. The kitchen had gone cemetery quiet, the kind of silence that meant everyone was listening while pretending not to exist. A wrench clattered somewhere in the back—probably Moose trying to appear busy and failing spectacularly.
