Page 36 of Chasing the Other Woman

The memory of him saying he didn’t want me in the truck with him comes back with such force that I nearly stumble backward.

He turns back to me.

“Whatever you’re about to say,” I begin.

“I told them they could follow the chase if they wanted or they could follow me. I guess they decided to follow me. I didn’t bring them here.”

“Well, of course she followed. After all, she’s the one you want in the truck, isn’t she?”

The jabs don’t give me as much satisfaction as I’d hoped they would.

He opens his mouth to say something, but I don’t give him the chance.

“If your team has come here to help, we can use the hands. I’m sure Petra can direct you on what to do.”

I nearly expect him to argue because there’s a good chance that Petra will tell him exactly where he can stick his help, but he only nods.

“We’re here for whatever you need.”

By midnight, more utility trucks have rolled in and people have largely stopped searching for anything that isn’t human life due to all the downed power lines.

Brooks does whatever’s asked of him, with Luci trailing so close that an unfamiliar lineman jokes about how nice it must be to have a pretty young wife glued to his hip.

Petra hears it, and I suspect makes a mental note to always short him on whatever he orders from that day forward.

When I finally make it back outside, I see Tom standing near Brooks. They’re looking over the green chase vehicle, Tom taking in every detail to the point that I know he’ll be able to identify every aspect of it from memory by morning.

“That’s the custom intercept bumper,” Tom says.

Miraculously, Luci isn’t around, so I watch, trying my best to disappear into the side of the building.

“That’s right. Reinforced steel. It’s positioned so it won’t catch on anything. You don’t want debris hanging onto it while you’re trying to move.”

Tom nods. “So it won’t lift the front end.”

“Correct.”

I’ve watched too many adults get that overly patient tone with Tom. The one that patronizes him and tells him, because he’s more perceptive than most, that his questions and attention to detail exhaust them.

Not Brooks, though. Instead, he crouches down beside the bumper, injured arm tucked close, and points to the bracket. “See that right there? That’s where it took a hit. If that hadn’t been reinforced, this thing would have been out of commission for a week or more.”

Tom grins. I’ve known by the questions Tom’s asked me over the past few days that he admires Brooks. I’ve even caught him watching old footage on his tablet over the past few days, something I’ve done my best to avoid.

No matter what is going on between us, with Tom, Brooks is still Brooks. Patient with a kid who wants every detail. Warm and easy in the same way that made me fall for him before I knew better than to fall in love with a man who chased monsters for a living.

My mind, naturally, decides to drive the knife inward.

Because all I can picture is a little boy with Brooks’s grin and my storm sense standing between us, listening wide-eyed while his daddy answers every question with endless patience.

I close my eyes, trying my best to scrub the image from my brain.

When I open them, Luci is walking toward Brooks with a bottle of water in her hand.

She says something I can’t hear, her fingers brushing his sleeve as she offers it to him.

It’s nothing, I tell myself. Just a woman handing a tired man water after a disaster.

But then Brooks looks down at her and the pictures start flashing before my eyes in quick succession. Luci in the truck with Brooks. In his arms. Redressing his arm.