Page 67 of Until We Come Home

She means Engine 17, my old firehouse, the place where I started my career. I landed yesterday morning and slept straight through the afternoon, but once I woke up last night, I took the T downtown to walk my old stomping grounds while she was on shift. I caught up with the crew, drank bad coffee in the bay while they gave me grief, and then spent an hour wandering through the neighborhood, taking in Boston in all its muggy, noisy glory.

“Yeah, I made the rounds,” I tell her, testing the board with my weight. “Sat around the kitchen with the crew for a bit.”

“I imagine they were relieved to see you breathing,” she says quietly.

“Captain called me a reckless idiot, which I’m fairly certain is his highest form of affection,” I say, chuckling as I wipe my hands on my jeans.

“Well, if the shoe fits,” she says, nudging my boot with hers. “When you’re done playing carpenter, come inside and have coffee with me. I’ve missed having you around. Or are you heading over to the cemetery?”

Lindsey’s grave. Usually it’s the very first place I go whenever I get back to Boston, paying my respects before doing anything else. I didn’t go yesterday, maybe out of pure exhaustion from the flight, the concussion, or my ribs aching every time I take a deep breath. But I’ve been sitting here all morning feeling the quiet pull to head up that hill.

“Not yet,” I tell her, clearing my throat. “I’ll head over later today. Let’s grab that coffee once I finish up here.”

Her expression softens. “Good. It’s been too long since I’ve seen your face. Though you’re still far too handsome for your own good.”

“Oh, stop,” I say, turning back to the wooden board. “And I’ll come inside in just a minute for coffee.”

She heads back inside, the screen door clapping shut behind her, and a minute later I hear the kettle go on and a cupboard open, the same sounds this house has made every morning of my life.

Lindsey’s grave sits on an incline under the old shade trees. It still hits me sideways every time I walk up this hill, like I’m never going to get used to seeing her name carved into stone.

I wander over to the weathered wooden bench set across the grass and sit down slowly, ribs complaining, and look at the granite marker. Her parents had her buried in the family plot, a quiet spot, the kind of peace she deserved.

Lindsey Navarro, beloved wife and daughter

The old familiar pain settles back onto my chest. I’ve spent more of my life grieving her than I ever got to spend loving her, with a little over five years passing since the fire.

I used to replay every second of that night on a loop. During those first few years after she passed, it was practically all I could think about, as if tormenting myself enough times could rewrite it and bring her back.

The anniversary dinner we’d planned. The petty argument over my schedule.

I was on shift that evening, mostly to get away from the tension between us. I knew she was upset about how much time I spent at the station, but I was self-righteous about the job and how important it was, like that excused everything. I told her I’d be late, so she left the restaurant and went home early, curled up on the couch and fell asleep. Maybe waiting for me to pull up. I’ll never know for sure.

If I’d traded the shift, everything would be different. But you can’t bargain with the past, and over the last year I’ve stopped trying to undo it. I haven’t forgiven myself. But maybe I’m finally learning how to carry it.

The real struggle now is the guilt of feeling whole again. The last few years I’ve slowly come back to life, and meeting Mia sped the whole thing up, pulling me out of my own head in a way nothing else had. The Midnights too, handing me a family I didn’t know I needed.

Somewhere along the way the happy moments started to outnumber the sad ones.

Then this summer. Mia and me in the same city for once, the closeness, laughing with the Midnights, finding something like a home with the Station 7 crew. I’ve felt more like myself than I have in years, and that brings its own ache.

It feels entirely unfair that I get to keep moving forward and she doesn’t.

“I’m so sorry you don’t get to be here,” I murmur toward the headstone.

I'd give anything for her to have had a different path. Not trapped in a failing marriage with me, not trapped by circumstance. She could have chased any dream, built any life, and she was cheated out of all of it, a debt that can never be made right.

I sit back and stare at her grave for a long time.

I’ve spent the past week back in Boston, resting up and letting my ribs heal properly. I’m cleared for light duty at the station next week, even if it’s another couple of weeks before they’ll let me back on the rig. It’s still a relief, considering I start climbing the walls if I’m sidelined for too long.

James sent a text earlier saying he’s equally stir-crazy being cooped up. The crew group chat has been going nonstop, with Rebecca and Callum throwing in jokes that actually had me laughing out loud, and the Midnights checking in every day like clockwork.

Mia’s been texting too, though our messages have felt a little more guarded lately. Every time I reach for my phone, I end up hesitating, caught behind my own walls and second-guessing every word.

I stand in my mother’s kitchen pouring a mug of black coffee before she wakes up, looking around at the worn cabinets and feeling pulled right back into my childhood. Her favorite mug sits on the counter, chipped along the rim, and I have to smile at her stubborn refusal to toss it out, insisting it still works just fine.

My phone rattles against the counter with Mia’s name. She must be up early for morning rehearsals with the benefit just a few days out, and my grip tightens on my cup.