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Not really, but I’ll pretend that I do.
It’s a job. We all have to do our job.
It’s just notherjob.
Dispatchers don’t go out into the field.
Leaving her in the gym wasn’t an option, though. Not when I don’t know why she’s crying.
Not when I could be the reason for those tears.
The thought hits worse than the first look I ever got of her.
I reach behind her, almost brushing against her skin, doing my best to ignore the zip of lightning shooting through me as I sweep up the jacket from the floor and hand it to her, careful not to make contact. “Here. Put this on.”
She sniffs but pulls it on. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I swallow the feeling that there’s something definitely wrong with her, something I caused, and pull out of the school’s parking lot.
For the next six hours we help clear trees blocking the road, drive people needing a ride to the school to wait out the storm, and help.
And through it, Brandi stays almost completely silent. Friendly and soothing to those who need it, but otherwise, silent.
Even considering our less-than-cordial history, she’s never this quiet around me, and as we drive into the deepening night, I know I need to know, but I swallow the urge to ask.
It’s not my business.
Don’t pry into her business.
The storm continues to rage all around us, and even if we aren’t ferrying people back and forth anymore, I don’t have room to slack off.
It’s hard work, and I really should have found someone more suited to the physical labor of moving trees, but I think I like being close to her in the dark. That and I find myself enjoying the silence, the sweet rhythm working together brings.
It’s a small escape from the war we’re usually waging against one another.
Over and over again, I pop the trunk, and Brandi grabs the orange cones to alert anyone else that we are out of the car. I grab the chainsaw, and she hands me a pair of safety goggles. Then she plugs her ears as I cut fallen trees into sections that we easily move together. I help her grab the smaller pieces from the road, and I pretend not to notice her shoulders slumping occasionally. With every tree that gets finished, I load the chainsaw back in the trunk and she picks up the cones. Then we drive to the next tree in the road.
As the night wears on, exhaustion starts to sink its sharp teeth into me, dragging at my limbs. And if I feel it, how the hell is she holding up?
Brandi Anderson is a woman full of surprises and if this was a different world, then maybe… But I don’t—can’t—work in what-ifs. That leads to trouble. Massaging the crick in my neck, I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone. After midnight.
Shit.
“Hey. Why don’t we call it a night? It’s late and I’m pretty beat. The storm’s starting to die down a little. But that just means tomorrow is even more hard work.” I don’t look at Brandi, but tension radiates from her in waves.
“Yeah. Sure. Drop me off at the school. I’ll crash there tonight with everyone else until I can get off the island tomorrow.”
The misery in her voice, hiding behind the veneer of bravado she’s been wearing, cuts into me. She stopped her silent crying a while back, but I know if I glance at her, it will be there, waiting to break free all over again. So I reach for a nonchalance I don’t feel.
“Shit, that’s right. You don’t live in town, do you?” Right up until I say the words, I forgot that she lives in Birch. Within walking distance of the sheriff’s department.
“No. But it’s okay.”
Her response sets my teeth on edge, my blood pumping hard through my veins.
I know what I have to do, and I’m going to hate every single second of the sweet torment it brings.
