Chapter 18
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“I went to a fundraiser last weekend for the Oncology department at the hospital.” Jif rubbed the velvet of Nix’s ears between her fingers. “Did you know firefighters have a higher rate of cancer than the general population?”
Miles hummed.
“Abby’s first husband did pediatric oncology. It’s why she works with the kids at Providence.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
“Right. Sorry.” She’d forgotten his history with Abby went back farther than hers.
He wiggled a shoulder—the good one—in a kind of half-shrug. Well, Miles certainly never used two words where one would suffice. Or any words at all, really, if he didn’t need to.
She sorted her thoughts. “I go to these galas or fundraiser events all the time. The guys—the Raptor players—have charities they work with. Usually, someone talks about the difference having help made in their life, and then there’s an auction, or a dinner, but you pay a little extra to help fund the charity.
I don’t usually pay attention, but my friend Garrett—he’s the one dating my best friend—hosted this one.
His dad died of pancreatic cancer two years ago.
Corey’s mom had breast cancer. Abby works with all these kids, and even Dylan goes with her to visit them.
” She took a breath. “For some reason, it hit me harder this time. I know real people who’ve been hurt by cancer. ”
Usually, she let her date place all the bids, though she loved waving the paddle in the air, and wasn’t above occasionally doing it an extra time or two for fun. He could always afford it.
Colton covered so many of her bills, but this time, she’d lifted his number high when they did the “Raise the Paddle” ask.
Not a bid, Raise the Paddle was always a straight-up donation.
Colton had already committed to a much higher number, but she figured she could skip buying coffee for a couple of weeks and give a little something more.
When she’d Venmo’d Colton the difference, she’d made sure it came from the account her paycheck deposited into, not her credit card, which he paid for anyway.
He’d raised an eyebrow but hadn’t said anything.
“Three guys I’ve worked with have battled cancer,” Miles said. “One of them didn’t make it.”
Jif frowned. “If the risk is so high, someone should be doing more to protect you.”
“We have plenty of gear,” he assured her. “But a fire burns almost everything: chemicals in the wood framing, paint, plastic. Most researchers think the fumes end up getting us.”
“Don’t you have oxygen masks?”
“We do, but we usually only wear them inside. They’re heavy, and they obscure our vision, so if we’re outside, we take them off, and the stuff is still in the air.”
“That sounds dangerous.”
“Maybe, but someone has to do it.”
“I guess.” Jif pressed her cheek to Nix’s muzzle. “Have you heard of CTE?”
Miles shook his head.
She wasn’t surprised. CTE had made headlines a few years ago, but most organizations had suppressed any publicity around it since then.
Would he be insulted if she compared the possibility of Colton having permanent brain damage from playing football to the selflessness of risking his life every day to help others?
She loved the game, but even she didn’t believe it was some elevated gift to mankind.
Then again, Miles hadn’t judged her for anything she’d said yet, even when she’d admitted to her own selfish shallowness. In fact, since he’d made the comment about her being Colton’s sister at their first meeting, he’d been remarkably kind and patient with all her silly little faults.
“Football players get it from having too many concussions.” She shrugged.
“I don’t really understand it, but part of the brain dies?
Or maybe weakens. It causes depression and aggression, memory loss, and it can even stop people from being able to walk and stuff.
” She bit her lip. “I worry sometimes Colton will get it.”
Miles stiffened, then reached down and ran his hand over Nix’s spine. “Does he have symptoms?”
“No, but he’s had a lot of concussions, and usually it doesn’t show up until later. Don’t tell me not to worry. I still will.”
Miles shook his head. “I won’t tell you that. Is he worried about it?”
“I haven’t asked him.”
“Maybe you should.”
“Maybe.”
Miles cleared his throat. “I knew the risks when I became a firefighter. I chose it anyway. Maybe he understands the risks, but he loves playing enough to make it worthwhile.”
“I spent the whole winter sick. I should buy stock in Sudafed, I use so much of it.” A tickle settled in her throat at nothing more than the memory of last winter’s flu season. “I guess we all have risks, no matter our job.”
“I know a lot more guys who’ve had career-ending injuries than have had cancer.”
Jif flicked her eyes to his. “Injuries like yours?”
“I’ll get better, but yeah, stuff like this.” He gestured at his leg, then winced and tucked his arm across his body.
“What happened?”
He waved her off. “I overdid it. Trying to get ready.”
“For the CPAT?”
“You remember?”
She crossed her arms at his surprise, ignoring Nix as he nudged her elbow, demanding she return to petting him. “People think I’m shallow, but I listen.”
“I don’t think you’re shallow.”
“You might be the only one who doesn’t.”
His gray eyes snagged hers, and how had she never before noticed their swirling, stormy pattern, like the eyewall of a hurricane? She went back to petting Nix, avoiding Miles’s intense gaze.
“Do you think you’re shallow?”
She swallowed hard.
Hadn’t she been thinking about her silly little problems, how she’d admitted her worst self to him when Britt had accused her of being exactly that?
How could she pretend otherwise with the writing so clearly scrawled across the wall?
Still, it didn’t feel true to her; at least, not all the time.
How could she communicate the space between other people’s expectations and assumptions of her and the reality inside her own head, especially lately?
“I like to have fun. I like getting dressed up and going out. I like shopping, especially for clothes. Does that make me shallow?”
He tipped his head to the side, thinking, then replied, “You bring snacks for your kids. You asked Abby to find a therapy dog to help them. You care your friends have lost family members to cancer. You faced a hard conversation with Britt.”
He made some good points.
“So, you’re saying I’m not shallow?”
If he’d been anyone else, she might have thrown in a wink, fishing for a compliment, and they’d assure her otherwise. With him, the words came out quieter, more vulnerable.
“Already said it,” he grumbled.
“Maybe I’m a little bit of both.” She could live with that.
“Now you’re getting it. People can be more than one thing—even opposing things.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “How are you shallow?”
“Hngh?”
She giggled at the strangled sound, impossible to decipher but also fully comprehensible, as well.
Shock and surprise and a touch of embarrassment, betrayed by the slightest tinge of pink at the arches of his ears.
She’d have missed the delicate flush if she weren’t in the habit of studying him so closely.
He rubbed his hands over Nix’s flanks, and she waited. She’d learned she didn’t need to fill every silence with him.
He scratched his chin, then started speaking slowly, haltingly, exploring the words as he said them.
“I’ve always been able to count on my body, but since the accident, I’m learning I’ve taken it for granted.
I assumed it would always be strong, that it would do what I want.
That it could do what I want. Now, it can’t, and it’s frustrating.
The pain is always there, right at the edges, sometimes aching, sometimes pounding.
” His words picked up speed, and she’d never heard him say so many in a row, so she stayed quiet as they poured out.
“And not only in my leg. The nerve damage means sometimes it radiates all the way up my back, even into my neck. I forgot I hurt my shoulder because the pain is so much less, but sometimes I can barely lean on my cane.”
He stopped talking, breath heaving in and out, and eyes glassy, then he shook his head. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to dump that on you.”
Jif pulled her hand from Nix’s head and laid it on his arm. “You didn’t dump anything. I didn’t realize it hurt so much.”
His gaze jumped from where she touched his arm to her face, then back again, before he covered her hand with his own, squeezing once before letting go. “Thanks.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends tell each other about the hard things.”