Chapter 4
Greyson
If you're lonely when you're alone,
you're in bad company.
~ Jean-Paul Sartre
“Heading out to the boondocks?” Dustin shouts across the parking lot.
He’s still got a smile on his face, even after a twenty-four hour shift.
“Home,” I say.
“To your Lincoln Log man cave!” Dustin shouts, laughing.
“Home,” I say again. “See you in two days.”
“You’ll miss me, Grey. Admit it!” he hollers, opening his car door and sliding into the driver’s seat.
“Yeah,” I mutter. “Like a toothache.”
He’s already rolling out of the parking lot, probably on his way to see Emberleigh.
I glance the other direction. Hallie’s climbing into her minivan.
Why would a single woman drive a family vehicle? She seems like more of a Miata type—something trendy and fun, but still practical.
Not my business.
I climb into my Jeep and turn the key, waiting for Hallie to drive out behind me before I back up.
Most mornings after I’ve worked a full shift, I come home and grab a few hours of sleep. But days like today, when our shift was quiet and I slept at the station, I come home and slip right into my routine.
My thoughts race faster than usual as I navigate the streets leading me through downtown and finally onto the rural roads leading to my neighborhood.
My muscles feel twitchy. I can’t comfortably sit still.
It’s not like me to be so keyed up. I breathe in four counts, using the tactical breathing I learned in the army.
Hold for four. Breathe out slowly through my mouth for four.
In firefighting, we call it box breathing.
It’s one tool used to help us face unsettling circumstances with a wall of calm.
I run through another box breath. My exhale comes out shakier than I’d like.
Working so close to Hallie has gotten under my skin.
I haven’t decided if I should bring up Germany. If I do, I don’t know how I’d broach the subject.
Hey, Hallie, remember the soldier you met nine years ago? That’s me. I’m Ace.
Nope. Absolutely not. I’m not Ace—not anymore. And besides, she’s got too much on her plate trying to adjust to her new role at the station. I don’t need to add a trip down memory lane to her pile of concerns. What would be the point? The past is in the past. All of it.
I stop by my house for a shower and a cup of coffee. I live outside town, the opposite direction of Cody’s family’s ranch. Out here the land’s more hilly and properties are tucked away and private.
I turn down the road lined by five private, wooded lots—each one on three to ten acres. My two-story lodge home is definitely more house than I need, but I couldn’t find anything smaller that allowed me to live out here, secluded and undisturbed the way I like it.
Dustin’s not wrong. My house comes into view as soon as I turn onto the driveway. The reddish-brown exterior with dark-green shutters does give it the appearance of a rustic cabin built from those iconic childhood construction materials.
I shower, make coffee, and step out onto my wraparound porch, mug in hand.
My eyes lazily rove across the copse of trees in the front yard.
A deer and her older fawn stop and stare back.
Normally, I’d sit here for a while, decompressing from a shift at work, but the antsy feeling hasn’t left me, even after a hot shower followed by an intentional minute-long shock of ice-cold tap water.
I chug the rest of my coffee, set my mug inside and head back out. I haven’t been by the Kinkaids’ this week. I’m due for a visit.
The drive from my house to Zach’s family’s home takes less than ten minutes. I park out front and walk the same walkway I’ve come up since I was a boy. Zach was my best friend growing up. His family’s house was my second home.
I knock on the door and Mrs. Kinkaid, Zach’s mom, answers.
“Greyson!” Her tone is warm and welcoming as always, but the ghosts of the past live behind her smile—in the wrinkles around her eyes and the way her grin falters for the briefest moment before it widens again.
“How are you?” I ask the same question every time I come here.
“Good. Good. Come in. I just pulled a cinnamon loaf out of the oven. If the boys haven’t devoured it, I’ll serve you a slice. Have you eaten?”
She’s already walking toward the kitchen, so I trail behind her.
Tate, Zach’s younger brother, is sitting at the kitchen island.
“Hey, Grey,” he says. “Didn’t know you were stopping by today.”
“I just got off work. Thought I’d drop in. How’s college?”
“Good. I don’t have classes on Wednesdays this semester, so I come up and see Mom for the day.”
“Come up to eat my food is more like it,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a smile.
“Busted,” Tate says, raising a slice of bread in the air and taking a big bite. “It has nothing to do with seeing you, and everything to do with your baking.”
“Just so we’re clear,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a smile. “A woman always knows your motives, son. Keep that in mind when you’re out there shopping for my daughter-in-law.”
Tate chuckles and rolls his eyes in my direction. “Can you explain to her that the last thing on my mind when I’m asking a girl out is whether she’d make a good daughter-in-law?”
I hold my hands up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not touching this conversation with a ten-foot pole.”
“And you, Greyson. You need a girl,” Mrs. Kinkaid says plainly. “There’s plenty of nice young women here in town. You’d make a great husband.”
“Yeah.” Tate laughs. “For a grizzly bear.”
Mrs. Kinkaid sets a plate in front of me with a slice of warm cinnamon loaf on it.
“Coffee?” she asks.
“I’d better not.”
Mrs. Kinkaid putters through the kitchen and Tate serves himself another piece of the warm coffee-cake bread.
“What’s the matter?” Mrs. Kinkaid pauses from rinsing a dish and looks at me with concern etched in her face.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
She studies me with the type of scrutinizing inspection only a mother can give. “Is it that new firefighter? Having a woman around the station has to be an adjustment. I know how you like predictability.”
“You act like he’s on the spectrum,” Tate says with a laugh.
“Nothing wrong with the spectrum, dear,” Mrs. Kinkaid says. “Not that you’re on it, Greyson. I know you aren’t. You just favor situations you can control. No one blames you for that.”
I take a bite of bread and let the spicy warmness fill my mouth.
“This is good,” I tell her. “Thank you.”
“How is it?” Tate asks. “Working with a woman in the station?”
If only they knew.
“It’s fine.”
Tate laughs hard. “Man, Grey. You should definitely never go into journalism.” He laughs some more. “Or public speaking.”
“But you could be a pastor,” Mrs. Kinkaid says with a wink. “Keep those sermons short and to the point so we all get out in time for the Sunday Special at Judy’s.”
I smile at her. “Maybe I’ll look into that if the firefighting gig doesn’t work out for me.”
She smiles back. “There you are. I was hoping to see you while you were here.”
I take another bite of bread. Only Mrs. Kinkaid can draw me out like she does. There’s something about sharing the losses we share that gives her elite access. I don’t know when or how I granted it, but she definitely has privileges not even the guys on shift have been granted.
I clear a soft lump in my throat, stand and walk to the fridge, helping myself to a glass of milk.
“I’m transferring to Knoxville in the fall,” Tate says. “They’ve got a specialty in Logistics and Supply Chain Management.”
“That’s awesome, Tate,” I say.
“My grocery bill thanks you,” Mrs. Kinkaid says, but there’s a wistfulness to her voice that tells everyone in the room she’s going to miss him being so close to home.
“I’ll come home to visit regularly. Knoxville’s only an hour further than Nashville is,” Tate says. “Don’t get too comfortable with your bank account.”
Mrs. Kinkaid walks over and places a kiss on Tate’s cheek. “Okay, then. I won’t.”
I stick around their house for an hour, not saying much, just being present. I don’t know what I do for them—maybe I partially fill the gaping hole Zach left. Maybe I’m just a poor reminder of our loss. I know I’m welcome. And I won’t let a week go by without showing up here at some point.
As I’m leaving, I pull a check out of my pocket. “Take this. To cover Tate’s meals.”
“Greyson, if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times. I don’t want your money. Just having you come by is gift enough.”
“I make plenty of money at the station. I don’t have anyone to spend it on besides myself. Please take it.”
“You not having anyone is no one’s fault but your own. Keep the money and take a woman on a date.”
My face cringes at the thought and Mrs. Kinkaid reaches up and runs her thumb across the crease in my brow. Her touch is warm and gentle.
“It’s not all that bad,” she says. “You might even have fun.”
“I have fun. I hike the woods by my house. I fight fires. I speak at the elementary school on Local Hero Day. My life is at capacity for fun.”
“Suit yourself,” she says.
Her expression makes me say something I’ll regret. “I’ll go on a date. Someday.”
“Good. That’s what I like to hear. You know Vanessa’s always had her eye on you.”
“I might go on a date. It won’t be with her.”
Mrs. Kinkaid chuckles. “Fine. Fine. I won’t play matchmaker.”
She steps in and wraps her arms around me. I hold her close, trying to make up for things I can’t ever compensate her for.
“I love you, Greyson. Just like you’re my own.”
“I know,” I say. “I love you too.”
The smile she gives me is one tinged with tears. She dabs at one corner of her eye and I slip the check into her hand as she lowers it.
“Oh, alright,” she says. “You stubborn, stubborn man.”
“Best compliment I’ve gotten all day,” I say, smiling at her and opening the door to leave.
“Bye, Greyson!” Tate shouts from the other room.
“Call me if you need anything, Tate,” I shout back.
“I will.”