Chapter 25 Braxton
Braxton
“Cherise and I were thinking of having a dinner party,” Theo announces as she sits at the other end of the couch, a packet of potato chips rustling in her hand. “You’re coming.”
It’s the end of my first week back on shift, and everyone’s been treating me like nothing happened, like I was never even gone…Although I suppose I wasn’t, spending more time here than I planned, working through a list of jobs no one ever wanted to do, and we had all been ignoring for months.
We’re looking at the tail end of February now, and I still haven’t heard a word from Gracie. She’s on my mind more than not, even though I have no idea if she’s actually coming back to Sterling Creek.
I eye Theo, my mouth twitching. “A dinner party,” I repeat with no small amount of disbelief. “Do we have to dress up? I’m not wearing a suit.”
She lifts a shoulder, popping a chip in her mouth and crunching it loudly. “Don’t know, don’t care. It’s Cherise’s idea, and she said to invite the crew.” She looks at me, an unreadable expression in her eyes. “Ryan said he’s bringing a date.”
There’s an unasked question hovering in the air, but I stare back at her, unblinking. “That’s nice.”
Theo rolls her eyes. “Are you going to bring anyone?” she asks. “We’ll need to know for the seating arrangements.”
“Right,” I drawl. “For the dinner party you’re thinking of throwing.” She doesn’t look away, a glint of humor in her eyes. I huff. “No, Theo. I will not be bringing a date. The only person I would want to bring isn’t in town, so…”
It’s a sick kind of irony that I was forcing distance between us for weeks before everything went to hell, and now Gracie has switched the roles around. Still, I’m so used to hearing from her that this silence is louder than everything else and impossible to misunderstand.
I’m that much of an asshole that I drove her out of the only place she’s ever seen as home. The one place she ever considered laying down roots.
My mother hasn’t told me where Gracie went, but she took enough pity on me to say they had spoken, and Gracie is okay. Except what the fuck does “okay” mean?
Each day that passes, my head has gotten a little clearer, my anger shrinking down until each breath doesn’t feel like I’m swallowing needles, and there isn’t this intense urge to peel my skin off like a suit.
I wish I could say that I found a magic cure-all, but I still feel as fucked up as ever…
But my perspective has shifted, I think.
I’ve gone to every counseling appointment with Martin in Ashland, and I also started going to a support group with other firefighters.
It has helped—even when their harrowing stories were so much worse than my experience.
I listened intently, taking on board their strategies to work through, and it was more helpful than anything Martin has suggested—including showing me a way to talk about Allison and that day without dipping into my feelings.
Martin wanted to know every thought and feeling in my head, but Stevie, a firefighter I had one-on-one talks with, had me talk it through step by step, using technical terms and distance.
It felt a little like doing a debrief with the chief, Stevie asking simple questions with purpose.
I don’t know why separating the emotion away helped, but it gave me some clarity on that day that’s always been missing.
It meant that when Stevie told me that there was nothing he would have done differently that day, I believed it.
There was nothing else I could’ve done for Allison and her family.
Once I finally accepted that fact, something settled in me.
I still have a long way to go, but the tightness that seemed to cinch around my chest for almost four months has loosened a fraction.
“Have you heard from Gracie?” Theo asks quietly, finishing her chips and balling the packet in her fist.
I blow out a breath. “No—”
The door opens, and Marco spills into the room, followed by Asher, his hand still up from where he had shoved Marco’s shoulder.
They’ve obviously been working out, dressed in tanks and basketball shorts, their skin damp with perspiration.
Marco’s longer hair is plastered to his forehead, and his cheeks are flushed a dull red.
Asher, on the other hand, just looks bored.
“I still think you’re cheating,” Marco mutters grumpily, ignoring the sharp smile Asher sends him.
“Not my problem if you spend more time chasing women than lifting weights,” Asher says easily, sinking into the overstuffed armchair to my right, running a hand over his trimmed beard.
Marco drops to the floor in front of the dark television, looping his arms around his knees.
His annoyed expression dissolves with a crooked grin.
“Look, that’s its own kind of work out. Nothing like a bit of cardio to keep me young.
” He squints at Asher. “You can’t tell me that Rochelle gives you the same amount of attention. You’ve been married…how long now?”
Something dark crosses Asher’s face before he locks it down, his expression turning unreadable. “Twelve years,” he answers shortly, but then pulls his phone from his shorts pocket, effectively ending the conversation.
Marco frowns, looking over at us, but Theo just shrugs. Rochelle doesn’t come around often, and Asher has always been a closed book about his personal life and marriage.
“Where’s Ryan?” I ask into the stilted silence, and Marco shoots me a quick look of gratitude for changing the subject from the minefield he just tried to throw us into.
“Cooking dinner,” Theo says absently as she picks up the remote control. “Move your big head out of the way,” she orders Marco, grinning when he flashes her an offended expression.
“My head is normal size,” he complains, but shuffles to the side, spinning around so he can watch whatever she puts on. “It’s everyone else’s heads that are abnormal.”
“Keep telling yourself that, asshole,” Asher grunts from his chair, never looking up from his phone. I can’t stop the smile that pulls at my lips, sinking into the couch and soaking up the normalcy, even when the pinch in my chest never lets me forget what’s missing.
Or what I cost myself.
Walking out of the fire station the next morning, I ignore my truck in favor of veering next door. It’s early enough that the police station isn’t buzzing with activity, everyone using hushed voices as they get themselves set up for the day.
Keegan, the station’s receptionist, is at her desk, using a mini watering can shaped like a frog to water the plant next to her computer. “Good morning, Braxton,” she chirps. “You’re here early.”
Keegan’s young—only two or three years older than me—and she’s dressed in her usual style, shirt buttoned to her throat, dark hair pinned back into a tight bun, and black-framed glasses that constantly slip down her nose.
I tuck my hands into the pockets of my sweats, giving her a small smile. “Morning, Keegan. I’m looking for Nick, actually. Is he here?”
She bobs her head, pressing her glasses back into place. “Yes. He got in about an hour ago.”
My brows climb my forehead. “Early for him,” I observe.
Keegan chews on her lower lip. “It’s been like this since January, actually. He seems real in his head about something.” She shrugs lightly.
I rap my knuckles against the desk. “Thanks. I’ll head on back.”
She gives me a beaming smile, right before the phone rings, stealing her attention.
I head through the doors and into the bullpen, tipping my chin up in greeting as I weave through the desks, aiming for Nick’s on the other side of the room.
I can see him from here, his shoulders hunched as he bends over his keyboard, staring intently at the screen.
I pull a chair from the desk across from his, rolling it over and taking a seat. “Morning.”
Nick doesn’t even look up as he mumbles, “Hey.” I drum my fingers on his desk, waiting until he angles his head, shooting me a glare as he demands, “Do you mind?”
“Not particularly.” I give him a lopsided smile. “You ready to tell me what’s going on with you? Or are we gonna play twenty questions?” I’ve been so fucking stuck in my own misery that I know I missed whatever’s happening with my best friend. It’s another thing that sits like stones in my gut.
Nick’s glare deepens, but his attention shifts back to his computer—then to me, and then back again. Finally, he blows out a breath, his shoulders loosening as he deflates in his chair. “I’m sorry,” he says tiredly, rubbing a finger over his temple. “It’s…I’m going to sound insane.”
I chuckle. “And that’s different from normal?” I ask. “Man, you look like the walking dead. I feel like we’ve swapped roles.”
“You say that like you’re all fixed,” Nick snipes.
I absorb the blow, letting it slide off me.
“I’m not,” I refute quietly. “Got a lot of shit to make up for, and a fair distance to go before I can even start thinking like I’m back to normal.
And the moment I feel like I’m back on track, who’s to say another accident won’t throw me back into the dark, murky depths? ”
There’s a long silence. Nick sits back in his chair, the wheels squeaking under him as he crosses his arms over his chest. “We all knew you weren’t coping,” he says with a sigh. “We could all see it, but we didn’t know how to help.”
“It wasn’t your responsibility.” I ignore the wash of cold sliding through my veins, hating that it always comes back to this.
It doesn't get any easier to talk about or admit just how far I sank. “I didn’t think I needed help, and until I did…” I shake my head.
“But why the fuck are we talking about me?”
“Right.” Nick flicks a dark look at his computer, like it’s personally offended him. “This isn’t—You remember me telling you about the burglaries in town?”
I cast my mind back with a frown. “Before Christmas, yeah? They were hitting shops, getting cash that businesses hadn’t had a chance to deposit yet.”