46. Chapter 46
forty-six
Ican’t look at it.
But I do. For a second too long—going numb—watching him wrap himself around her and Bowie like they’re his to hold. Her letting him.
What am I thinking? They are his to hold.
I’m nothing but an intruder in a moment I wanted to be mine.
I turn away—hard—and head for the fire line fast as my fucking feet will take me. Let the rest of the crew handle the building.
I need distance. I need heat. I need anything that isn’t that picture burned into my skull.
“Calder!” I turn back—seeing nothing but chaos. If only I could see her face. Her, running to me.
Must have been in my head. My imagination. What I wanted to hear.
By the time I get back to the line, the Llano guys are on the other side of the semi, drowning it and everything around it. Bulldozers in the distance cutting fire breaks.
EMTs took the driver out while we took care of the people in the building—scariest damn thing I’ve ever seen.
I didn’t know Laurel and Bowie were inside until I saw Dabbo’s Yukon in the parking lot. Heard people screaming.
I acted on instinct—grabbing the big sledgehammer off the truck, smashing that window out like a madman.
They were trapped inside. Laurel and Bowie. Dabbo and Callie.
My blood ran cold.
Now there’s nothing but ice water pumping in my veins.
I hit the fire line like I’m trying to hurt it. The same way I pounded Todd back then. I’ve realized since—I didn’t swing at him because of what he said. I swung because I was already broken, and he was stupid enough to light the fuse.
I can still feel it sometimes—the way my knuckles split, the way Tanner’s arms locked around me from behind, dragging me off before I did something I couldn’t come back from.
I hated myself for it then. I hate myself for it now.
Now? Now the fire’s taking the beating. Because I lost her back then, and I just did it again.
Pulaski in my hands, I swing hard, harder than I need to—chopping through burning grass, scraping down to bare dirt, carving a line like I can carve the ache out of my chest. Every swing rattles up my arms. Every breath tastes like smoke and rage.
The wind blows dust so hard it stings, working under my collar and into every burn. My heat-resistant suit is scorched at the sleeves, but it’s still the only thing between my skin and the damn fire.
Somebody shouts something—direction, warning, who knows—but I don’t slow down.
I don’t want to think. I don’t want to feel.
I want the heat, the noise, the violence of it. I want the fire to take everything I’m carrying and burn it clean.
Flames jump the fence line and I’m already there, beating them back, boots sinking into scorched earth, sweat stinging my eyes.
I swing until my shoulders scream, until the world narrows to the rhythm of metal and dirt and the roar in my ears that has nothing to do with the wind.
Anything to drown out that image of him holding them.
When I get home, the house is a tomb. After the noise of the fire, the explosion, the people screaming—now nothing but dead quiet.
My gear thuds to the floor, and I just stand there, frozen-eyed, smoke still in my nostrils, the ache in my shoulders settling deep.
I should shower.
I should eat.
I should do anything but think.
Some things you can’t unsee. Her folded in his arms. Him pulling them in like he had the right. Like he’s the one who ran into that fire.
Fucker was frozen in fear.
I dig under the cabinet and wrap my hand around the bottle.
The first long chug burns.
The second numbs.
By the third—I’m not tasting much at all. I’m just sitting in my kitchen with a bottle of whiskey in my hand and the kind of silence that forces a man to be honest.
I’ve been alone a long time.
I came to peace with it—it was just the way life shook out. Work. Land. Dust Devil. Some laughs with friends. Sleep. Repeat.
Quiet was easy when I didn’t want anything.
But now… now the quiet feels like punishment. I look around this room, seeing them—all of us around the table eating BLTs she made.
Bowie. Jesus. Toddling around like he owned the place.
Now it’s like the walls are leaning in, reminding me I don’t have anyone waiting on me. No one to call. No one to check if I made it home.
I take another swig and see Bowie’s face. Him chattering with his carton of chocolate milk. Looking up at me in the saddle. Him telling the world, “Calder had a big tee-tee!”
Fuck. That kid…
Jesus, he crawled right under my ribs without even trying. Made me laugh when I didn’t feel like it. Made me talk when I didn’t want to. Made me feel like I wasn’t just some man passing through his own damn life.
And I almost lost him today. Almost lost both of them.
I drop my head in my hands, seeing them trapped inside that inferno. I’d never come back from that.
She had the presence of mind to pass him to me—then froze.
Couldn’t move. Happens to lots of people, especially her, so worried about Bowie.
I had to pick her up to get her outside—and then she let that son of a bitch wrap himself around her like that’s where she belonged—Bowie disappearing against his chest instead of mine.
Felt like something dropped out from under my fucking ribs, leaving me hollow. Nothing but a fucking shell of a man. Empty.
Being alone never felt empty before.
My eyes drift to the low hum of the ceiling fan overhead, and my eyes roam the emptiness. The house is filled with the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel peaceful. No, it’s a quiet that feels like being left behind.
“Shit!” I roar and kick the table with the heel of my boot.
It scoots across the kitchen floor, scraping. At least it breaks the silence.
Deafening silence.
Right here. I was sitting right here, in this chair, when she looked up at me with tears in her eyes and said, “I wanted you to come for me.”
It was all I could do not to yell, “I did come for you!”
But I kept it quiet. For her. I just confessed.
She couldn’t know I was so fucking weak. I drove home from Houston and got so drunk that it changed my life.
I take another long tug on the bottle, my head swimming. Tanner. Where would I be without him? He can’t leave, too.
With the walls closing in, I fist the bottle and head to the porch.
“God… dammit!” I roar at the world as I step outside—Midnight and Copper looking up like ‘what the fuck?’
My parents went to their graves with their hearts broken. Their only son locked behind bars. God forgive me.
I stare long and hard at the bottle in my hands and sink into the chair.
And suddenly I’m drowning in her hazel eyes. She’s whispering, “Calder, make love to me.”
How could I say no?
I should’ve.
If I just hadn’t let myself go there, maybe this wouldn’t cut so deep.
I stare out across the pasture, the sun sinking low, turning the whole damn world copper and gold. It should be beautiful.
Used to be.
But right now, it just feels like the day’s bleeding out right along with me.
I take another pull from the bottle, then set it between my boots.
The breeze shifts, carrying the smell of smoke off my clothes. I should shower. I should sleep. I should do anything but sit here and let this eat me alive.
But I can’t move. Can’t think past the weight sitting on my chest.
It feels like the whole world’s moved on.
And me? I’m sitting on my porch sucking on a bottle I swore I’d never let take me under again, watching the sun go down on a life I thought I’d made peace with.
I close my eyes.
They’re burning, my throat tight. The last tear I shed was when I buried them, but something inside me feels cracked wide open. Like I’m that kid back in Houston who didn’t know how to lose her without breaking something.
I’m older now. I didn’t break anything today. Didn’t throw a punch. I just ran into a fire and ran home to a bottle.
Somehow that feels worse.
As the sky goes darker, the bottle gets lighter. And I sit here, listening to crickets with an ache that only comes from wanting something you can’t have. Something you never should’ve let yourself want in the first place.
I should’ve kept my distance. Should’ve never let myself fall for her again.
Should’ve never let myself fall for that kid.
But I did.
Now I’m paying for it.
I’ll pay for it for the rest of my life.
I’ve got to stay away. It’s the only way I can survive.