10. Brooks #2
Emmy stays completely still by the sink. She doesn’t offer any of those empty, polite condolences. She just stands there, wide eyes fixed on my face, letting the silence exist.
“The town holds a service at the firehouse,” I say, clearing my throat.
“We do a parade, a bell ringing, and then everyone spends the afternoon drinking cheap beer and talking about what a stubborn bastard Tommy was. Nobody works tomorrow, Emmy. Nobody feels like holding a hammer on the day Tommy went down.”
“And that’s when you became chief,” she says quietly.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was twenty-eight. I didn’t want the white hat. But nobody else knew the valley grid, and Tommy’s widow… she looked at me at the funeral and told me I was the only one who wouldn’t let the boys get lazy. So I took it.”
“That’s a lot of weight for twenty-eight,” she says.
“I’m thirty-one now,” I say. “Still trying to figure out if I’m doing it right.”
“Wait. You’re thirty-one?”
“Yeah. Why?”
“Nothing, it’s just… I’m twenty-five,” she says, her voice dropping into a smaller, sheepish register. She picks at a bit of dried flour on her pants. “I guess I thought you were older. You have that whole… serious, weathered vibe going on.”
I freeze, my mug halfway to my mouth.
I look across the kitchen at her—the unbothered curve of her mouth, the ridiculous blue twine in her wild curls, the youthful energy radiating off her skin.
Twenty-five. Jesus. She’s barely out of college, and I’m a thirty-one-year-old with a five-year-old, a mortgage, and a valley full of ghosts.
A sharp panic hits my chest.
I cannot be looking at her like that.
“Right,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Twenty-five explains the hammer technique. And that you could move out here so easily. Just quit your job.”
Emmy lets out an indignant gasp, but she slides right back into her comfortable rhythm, saving me from the weight in the air. She steps forward until she’s standing directly in front of me, leaning her back against the counter.
“Excuse me! My hammer technique was a masterpiece,” she says. “But speaking of my job… I actually didn’t just quit. I tried freelancing first.”
“How’d that go?” I ask, glad to be talking about something else.
“Oh, it sucked,” she says cheerfully. “Turns out, when you work for yourself, your boss is still a lunatic—except now the lunatic also has to do her own taxes. I was living on ramen and crying in the shower for three months. And then, I won the lottery.”
I let out a dry breath, crossing my arms. “Right. You became a millionaire and just had to spend your money on a goat farm.”
“Well, I’ve always found goats cute,” she says, shrugging.
She steps an inch closer, eyes locked onto mine, a small smile playing on her lips.
“They have those horizontal pupils and they eat weeds. It seemed low-stress compared to Manhattan. And besides, if I hadn’t moved here, who would keep you on your toes? ”
“I like safe, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping. I don’t move away. I look down at her lips, then back up to her eyes. “Safe keeps my paperwork down.”
“Safe is boring, Chief,” she whispers, leaning in enough that her perfume cuts through the cleaner. She reaches out, her small finger lightly tapping the silver badge on my shirt. “Admit it. You were completely miserable before I drove my U-Haul into your life.”
“I was peaceful,” I correct her. My hand reaches up to grasp her wrist, stopping her finger against my chest. Her skin is warm, and my thumb rests against her pulse. “There’s a difference.”
“Peaceful is just another word for lonely,” she taunts softly.
She doesn’t pull her hand back. She stands there, her wrist in my grip, her face so close I can see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes.
I stare at her for a heavy beat, the silence in the kitchen turning electric. My jaw sets as I fight the urge to pull her the rest of the way against my chest.
“You’re a lunatic, Ember,” I mutter, my voice rough as I release her wrist and step back, breaking the spell.
“I am a visionary, Brooks,” she corrects, giving me that crooked, brilliant smile. “And I’m literally a millionaire. I should be sugar-mommying you right now.”
I snort. “Yeah? You gonna buy me a matching tool belt and a lake house too?”
“If you keep installing appliances shirtless like some emotionally unavailable HGTV host, absolutely.”
“You’re twenty-five,” I mutter. “You don’t get to say things like sugar mommy with a straight face.”
“And you’re thirty-one acting forty-seven,” she shoots back instantly. “Honestly, Brooks, this relationship has incredible economic potential. Think of the tax benefits.”
“Relationship?”
She grins over the rim of her coffee mug. “See? That’s the word you reacted to.”
I set my empty mug in the sink and check my watch. One-thirty.
“I’ve gotta get moving. I need to pick up Sophie from kindergarten.”
“Brooks,” she calls out as I walk toward the hallway.
I stop, looking back. She’s standing by the stove, the yellow afternoon light catching the gold in her hair.
“What time is the service tomorrow?” she asks.
“Ten o’clock,” I say. “At the main station. You don’t have to come.”
“I’ll be there,” she says, her voice steady. “I have to see if your dress uniform is as serious as your personality. I bet you look very crisp in a tie.”
I look at her for a long second—the blue twine, the stubborn jaw.
“Don’t wear white,” I say, a genuine smile breaking through. “The floors are oily, and Marge will definitely make you sweep if you look too clean.”
“Noted,” she laughs.
I walk out to the truck, the sun hot on my shoulders.
The valley feels wide today, the mountains high and blue, and for the first time in three years, the approach of June sixth doesn’t feel like a weight I have to carry entirely by myself.
? ? ?
“Daddy! Did you fix the donut lady’s kitchen?” she asks, scrambling into the passenger seat.
“I did,” I say, buckling her in. “She’s got a brand new stove now.”
“Does she make cookies?”
“She says she’s going to,” I answer, pulling away from the curb.
“Are you sad tomorrow, Daddy?” Sophie asks, her voice dropping to a small, serious register as she looks out the window.
She’s only five, but she knows. She knows the day the flags go to half-mast and the station bell rings.
Kids always know more than you think they do.
Especially about grief.
“A little bit, bug,” I say, keeping my eyes on the road. “It’s a hard day for the fire station.”
“Can I come to the parade?”
“Yeah,” I say, reaching over to squeeze her knee. “You can come. You can hold my hand when I get too sad.”
I pull into our driveway. We get out of the car and I pick Sophie up, her weight a grounding force against my chest.
She’s getting so big, so fast.
She’s the only thing that makes the years since the fire feel like anything other than a long, dark blur.
“Daddy?”
“Yeah, Soph?”
“Is the donut lady coming to see you tomorrow?”
“She said she would.”
“She’s nice,” Sophie says, closing her eyes. “Even if she is a bit weird.”
“Yeah. She’s nice,” I say, staring out across the pasture toward the lights glowing faintly in Emmy’s kitchen window. “And a bit weird.”