Up in Smoke, page 25
“Sure did. She’s just gone three months, so ...”
“She’s been in the family way for the whole time your idiot co-workers were placing bets.”
“Ah, better to let the kids have their fun.”
I let loose a chuckle. “Congrats, Almeida.” We chit-chat about families some more, and just as we’re winding down, I find the words I need. “Could you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Could you watch out for Abby? I know I don’t have to ask but I’m asking anyway.” Redundant as it might sound, it’s important that he knows my feelings in this area and that I have an interest that needs to be acknowledged. It might be the only way I can say she’s mine without speaking the words.
Because, despite everything that’s happened and knowing that she doesn’t want me, I am still all in with this woman.
Abby Sullivan is mine in every way that matters.
“She’s safe with me, Roman. I promise.”
We close it out and I return to dinner, desperate to get my mind off Abby, who will no longer be on my crew. Or in my life, at this rate. I’m trying and failing to view it as a blessing when Chiara crashes into the kitchen like a bull and yells at me. “What the hell are you doing?”
I raise the spatula in my free hand. “What does it look like? Smashing the fucking patriarchy.”
She takes the tool from me and examines my handiwork, chicken breasts flash-frying in the skillet. “You’re supposed to be resting, though I appreciate you pushing through in order to keep me free from chains. Isn’t this why we have the next generation?”
“She’s on her computer, looking at wedding stuff.” Of course, I told Tori that Lena should be allowed to wear pants but my daughter is being more mature than me and taking it on the chin.
Chiara makes a face. “Sit down, I’ll do this.”
I do as she says and wait.
Ten seconds.
Twenty.
Finally, she asks, “So, what am I doing?” She prods one chicken breast with the spatula, as if she’s never used one. This would not surprise me.
“Turn them over in about a minute.”
She screws up her mouth. “Are we having visitors tonight?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Well, all your crew have dropped by in the last week. Everyone but Abby. She okay?”
“Fine, as far as I know.” Moving on, figuring it out. Good for her. “Turn them now.”
She does, splashing oil all over the stovetop. Deliberate, of course, so I’ll never seek her help again.
“Uh, don’t flatten them. Let them sit for a bit.”
She puts the spatula down on the counter, though there’s a spoon rest right fucking there. Jesus, I am grouchy tonight.
She turns to face me. “What happened with Abby?”
“Nothing. Literally nothing.”
“Ro-Ro, come on, this is me. You think I don’t know when your heart is broken?”
She hasn’t called me Ro-Ro since we were kids. I rub my mouth as if it can change the words about to leave my lips and shape them into something that won’t feel like broken glass in my throat.
“She called it quits. Said it would be too stressful worrying about me, so best not to let us go any further. And y’know, she’s right. I don’t want to worry about her, either.”
A very playground response. Like I’m going to stop worrying about her because we’re no longer … whatever we were to each other.
“She saved your ass, then told that same ass to take a hike?”
“I think it scared her. She lost her mom on the job and what happened to me brought it all back. I suppose I should be flattered she’s worried about the prospect of losing me …”
“But you’re not.”
Needing action, I stand and pick up the spatula. “I don’t believe it’s her reason, or her only reason. I think she’s trying to let me down gently. She said it was just a fling for her. Which is fine.”
“Roman, as usual, you are 100% wrong. I saw how she looked at you and your spicy meatballs.”
That earns a snort from me.
“Do I need to hurt her?”
“Thanks for being my personal pit bull, but you can stand down.”
“Need to hurt who?” Lena has just walked in.
“Abby,” Chiara says at the same time I say, “Nobody.”
Lena looks concerned. “Why would you want to hurt Abby?”
I shake my head imperceptibly at my sister.
She ignores me because she thinks children should never be shielded from the truth. “She told your dad she doesn’t want to see him anymore. As a boyfriend.”
Lena blinks. “Oh. Is it okay if I talk to her?”
“You want to talk to Abby?”
“We’ve been texting about Big Brother. And I sent her some photos of the dresses Mom wants at the wedding. She gave me her opinion and I told Mom I wanted to wear something else. Like this.” She shows me a picture on her iPad. It looks like a satin two-piece pantsuit in the same color as Tori’s wedding theme. Unfortunately I’m acutely aware of this theme and other details like the size of the centerpieces and the composition of the various floral arrangements because my daughter has talked of nothing else for the last two weeks.
Meanwhile, Abby’s been lending an ear to my girl? I’m so confused. My heart aches at the notion that my daughter is getting all this love and support from someone I care about deeply but who doesn’t feel the same way.
“What did your mom say?”
“She said yes!” Her joy evaporates. “But if you don’t want me to talk to Abby anymore …”
“No, that’s fine,” I answer quickly. “Fragolina, you can talk to who you want. As long as I know who they are.”
“So does Abby ask about your dad?” Chiara winks at me.
“She asked if his injuries were healing. I said not fast enough because he’s always here.” She assesses me for a moment. “Dad, do you need a hug?”
A lump the size of a meatball forms in my throat. “Yeah, I do.”
She wraps herself around me and gives me the best hug I’ve ever received. I kiss the top of her head and let myself be healed a fraction by the warmth of my daughter’s love.
I draw back to face her. “Thanks, sweetheart.”
She smiles, fully aware of her power over me. Her phone buzzes in her hand, and she wanders into the other room to respond.
When I catch Chiara’s eye, I find her looking a little softer than her usual.
Using the spatula, I set the flash-fried chicken breasts to one side. A few knobs of butter in the pan, then some Marsala, thyme, and mushrooms. It’s harder than you’d think to do this one-handed.
Ever helpful, Chiara pours more wine for herself. “Why did you stay married to Tori for so long?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Just tell me.”
I blow out a breath. “Because we had Lena. Because I’m not a quitter. So I knew it was a mistake from day one, but I wanted to try for my little girl.”
“You’re stubborn and you hate being wrong.”
“Everyone hates being wrong.”
“True.” She grins. “But I think there’s another reason why you stayed. You’re not built for casual relationships. You can say you’re having a fling or you’re going to hook up with someone for a one-night stand, but that’s not you.”
So she knows me well. “Where is this going?”
“I think you knew that with Abby. I think you wouldn’t risk your job or what you’re building in Chicago if you didn’t think this thing with Abby had a future from the get-go. And I also don’t think you’d take a risk like that with someone who wouldn’t reciprocate. You have good instincts, Roman. You knew exactly what you were getting into with Tori, but you made that choice for Lena. You wouldn’t make that mistake again. Abby is not Tori, and you recognized that. She’s afraid of what she feels for you because of her parents. Her mom left her, her dad’s emotionally checked out and not supportive of her career choice. That’s abandonment 101 right there.”
I growl. “I’m not one of your teens.”
“I know.” She pats my arm condescendingly. “Abby’s nuts about you, but she needs to do some healing before she’s ready. Don’t give up on her just yet.”
Thirty-nine
Abby
I straighten the jacket of my uniform for what feels like the fiftieth time. My reflection in the mirror is a funhouse facsimile, like my Us doppelganger who’s been living in the bowels of the earth and now wants to usurp my life.
Same hair, eyes, nose, lips. But there’s something sunken and dark about what I see. Hollowed out. She feels like an impostor.
Outside the restroom, it’s quiet as everyone is in the bay for the memorial service. At the Wall of the Fallen, I pause, needing a moment with Joanne Sullivan.
“Hey, Mom,” I whisper, but I can’t get out anything more. My shoulders heave with the emotion jamming my chest. I have to get it together because everyone’s expecting the best speech ever in about five minutes.
“Hey,” I try again. “I wish I could talk to you properly about what’s going on. I feel like I’m screwing things up at every turn and I’m just one big fat disappointment.”
“You could never disappoint anyone, Abby.”
He’s here. I’d alternately hoped and dreaded. When I pivot, my heart turns over several times at the sight of him in his dress uniform. His wrist is in a cast, but not a sling.
“You’re going to make mistakes,” he continues. “But your mom’s proud that you’re still here, forging ahead. And so am I.”
He always knows the right thing to say. I’ll miss him as my mentor.
As so many things.
I swallow my pain. “How’s the wrist?”
“Achy. But that’s to be expected.”
“And how’s Lena doing? Wait, is this the weekend of the wedding?” I am full of questions!
“It is. She’s in New York with Chiara.”
I blink. “They’re both at the wedding of your ex?”
His smile is wry. “I wouldn’t let her go alone and I didn’t trust Tori or my former sisters-in-law to keep an eye on her. It’s a wedding, so they’re going to be a bit overboard, drunk off their asses. But Chiara can do what I can’t.”
“For Lena. And for you. She’s a good sister.”
“She is. I’m lucky to have her, which she reminds me of every day. And Lena’s lucky to have you. I heard you’ve been giving her advice.”
“Yeah, I hope you don’t mind. She reached out.”
“Of course not. I’m thankful you’ve been there for her. For all of us.” He eyes me with a darker gaze. “I also heard you’re leaving my crew.”
“Yeah, I thought it was for the best. I hope you’re okay with signing off on that.” It’s only now occurring to me that he might not do that, that he might not like being told how to manage his crew.
He moves in, his solidity a force I’m no match for. “I think we were a good team, but this is probably the right call.”
A good team. We were.
“Looks like you’ll be losing Wozniak as well.” Apparently he’s been moved to the C-shift while the investigation into the incident is ongoing. There’s talk that he’ll be forced to go through academy training again.
“You should have told me about the blackmail.”
“So you could beat him to a pulp?”
He scoffs. “I wouldn’t—okay, I would have. But hell, Abby, you don’t have to protect me.”
“I know how hard you’ve worked to make a new life here. I didn’t want anything to get in the way of that—the captain, my father.” Me. It seems I’ve done nothing but threaten Roman’s self-control and career since I arrived.
“Well, I’ll get a reprimand in my record, unless your father decides to take it further.”
I don’t think he will. I’ll make sure of it.
“You’ll be okay, Roman.”
“In my job, yeah.” He grasps my hand and places it over his heart. “Not in here, though. Not for a long time, maybe never.”
His eyes bore into me, filled with all the pain I caused. I try to calm myself, only I can’t shake the force of my feelings. The proximity of him turns me into a gloopy mess and I’m left with trying to convince myself—inadequately—that this is why I can’t be with him.
I’m too emotional. Losing him like this hurts. To lose him on the job would kill me.
“Abby, about what I said at the hospital, about you being a coward. That was wrong, completely out of order. You’re not, you’re the bravest woman I know.”
“No, you don’t have to apologize.” He was right but if I admit it, we’ll end up in a place I don’t think I can go. “We both said things in the heat of the moment.” I don’t explain any further because if I do, I’m opening a door to a world I can’t have.
Understanding my reticence, he nods and takes my hand.
“Listen, I have something for you.” He presses a small metal object into my palm.
I look down and gasp.
“My mom’s pendant!” Only half of the chain remains, but the Claddagh symbol is there, its golden heart tarnished yet still intact. “Where did you find it?”
“In the ashes of the fire, Abby. The chain must have broken when we fell and this slipped through your turnout gear onto the ground.”
“And you went to look for it?” My eyes are wet with gratitude and love for this man.
“Brooks told me you lost it. I know it means a lot to you.”
You mean more. You mean everything.
“Abby, we’re about to start.” Maria Fernandez from Media Affairs is standing over at the corner leading to the bay corridor. She grimaces in apology at having walked into the middle of something intense.
“On my way. Thank you, Roman. For everything.”
I pull myself from his grasp and walk away, placing my mom’s pendant inside the breast pocket of my uniform.
Over the heart that beats for him.
Forty
Roman
Captain Wyatt Fox, having just finished a heartfelt speech about the brother and father he lost fourteen years ago, steps off the dais into the arms of his wife, Oscar-winning actress Molly Cade. The Dempseys and their extended clan are here, supporting each other as family does. As Abby ascends the steps to the lectern, I can’t help thinking of how alone she looks up there.
Her father is here, but it’s not for her. It’s so he can look good for the press.
Her friends are here—Torres and that Killian guy from 70—and I’ve no doubt they’ll take care of her, but not the way I could.
I want to be the one she turns to when she breaks down later, because I know she will. She came close to it inside the firehouse as she spoke to her mom.
Sure, she’ll keep it together up there. It’s the future I worry about—and selfish prick that I am, my future without her in it.
“Hello, everyone. Brothers and sisters in fire, families of the fallen …” She looks over to her father. “Dad.”
CFD Media Affairs loves that. A camera happily clicks away.
“I was six when I lost my mother, Jo Sullivan, the first female firefighter in the Chicago Fire Department. I knew what she did for a living and I especially knew it when she came home smelling of smoke and perfume. I used to think she wore that scent on the job, to assert her womanhood in some way. But later I realized that she did it for me. Spritzed it on her before she came home, so it would comfort me somehow and make her job less scary. It didn’t. I was always terrified.
“I never worried about my dad, not until later, which probably taps into some unconscious bias I carry about women in the fire department. Men don’t need our concern because they’re doing the job they’re expected to do. The one they’re meant to do.” Her eyes flicker to the area of the crowd where I’m standing, and I feel a burst of emotion so strong I almost keel over.
“But a woman? We should worry about her. And in return, she should make her kid feel better with a dash of Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers.”
The paper in her hand shakes. I would do anything to jump up there and hold it for her. But Abby’s strong. She will survive this.
“My mom didn’t want me to worry about her. She didn’t want anyone to do that. She just wanted to do her job and be respected for it, because she was good at that job. She had people watching her back but I like to think it wasn’t overbearing or patriarchal or any different than one guy on a crew watching out for another. She saved lives, even the night she lost her own.” She takes a sharp inhale. “Because she was trained to do this. She was born to be a firefighter.”
On that word—firefighter—Abby meets my gaze square on.
“Someone once told me that I’m a good firefighter with the potential to be great. I’m not sure I believed him. That lack of belief—that impostor syndrome—wriggles inside our heads and makes us question everything. Whether we should be here doing this job we love. Whether we put other people at risk because we’re not good enough. Whether we’re just a distraction or a token or a number to make up a quota. Whether we deserve the things we want more than anything. When I get those doubts I remember what Jo Sullivan achieved in the face of so many obstacles. Opposition from co-workers, the public, even her own family. I remember the lives she saved. The hearts she touched.
“I remember that I can have all the training in the world but if I don’t have the support, both inside and outside my family of fire, I won’t succeed. Jo Sullivan sits on my shoulder, telling me I can do this. Telling me this is important. Telling me that I’m born to do it.
“It’s been twenty years but you’re not forgotten, Mom. I carry you inside here”—she touches her chest, the pocket where she stashed her pendant—“every day.” Her gaze seeks me again and I’m filled with such love for her that I want to rush that dais and carry her off it.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks for inspiring me and thousands of firefighters to take up this baton and run with it into the next burning building.”
