Page 69 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
So much for doing a good job of hiding from the water, or more importantly, having to wear a bathing suit in front of everyone. Luckily, my eyes are hidden behind my tinted lenses or else he’d probably see right through every excuse on the tip of my tongue.
“No reason.” I try an excuse anyway.
“He really did a number on you, didn’t he, Dylan?” There’s so much compassion laced with a hint of anger on my behalf that it opens the door to the hurt and lays down a welcome mat for it.
I sigh. Then start to speak. Stop myself. Then try to explain. “It wasn’t so much Jett as it was every other woman who wanted to be with him.”
“You mean every other woman who wished she were you so they’d tear you down with lies to justify why they couldn’t hold a candle to you? You mean those women?”
It sounds stupid when he says it. It’s even worse that despite it sounding stupid, the women were still successful in affecting how I saw myself. See myself. But at the same time, it isn’t exactly hard to look at the proof—Jett screwing what’s-her-ho—to reinforce the way I feel.
Add to that, I hate that Grady’s observation means so much that a mixture of shame and wounded pride makes my eyes burn. “They’re not lies when they’re the truth.”
His sigh is audible, and the shake of his head reads almost disappointed. “That’s not how I see it.”
“C’mon, Grady. I appreciate you trying to make me feel better about myself but . . . I’m not blind here. I know my body isn’t like the Hollywood crowd. I’m well aware that when the media used to take pictures of Jett and me, he radiated on the page while most of them Photoshopped the hell out of me. The ones that didn’t, told a nasty story to justify why rock-god Jett Kroger was with someone who didn’t meet the public’s ideal for him.”
“The media doesn’t know shit. That I can tell you. Heroine chic is the furthest thing from sexy. And it’s women who do this. They’re the ones telling the men what they should like when they don’t know shit other than their own insecurities. You really want to know what a man likes?”
“I have a feeling you’re about to tell me.”
“Sure am. Men like women who eat. They like women they can take to dinner and won’t push food around on a plate because they’re afraid to be seen actually putting food in their mouths. You know, like we all have to do in order to survive. Men like women who are muscular and strong and don’t look like they’ll break if we toss them around in bed.”
“Whatever,” I say with a roll of my eyes, but the smile on my lips is genuine.
“Men like women who are confident, who know how to handle themselves, and who don’t fucking care if their thighs touch or not, because it isn’t when they’re pressed together that men are thinking about. It’s when they’re spread apart that we’re hoping for. Crude? Yes. True? Hell, yes.” My laughter rings out at something I should probably find offensive, and yet the context in which he’s saying it—to explain to me why I have a bad self-image—is endearing. “You have this confidence I can hear clear as day when you sing in your room and work through a song, but it disappears the minute you’re asked to go to the lake because you might have to wear a bathing suit.”
“Grady . . .”
“What? It’s the truth. I saw you hesitate the minute I asked, and I thought it was because you didn’t want to go with me. Then we got here and you avoided going anywhere near the water, and I figured out why.” He looks to where Luke yells as he sails through the air again. “I hate the way you see yourself, Dylan.”
“And I hate the way you see yourself, Grady.” Maybe he needs to listen to his own words.
He brings his bottle of beer to his lips ever so slowly without looking my way. “I agreed to do the calendar. Happy?” There’s no edge to his voice like I’d expect there to be, just a sad resignation.
“Not happy, no. I detest that it makes you uncomfortable, but at the same time, I think if you don’t participate, you’ll regret it later.”
“Mmm.” That’s all he says, and I hate that he still hasn’t looked my way.
“I can be there during the photo shoot if you want,” I offer the
n feel like an idiot who has overstepped the minute the words are out. “I mean . . . if you need silent support.”
“Thanks.”
He doesn’t say yes or no, so I fall quiet, suddenly uncomfortable with this conversation. We sit like this for a bit while I swing my legs, run my toes through the water, and lift my face to the sun to welcome the warmth.
“Tell me about your dad.”
Every part of me tenses at the mention of the man who abandoned us, so I keep my eyes closed momentarily and concentrate on the sun’s heat on my cheeks. I know it’s my turn to offer up a part of myself, so I grow a pair, and let out a deep breath while I try to find the words.
“What is there to say other than he loved his job more than he loved us.” Grady grimaces at my explanation. “One day, he was there, a part of everything we did. The glue that held us all together. And then the next, he was telling my mom that having a family—damn responsibilities, is I think what he called us—wasn’t part of life for a firefighter. That he needed to be able to chase the next flame when it came without worrying.”
“That’s a euphemism if ever I’ve heard one.” I can hear the disgust in his voice, and it makes me feel better if at all possible.
“Pretty much. There were four of us, the McCoys on Mistress Court . . . and yes, the irony of our street name is not lost on me. One day we had the white picket fence in suburbia, and the next there was nothing. My mom was a shell of herself. Damon was angry all the time. My dad participated from afar for a while. Then less and less with each subsequent year until there was nothing left. Not even a card on Christmas. The white picket fence became faded and fell down. Weeds grew where the grass used to be green.”
“And what happened to little Dylan?”
