Page 91 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“I’m at the calendar shoot.”
“I’m on my way.”
The sound of his voice, the uncertainty, rings in my ears as I all but jog across the parking lot to the address Grady texted me.
Why didn’t he tell me ahead of time so I could be here for him?
Because I’m not his girlfriend.
I’m not anything to him.
I’m his enjoyment for the time being—that’s why.
And even though the stinging thoughts are in my head, the minute I push open the door to the studio and see Grady, I know why I’m here. For him. To help him heal. He’s pacing back and forth on the side of the room. His hand keeps going to his head and then stopping when he realizes he can’t mess up his hair.
Another firefighter—Dixon, I think—is in front of the camera. His shoulders are square, his chest is bare, and he has his turnout jacket hooked by one finger over his shoulder. His nervous chuckle and his awkward and forced positioning reflect how uncomfortable he is.
There’s a catcall from a side of the room I can’t see, and I’m sure it’s another one of the guys giving him shit.
“Romeo, Romeo, get your hose out to save me, Romeo.”
There are snickers and laughter, and I realize there is a whole crew of guys in the corner razzing him. Dixon lifts a finger and flips them off.
“Now, now. We can’t be doing that on film.” The photographer laughs as she clicks a candid picture of Dixon laughing. “Okay, you’re all done.”
“Thank, Christ. This modeling shit is for the birds. Give me a hot fire any day over these hot lights.”
“Pussy,” one of the guys says.
“Don’t worry, GQ won’t be knocking down your door,” another says.
Everyone in the room is laughing and relaxed except Grady. He’s standing in the corner, staring out the window, shoulders a wall of tension.
“Grady.”
He turns when I say his name, a mixt
ure of relief and unease fleeting through his expression.
“You’re up next, Malone,” the photographer says, an encouraging smile on her lips and an upbeat tone to her voice.
The crew in the corner whistles and catcalls.
“Take it off.”
“C’mon, you sexy beast.”
“Put us all to shame.”
Grady laughs, but it’s his eyes as they meet mine that communicate how he really feels. He may proclaim that he’s vain, but right now his insecurity owns him.
Does he not change in front of the guys at the station? Does he not realize they don’t care what his scars look like just as I don’t? Or is it that he’s afraid to be the reminder of what can happen in their job? Does he fear they’ll shun him so they don’t have to see the consequences?
I’m not sure which one it is, or if it’s a combination of all of them, but my heart breaks seeing him try to put on such a strong front when he’s struggling internally with something none of us clearly understands.
“So, what am I going to do with you?” the photographer asks as she looks at him shift on his feet and radiate discomfort. She angles her head to the side. “Turnout pants, suspenders, helmet.” She nods for emphasis as the rest of the guys whoop it up.
They can’t be oblivious to what he’s going through, so I can only think they’re being boisterous intentionally. But it isn’t working. I can see it in his hesitation to walk to where his pile of gear is waiting on his chair, his helmet resting atop it.
