Page 97 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“I have faith in you, Grady. Face everything and rise.”
“I know, Dad. I’m trying.”
“You call me when you know.”
“I will.”
I end the call and watch the fire rage on. Petunia roots around, her grunts become background noise. The chords from Dylan’s guitar as she works through one of her final songs push through her closed door.
The world keeps moving as the fire rages on and destroys someone else’s property.
House.
Life.
World.
“I hope you don’t mind that I stopped over without calling first.” Emerson stands in the doorway and smiles, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail and her little baby paunch finally showing.
“No. Please. Come in.” I open the door wider and do a mental rundown of if I look presentable or not. Too many late nights working and a lot of Grady covering the station for the crews called up north to cover the wildfire slowly being contained means makeup and hair have b
een left by the wayside. “I could use the break. It feels like I’ve been working on the same lyrics for days without any progress.”
“How’s it going?”
“I’m down to finishing my final three songs.”
“And then you’ll be leaving us?” I notice her pursed lips and hate what my response has to be.
“Yes.” I clear the emotion in my throat that the knowing look in her eyes causes.
“I’m sure you’re excited to get back to your everyday life. The hustle and bustle of Los Angeles. Hell, now that Jett’s out of the picture, I’m sure you’ll have a blast living it up, playing the field, and meeting someone new.”
“Hmm.”
“He is out of the picture, right?” she asks with wide eyes and raised brows.
“Yes. He is. It’s definitely over.” This time my response has more resonance to it.
“Then yay, you get to go back home with a fresh start.”
“Sure.” There is nothing convincing in how I say the word. In fact, the thought of leaving here and playing the field is the farthest thing on my mind because there’s one problem with each one of those suppositions. None of them include Grady.
Or the comfort of the scanner that convinces me he’s okay and near, even though he isn’t. Like now.
Emerson angles her head and studies me for a beat, but when she finally speaks, she leaves the topic alone and moves on. “I don’t know how you do it,” she murmurs as she sits in the chair across from me. “If I had to be that creative all the time, I think my brain would fry.”
“And if I had to jump out of airplanes for a living, mine would fry.” I laugh and then shrug. “There are many days the creativity isn’t there. But when I feel a song and I’m on, I can write it in less than an hour. Other times, like now, it takes days.”
“What’s the song called you’re working on now?”
“‘Hard to Say Goodbye.’” Our eyes meet briefly, and I know she can see the truth in mine. That I’m writing a song about my imminent departure, but she just smiles softly and nods as I stand and move nervously into the kitchen. “Would you like some water? A soda?”
“What I’d really love is a glass of wine, but that’s frowned upon since I’m pregnant and all.” She laughs, and yet I can hear the adoration in her voice over her impending baby.
“Damn doctors.” I roll my eyes and take a seat across from her again. “What can I do for you?”
“I have something for you, hot off the presses and I thought you might want to see.”
