Page 100 of Combust (Everyday Heroes 2)
“You checking me out now, Dix?” I ask and climb down from my spot on the rig where I went for privacy.
“No, but lucky for you, that roommate of yours will be heading out soon, because I have a feeling this calendar is going to be getting you some serious revolving-between-the-sheets action.”
“You’re a sick fuck,” I say as Bowie catches my eye and nods to me.
And I can’t help but wonder what for.
Because I did the calendar and I didn’t fuck it up, or because he knows that Dylan leaving might be a little harder on me than I’m letting on.
My money is on both.
I look at the calendar in my hands again as my feet falter and the guys move on, still razzing the shit out of me as if I was beside them.
And for the first time since I woke up from the accident, I look at a picture of me and realize the scars may not matter as much as I thought.
I stand at the back door and watch her. She’s working through lyrics, that much I know from how she constantly repeats the same set of lines over and over. The only difference in how she normally works is this time she’s doing it giving Petunia a bath. Both are covered in suds as Dylan works her hands up and down Petunia’s back. Her laughter floats into the window and catches my attention just as much as the way she swings her hips.
I watch the two of them and wonder when it happened. When did Dylan seamlessly work her way into my everyday life so that something like this—her washing my pig—feels so goddamn natural that I don’t question it?
“I can say I don’t care.
That I’ll walk away without fanfare.
But you know it’s a lie.
This is so much more than goodbye.”
My chest tightens when I hear the lyrics. I need to see her. But the minute I put my hand on the doorknob, I hesitate. There is so much I want to say, need to say, but know I can’t.
Should I show her the calendar? Let her see for herself the words I can’t bring myself to say? The emotions I feel but struggle to permit myself to have.
We both have our own lives to move on with when our playing house comes to an end. We both have promises we made to ourselves we need to keep.
I have promises I need to keep.
Then why is it so hard for me to let go of the doorknob and leave her be without saying a word?
If we’re simply enjoying each other and our time left, why does this feel so complicated?
Because it is.
“Can’t say all of Sunnyville didn’t show up in support of the calendar sales,” Betsy Malone says and shakes her head as we both stare at the same person. Her son.
“Let’s just hope Grady walks away without his ego so big he can’t fit through the front door.” He’s all smiles as he sits and patiently talks to the ladies who have waited in line to get their calendars signed.
They run the gamut when they get to Grady—from giggly to flirty, from shy to rambling—but I love that he’s patient with every one of them. Taking a picture if they ask. Talking to their kids if they’re with them. The perfect ambassador for the station.
And that isn’t saying all of the other guys aren’t doing the same, but my eyes are fixed on Grady and Grady alone.
They seem to be there a lot these days.
“I’m sure you’ll bring him down to earth if it is,” she says with a wink. “And if not, he has two brothers chomping at the bit to razz the hell out of him.”
I laugh and think of the shit they’ve given him since the calendars went on sale. Bumper stickers about hose sizes slapped on the back of his truck. A blow-up doll delivered that was some kind of retaliation for something he did to Grant. A box of blow-pop suckers delivered to the station. And the list goes on.
“I’m sure they will.”
“Emerson says you’re almost done with your songs.”
