Page 32

“No, no, no, no, no!” I shouted at my phone, struggling to keep a flood of tears at bay.

I pushed back from my desk, letting my stupid chair sail across the newsroom until it smacked into the back of a fellow reporter.

“Hey!” the guy shouted in surprise. I barely heard him.

My vision was getting cloudier by the second as I lost my battle with emotions I’d hardly accepted were rooted in my burgeoning relationship with Dane. I read his texts over and over, trying to find a gap or chink, some opening that might let me explain or beg or … anything … just to talk to him.

“This can’t be happening. Not now. Not when I’m finally …”

Finally what? On top? Page one, left corner?

And why was that, Patrick? How did you manage that feat of professional leapfrog? Who could possibly have paved that road?

My brain was brutal, a cruel whip-crack inside my head heaping scorn on top of guilt wrapped in blame.

Dane. Had I really used him just to get an article? Was he right?

Ice crusted around my heart and spread through my chest like angry fingers clawing their way through my insides. I reached up, ran a hand across my sternum, tried to force feeling or warmth into a place that now felt hollower than any canyon.

Sure, Dane had been my entry point into the station. I hadn’t deceived him about that. He knew I was writing an article. We’d talked about it.

You didn’t tell him about the shift in your article, did you, dumbass? He had no idea your focus had changed from a positive puff piece about a fireman’s routine into an investigative hack job that would devastate one of his closest friends and teammates. You really stuck that one to him. Nice work.

I hated my brain sometimes.

I’d never meant to hurt Dane or Burton or Sami … or even Alex. I had gone into this with the best of intentions, with hopes of shedding light on the hard work these incredible people did every day. But when Em presented me with an opportunity—a real opportunity—how could I turn away from it? It was the difference between languishing in a meaningless place and getting closer to working a beat with real importance, one that actually impacted people and—

And what, Patrick? Got you higher up the fucking ladder? Your foot looked damn good stepping on Dane’s face as you ascended that puppy. You’re a real opportunist.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck!” I chanted over and over as I paced around my tiny section of the floor. Several others had turned to watch, but none dared interrupt the meltdown in progress. Either this would fuel water-cooler conversations for a week or I might end up the subject of a story they could write to help their own careers.

“Newsie Cracks Up After Hitting Page One” or “Pressures of the Newsroom: Too Much for Good Guys?”

A dozen far worse headlines flashed before my eyes, each cracking the ice in my chest to shards that cut and dug and bled.

“Patrick?” Emily’s hand on my shoulder nearly shocked me out of a year’s growth.

“Oh, hey, Em,” I said, my eyes snapping up to meet hers.

“Are you alright?” Her voice was halting, tentative, as if she wasn’t sure what to ask, which was remarkable considering she was the most brilliant interrogator in the newsroom.

I started to nod, then shook my head. “No, I’m not, not really.”

“Look at me,” her voice firmed. “You don’t have time for this. The clock is ticking, and Demmit is waiting. Pull yourself together, alright?”

I blinked a few times, stung by her verbal slap.

She was right, of course. My next page-one article—and I could barely believe I was using the word “next” so casually—was due in less than two days. I hadn’t even thought about where to start. All I’d done since getting the assignment was flick open my phone, stare, moan, and pace.

Her other hand found my other shoulder, so she held me, squared off like a football coach talking to her quarterback. “Patrick,” her voice lowered, and I swear she folded empathy in with a mother’s reprimand. “Dane?”

She didn’t have to ask or say more than his name. We both knew the question. But hearing it, facing the prospect of answering it aloud, nearly shattered the last bit of control I possessed. I sucked in a breath and fought back a sob, then looked at her through watery eyes.

She held my gaze. And I lost it.

I tore myself from her grasp and fled the floor. When I pushed through the glass doors that led to the parking lot, fresh air filled my lungs. I drank it in like a desperate, dying man. It tasted of cut grass and coming rain.

My face was wet. My eyes stung. I lifted my phone and punched Kaitlin’s photo.

“Hey, Poo Bear,” she answered on the first ring.

“Kait … Kait …” I couldn’t stop sobbing. “I need … oh shit, Kait …”

“Don’t talk. Go to my place. I’m headed home.”

Katilin was the best. Seriously. I cried like a baby at sad movies and books and pretty much any story that invoked tears, but I never cried about real life. I never had much reason. My life had been calm and peaceful; pretty fucking perfect, if a bit lonely.

She knew that if I was bawling, it was a nine-one-one emergency. Only Katie would leave work just for me. God, I loved that woman.

When I got to her place, I opened the door with the key she kept in a magnetic box attached to a set of pipes around the back. Java greeted me the moment I stepped inside, his goofy tongue lolling out one side of his drooping mouth, and both ears flopping like a confused rabbit.

I shut the door behind me, dropped to the floor, and let the fluffy beast dance in my lap and nuzzle hair all over my freshly pressed shirt. I didn’t care if he slobbered or licked or shed his whole coat over me, I just needed his warmth and unconditional love. I needed to hold something, someone, and know they wanted to hold me back.

Java probably wanted to play more than hold me, but it was my pity party and I imagined him wrapping his paws around my neck and holding me like a boyfriend—

Which made me think of Dane.

The sobs returned.

You weren’t even boyfriends. You’d been out, what, three times? Maybe four, if you’re generous with your math. You were basically fuck buddies, and now you’re acting like the world is ending. You’re pathetic.

“Stop!” I shouted, startling poor Java. “I’m sorry, buddy. Not you. Don’t stop. Come here.”

He scampered away, giving me a wary look over his shoulder as he fled to the bedroom.

“Great. Now I’m scaring dogs away. What next?”

I rubbed my eyes with the heel of my palms and stood, bracing myself by the doorknob. By the time Kaitlin arrived, I had passed out on her couch, exhaustion overtaking the myriad emotions coursing through my body.

“Aw, Patty Poo, what happened?” She alighted beside me like a butterfly landing on a branch, wrapping chubby arms around me and enveloping me with her warmth. I breathed in the bittersweet perfume she liked so much, something with lavender and cinnamon, which I’d always thought was weird but couldn’t get enough of in that moment. She smelled of comfort and safety—and strange breakfast rolls.

I held up my phone without saying a word.

One of her arms lifted from around me as she took it and flicked it to life. She only needed seconds to read Dane’s texts, but it felt like days as I waited for her response. I think I held my breath. I couldn’t think.

“Oh, Patty, I’m sorry.” She only called me Patty when I cried. It made me feel small and young—and vulnerable—which, I supposed, I was. “What happened?”

“My article came out.”

“I can’t understand you, baby doll. Can you sit up for me?”

Reluctantly, I freed her shoulder, feeling like I was leaving a piece of myself on the other side of the couch. “My article came out.”

“Okay,” she said, her brows pinched. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? Wasn’t this a big win for you?”

I shrugged. “Yeah, but he didn’t know … he didn’t know about me digging into the drug thing. He thought I was just writing some fluff about firemen.”

It took a second for her to do the math, then her mouth formed an O as she stared. Without her hands or neck to hold me up, I slumped into the cushions.

“So, he’s upset you wrote a piece about, what, his friend?”

“A member of his team.”

“Oh shit,” slipped out before she covered her mouth. “I mean, oh crap. That’s rough.”

I nodded but didn’t look up.

A few moments passed before she asked, “Have you tried to call him?”

That wasn’t what I expected her to ask—not that I had any real plans for our conversation. My brain was numb—except for the part that kept berating me for being a dumbass.

“No.” My voice sounded muffled as I spoke into her shoulder, refusing to release the security of her embrace.

“Well,” she said carefully. “Maybe you should.”

“He said he didn’t want me to.”

“Actually, he said he would listen if you wanted to explain why you … well, if you wanted to explain why.” She rarely guarded her words. Now they sounded like she’d wrapped them in medieval armor and given them swords and shields. “Sometimes people say things they don’t mean when they’re upset or angry. Give him a chance to—”

“He’ll just hang up on me. I couldn’t take that, Kait. That would suck so bad.” I groaned, which sounded even more pathetic drifting up from where my face was buried.

She pushed me off her and held me almost exactly as Emily had, with both hands on my shoulders. “I’m right here. I’ll be here with you. Why don’t you at least text him? Maybe he’s waiting to see what you’ll do.”

Something resembling hope tickled my ribs, and my chin lifted. “You think so?”

Now she shrugged. “You won’t know until you try.”

She handed me my phone then scooched to rest her back against the armrest, giving me space to stare and think. An eternal moment later, I swiped the screen to life and typed.

Me:Hey.

Before pressing send, I deleted the word.

Me:Dane, I’m so sorry.

I deleted that too.

Me:I know I should’ve told you. I’m sorry. I never meant to—

I couldn’t delete that one fast enough. I stared at the screen. It was angry and bright and looked like it wanted to fucking bite me. Siri was probably plotting my death. She could be a real bitch, and not just in the hateful spell-check sort of way. I was convinced Apple had planted the evil witch from Maleficent into my phone instead of a cheerful virtual assistant.

“What did you say?” Kaitlin asked, pulling me out of the depths of my digital dilemma.

“I sort of didn’t.” I hadn’t meant to sound pitiful. It just came out that way. “Kait, what do you say to a guy who tells you he never wants to talk to you again?”

I stared up, begging with my eyes for some pearl of wisdom, but she had none. “I don’t know, P.”

Great. My life preserver has a leak and I’m sinking fast.

Me:I know you’re mad. Can we just talk?

My thumb hovered over the send button for what felt like eons before pressing down. I’d hoped I might feel some relief when the words were finally spoken, sent into the ether toward Dane where he’d either ignore me or, more likely, reply with a “go fuck yourself, you lying bastard.”

He wouldn’t say that. He was a good guy. He might like to slam my body against a stainless steel, well, anything, but that was all in the name of fun. I hadn’t ever heard him speak a word in anger. He’d been nothing but kind.

Then again, it wasn’t as if we’d spent the last decade repairing and repainting the picket fence that surrounded our farm out in the middle of Little House on the Prairie land. What did I really know about his temper? Practically nothing. Maybe he was a raging bull when angry. He might throw things and get abusive. I’d never seen him pissed, so everything was a guess.

Shit, I’d invoked Laura Ingles Wilder. I was in over my head.

My phone vibrated, and I thought Katie might hurl her body across the couch. “What did he say? Quick. Read it out loud.”

The way her face brightened and she sat up on her knees on the couch, someone snooping through the window might’ve thought we were deciding to get a new puppy. I almost smiled at her childlike exuberance.

Almost.

My hand shook as I raised my phone.

Walkman:Unless you plan to tell me why you threw Alex under a bus, there’s nothing to discuss.

Kaitlin and I exchanged glances. She gave me an encouraging nod.

Me: The PD were already on the case. They were after Alex whether I wrote about him or not. I didn’t cause this to happen.

Walkman: And I’m supposed to believe that?

Me:You’re supposed to believe me.

Walkman:Ha. That’s a good one. The guy who lied about why he wanted to see me, why he wanted to see the station, is telling me I should trust him? Not gonna happen, Patrick. Not in a million years.

Me:Dane, please. I’m telling the truth. I didn’t even know about all this when I met you or when we did the station tour. I got the tip after that.

The dots danced, then stilled.

I stared. Kaitlin leaned forward and glared at the screen with me.

Something akin to hope bloomed in my chest. “He’s thinking, right? The pause means he’s thinking about it. He’s giving me a chance.”

Kaitlin reached across and gripped my arm but didn’t speak. Her lips were tight and thin, her eyes narrowed. She wouldn’t look directly at me.

A million years later, the dots danced again.

Walkman:You still lied to me. You should’ve told me before the article came out. That fucking sucked, Patrick. We were all together when the cops came in. Do you have any idea what that was like? And Alex … fuck … he was wrecked. His kids are little.

Walkman:It doesn’t matter. None of this matters. Your why or whatever. I can’t trust you now, and I really fucking hate the idea of looking at you. Just go away. Find someone else to trick into a story. You’re good at it.

Walkman:Don’t text or call. I don’t need to know any more.

Walkman:Besides, if the guys knew I was talking to you, I’d have to sleep with my eyes open.

Walkman:Just fuck off, okay?

“I’m so screwed,” I said, handing her the phone as my head drooped. He’d basically machine-gun-texted, one shot after another. If his words hadn’t sounded so angry, the cadence of the pings on my phone certainly had.

Katie scanned the text, her face falling back into the sullen frown it held a moment before.

I could picture Dane in the station, sitting in the den area, surrounded by his team and the others from the ambulance. They would be waiting on Burton to whip up something tasty. Sami or one of the others might even be in the kitchen helping him prep the meal. On any other day, playful banter would be flying faster than a firefighter sliding down a pole.

That idea momentarily distracted me. Did they still do that? I hadn’t seen a pole in the station. And if they did still slide down poles, were those things greased? That seemed like such a stupid detail, a question a four-year-old might ask, but I couldn’t help but wonder. Would the pole chafe if it wasn’t greased? Wouldn’t that cause workers’ comp claims if a firefighter got crotch rash from an ungreased pole?

Fuck. That made me think about Dane’s pole, all thick and veiny. I’d greased it up a few times—with my mouth and my—

Now isn’t the time to get horny, asshole. You have a man and about a dozen mistakes to sulk over.

My brain remained the bitter bitch it had been all day. Stupid brain.

The image of Dane in his dark blue uniform shirt and trousers, with his pole well secured, flashed back to the fore. Today wasn’t any given day. I could see Sami waving a copy of the AJC around, shouting about what an idiot Dane had been to let me into the station and how he was an even bigger moron for dating me. He’d crossed lines, and the rest of them—especially Alex—were paying for it. It wouldn’t take long for her blood to boil hot enough and her speech to flip into Spanish. I’d only met her a few times, but I was certain she had the mouth of a pirate in both languages. The firehouse might need a thorough washing down when she got done blowing off steam.

Then there was Burton . He was probably cooking without looking up, trying to keep all his emotions bottled up so he could be the wise elder. He might even defend me.

I laughed at that, drawing a curious gaze from Katie.

Okay, none of them would defend me. I was persona non grata, and would likely never be able to change that. But maybe, just maybe, Burton was serving as the voice of reason he usually was. Maybe he was telling Dane to “sleep on things” or offering some other soothing suggestions. Maybe he was telling Dane to give me a chance to explain things before he—

What was I thinking? Burton was probably nodding right along with the rest of them. He was blue through and through, as he should be. One of their own had been badly injured, arrested, then kicked in the balls by a reporter who was supposed to care about another one of their own.

Did I care about Dane? Had it come to that? My brain stilled for a blessed moment as the question sank in.

What does it matter, dumbass? You bent him over and fucked him with a baseball bat … the fat end … without lube. He may never trust men again. You probably ruined the guy for life.

Shit, my brain was cruel. That didn’t make it wrong. What if I really did damage Dane in a way that ruined his chance of finding happiness?

“Patrick, you’re being dramatic,” Katie said. My eyes snapped up. I’d been staring at the backs of my hands in my lap while daydreaming about my own demise.

“How so? I’m just sitting here.”

“Patrick Ryan Picard Everly Pierce. I know you.”

“None of those are my names. You know that, right?”

Her lips twisted in an impossible Cirque du Soleil pretzel. “Patrick Pierce, you are sitting there wallowing in your abject failure.”

“I hadn’t thought of the words ‘abject failure,’” I muttered.

“Don’t interrupt me when I’m scolding you,” she huffed. Her voice calmed. “Do you like this guy?”

I blinked a few times and nodded. “Yeah.”

“Well, don’t give up then. You’re more than one mistake. He saw something in you or he wouldn’t have gone out with you again and again.”

“And again.”

“What?”

“Three dates.”

She blew out a laugh, somewhere between an exasperated sigh and a chuckle.

“It’s a good thing I love you, or I might hate you for that.”

I tried to grin. It didn’t work again.