“On my way. Thank you, Roman. For everything.”
I pull myself from his grasp and walk away, placing my mom’s pendant inside the breast pocket of my uniform.
Over the heart that beats for him.
Forty
Roman
Captain Wyatt Fox, having just finished a heartfelt speech about the brother and father he lost fourteen years ago, steps off the dais into the arms of his wife, Oscar-winning actress Molly Cade. The Dempseys and their extended clan are here, supporting each other as family does. As Abby ascends the steps to the lectern, I can’t help thinking of how alone she looks up there.
Her father is here, but it’s not for her. It’s so he can look good for the press.
Her friends are here—Torres and that Killian guy from 70—and I’ve no doubt they’ll take care of her, but not the way I could.
I want to be the one she turns to when she breaks down later, because I know she will. She came close to it inside the firehouse as she spoke to her mom.
Sure, she’ll keep it together up there. It’s the future I worry about—and selfish prick that I am, my future without her in it.
“Hello, everyone. Brothers and sisters in fire, families of the fallen …” She looks over to her father. “Dad.”
CFD Media Affairs loves that. A camera happily clicks away.
“I was six when I lost my mother, Jo Sullivan, the first female firefighter in the Chicago Fire Department. I knew what she did for a living and I especially knew it when she came home smelling of smoke and perfume. I used to think she wore that scent on the job, to assert her womanhood in some way. But later I realized that she did it for me. Spritzed it on her before she came home, so it would comfort me somehow and make her job less scary. It didn’t. I was always terrified.
“I never worried about my dad, not until later, which probably taps into some unconscious bias I carry about women in the fire department. Men don’t need our concern because they’re doing the job they’re expected to do. The one they’re meant to do.” Her eyes flicker to the area of the crowd where I’m standing, and I feel a burst of emotion so strong I almost keel over.
“But a woman? We should worry about her. And in return, she should make her kid feel better with a dash of Elizabeth Arden Sunflowers.”
The paper in her hand shakes. I would do anything to jump up there and hold it for her. But Abby’s strong. She will survive this.
“My mom didn’t want me to worry about her. She didn’t want anyone to do that. She just wanted to do her job and be respected for it, because she was good at that job. She had people watching her back but I like to think it wasn’t overbearing or patriarchal or any different than one guy on a crew watching out for another. She saved lives, even the night she lost her own.” She takes a sharp inhale. “Because she was trained to do this. She was born to be a firefighter.”
On that word—firefighter—Abby meets my gaze square on.
“Someone once told me that I’m a good firefighter with the potential to be great. I’m not sure I believed him. That lack of belief—that impostor syndrome—wriggles inside our heads and makes us question everything. Whether we should be here doing this job we love. Whether we put other people at risk because we’re not good enough. Whether we’re just a distraction or a token or a number to make up a quota. Whether we deserve the things we want more than anything. When I get those doubts I remember what Jo Sullivan achieved in the face of so many obstacles. Opposition from co-workers, the public, even her own family. I remember the lives she saved. The hearts she touched.
“I remember that I can have all the training in the world but if I don’t have the support, both inside and outside my family of fire, I won’t succeed. Jo Sullivan sits on my shoulder, telling me I can do this. Telling me this is important. Telling me that I’m born to do it.
“It’s been twenty years but you’re not forgotten, Mom. I carry you inside here”—she touches her chest, the pocket where she stashed her pendant—“every day.” Her gaze seeks me again and I’m filled with such love for her that I want to rush that dais and carry her off it.
“Thanks, Mom. Thanks for inspiring me and thousands of firefighters to take up this baton and run with it into the next burning building.”
A tear escapes her shiny eyes and runs down her cheek. A round of applause erupts and she walks away, stopping only to kiss her father on the cheek. He says something to her, then she’s in the arms of her friends, Torres and Killian.
They’ll do for the moment, but I need to fix this—and I suspect I know how.
I head into the firehouse, thinking about my next move. But I don’t have long to ponder because the man I want to see is walking toward me, Venti at his side.
“Commissioner, could I have a word?”
Venti stares at me. I try to convey that this is okay, even if it isn’t, and refocus on Chuck Sullivan. “It won’t take long.”
“Sure, Lieutenant. Matt, could we use your office?”
“Go ahead.”
I nod at Venti, who gifts me a look that’s very familiar, one that says “do not blow up your career right now, idiot.” Once in Matt’s office, the Commissioner and I stand opposite each other like gunfighters at high noon.
“How’s the wrist?” he asks after an extra-charged beat.
“Healing.”
“I never got a chance to thank you for what you did, looking out for my daughter.”
“It was a mutual thing.” We saved each other, in more ways than one. “That was a good speech she gave out there. Pity it means nothing to you.”
Sullivan frowns. “Is that what you think?”
“You want her out of the service, you’ve never supported her, and sure she’s here but she’s been alone for a long time.”
The man looks torn between acknowledgment I’m right and sheer annoyance that I am.
“I’ve never doubted her ability, her commitment, her desire. I just don’t think she should be doing it. She’s my only child, all I have left of Joanne. I don’t want to lose her. Is that so hard to understand?”
“No. I’m a father myself. I wouldn’t want my kid in this business, and with the loss you’ve already suffered, you’re doubly careful. I get it. But she’s here, straddling the line between all in and craving your approval. She’s internalized that fear of yours and it’s made her careful. Not on the job, but in here.” I strike my chest, over the heart that beats for Abby Sullivan. “She’s already lost her mother, she may as well have lost you—”
“She hasn’t lost me. I’m right here.”
“Yeah, in the flesh. But you’re not here in the way she needs. Showing pride in her accomplishments, mentoring her in her career, giving her the unconditional love she deserves. She needs someone to believe in her.”
Sullivan’s gaze is hard and flinty. “Someone like you?”
“Yeah, someone like me.” I believe in her, but it’s clearly not enough. Because if it were she would be in my arms right now.