“You were supposed to take care of her, Rossi, not seduce her. I could have your badge.”
He’s right. But we all make bad decisions, especially where the heart is in play. And I’ve no doubt that I only crossed the line once my emotions were thoroughly engaged. Chiara’s right. I was crazy about Abby Sullivan from the jump.
“You could, but I don’t think you will. Because I think you and I have more in common than you’d care to admit. You met your wife on the job, right?”
“I don’t see how that’s relevant.”
“Come on, Chuck, fess up now.”
He walks over to the window and looks out. A long silence ticks over before he speaks.
“I didn’t want her to come back to work after Abby was born. She’d been off the job for a couple of years and there was no need, not really. But she loved it so much. And I couldn’t deny her the chance to do something she loved. If I’d put my foot down, she’d be here today.”
He says all this to the window, giving voice to something he’s probably buried deep for years. Laying out his guilt because he didn’t employ whatever fucked-up marital privilege he thinks he enjoyed twenty years ago.
“You think raining your disapproval on Abby is going to make her give up? Keep her safe?”
He turns sharply. “Eventually.”
“And if you got what you wanted, if she upped and quit today, you’d be happy?” I don’t wait for him to respond. “How long will that happiness last, Chuck? Because you’ll lose her in every other way that matters. It will always be between you, this wall you constructed to keep her safe. To stop her from living.”
From loving. Because that’s what he’s done. Placed her in a glass box where she can keep her heart safe from assholes like me.
Well, this asshole isn’t content to let Abby Sullivan remain cut off from her heart. That thriving, pumping lump of love belongs to me, like mine belongs to her. If I have to be a dick to make it happen, then so be it.
“If you’re willing to play hard ball like this, Chuck, then you don’t deserve her. And I think you know that.”
Forty-one
Abby
“Are you sure you don’t want to come with us?” Jude searches my face, his concern evident. We’re standing at the door to my apartment, after hanging for a while eating Thai take-out after the memorial service. “We can watch Killian getting hit on and make fun of his moves.”
“Hey!” Sam punches Jude’s shoulder. “The only fun you can make is of my dance moves. I freely admit I dorkify on purpose to even out the hotness factor.”
Jude looks at Sam fondly. “Your strategies are surprisingly well thought out.”
I pin on my smile until my cheeks ache. “Nah, I’m just wiped after today.”
Sam squeezes my arm. “You did great, Abs. Your mom would be so proud of you.”
Please leave before I start crying.
“I hope so!” If I raise the inflection at the end of every sentence, maybe I can fake my way through this.
Steps sound on the stair, and behind the boys, a burly figure comes into view. My father. He’s still wearing his dress uniform, but looks like he’s just come from a callout that zapped him of all his energy.
“Abigail, am I interrupting?”
“No, the guys were just heading out.”
I hug them both, holding on for a beat or two longer than usual. Jude whispers, “Should we stay?” and I shake my head.
“Thanks, guys. I’ll text later though I won’t expect immediate answers. Because dancing.”
“And sex,” Jude says, then grimaces when he recalls my father’s presence. “Sir.”
My father nods at them and I stand back to let him in.
“Can I get you something?”
“A beer?”
“I have Sam Adams, if that’s okay.” I grab it from the fridge, and try to work out why my father is here. He was softer with me at the service, probably because of the day that’s in it. Likely, normal hostilities are about to be resumed.
I know my father opposes my candidacy because he loved Mom. Still loves her. I saw his emotion when I spoke about her today and I can’t fault him for trying his best to drive me out of the service. If I had a kid, I like to think I’d be all fly-free-little-bird, but probably not.
He’s seated on the sofa, his top shirt button open, his elbows on his knees. Weirdly, just like Roman when he sat on my sofa that first time. I think they’d like each other if they gave it a chance.
I hand him the beer. “You look tired, Dad.”
“Long day. For you, too. You did great up there.” He holds up his beer bottle and clinks against mine. “To Jo.”
“To Mom.”
We sip, then sip again, both all up in our heads. Neither of us is ready to start, and I’m determined to wait for him to make the first move.
“When I met your mother, she had just graduated from the academy. I was her lieutenant and I fell for her the moment I saw her. All that gorgeous red hair, those bright blue eyes, and the way she could rip a man’s ego—well, she had a temper and could slice ribbons off you. But I couldn’t do anything about it so I suffered in silence until one day I had a bad callout. Got burned. We didn’t have the Nomex hoods back then and the gear wasn’t quite as fire resistant.” He carries the scars of that time on his neck. I used to run my fingers over them when he held me in his lap as a girl. “Your mother came to see me in the hospital and brought me a six pack of beer, just snuck it into my room.”
I chuckle. “That’s pretty badass.”
“That was your mom.” He studies me for a moment. “We met at Engine 6.”
My heart thumps hard. “I thought it was a different firehouse. I thought she went there after I was born.”
“That’s where we met. I heard later someone calling it Chicago’s most romantic firehouse because the Dempseys’ love lives kept making news, but before that lot, there was Chuck and Jo Sullivan. The original CFD supercouple.” His smile is fond. “Things were different then, the rules about relationships between crew members not quite as clear-cut. When we got engaged, I transferred out to a different station, but 6 is where it all began, and where she came back to after you were born. When you asked to be assigned there, it seemed like you were trying to follow in her footsteps a little too closely.”
“You thought I was headed down the same road as Mom.”
He raises his gaze to mine, his pain evident. I want to hug away his hurt but I can’t let him off the hook. Not yet.
“I know you don’t trust me, Abigail. When your mother died, I worked a lot, extra shifts even, to block out the pain. If I was too tired, I wouldn’t have to think about her. About losing her. I know I wasn’t around much and I came off as … distant. Maybe I was trying to prepare you if something happened to me. But all my life I’ve wanted nothing more than to protect you. I hoped you’d grow out of this desire to become a firefighter, that something else would be the outlet for your passion. I know you’re good. Everyone I’ve talked to—Fox, Venti, Rossi—have all told me how good you are.”