The Rebuilding Year (14 page)

The way to Mark’s heart was his music. Ryan was gratified to find that all his own skills hadn’t rusted away in the year since he’d picked up a guitar. He couldn’t match the kid’s fast rock licks, but Ryan still could pick a mean classical guitar line. And he’d been able to show the boy a couple of chord changes. Mark was quieter, more subdued and introspective than his sister. Ryan was actually worried that the kid might have some depression issues. But he came alive in his music. Fifteen was a hard age, especially if you were small and not athletic and plagued by acne, like Mark.

The zipper on Ryan’s suitcase snagged in fabric. Ryan cursed, and then bit off the end of the phrase, remembering that there were children in the house. Which was a good thing, as Torey offered from the doorway, “Want me to sit on it?”

“Couldn’t hurt.”

The girl came over and balanced herself on top of the bag, cross-legged. Ryan wrestled the zipper the rest of the way around. She hopped off nimbly, and eyed the bag.

“You pack like I do.”

“I guess. Although a lot of this is presents. I have two nephews.”

“Will they be there for Christmas?” Torey asked diffidently.

“Yes, at least for a couple of days. We’ll all go to my Dad’s in Oregon—me, my two brothers, Drew’s wife and kids.”

Torey stood at the window, looking out. “The whole family together.”

“This year. Some years we’ve had to miss out.” Last year he had still been in the burn unit, unable to travel.

“I miss having everyone together,” Torey said.

“I bet.”
What to say?
“But your Mom and Dad don’t get along so well right now, so it’s better to have two separate holidays.”

“Mom’s having another baby,” Torey told the windowpane. “That’s why she sent us away.”

“Oh, honey.” Ryan went up to her and touched her back. “She didn’t send you away. She promised to let you visit your dad, and earlier just worked out better than later. You’ll go home in a couple of days.”

“She was sick and grumpy with the new baby,” Torey grumbled, still looking out. “She said if we were going to be loud and unruly, we might as well go bother John for a bit.”

That sounded like a quote. Ryan sighed silently. “Well, do you think you can be loud and unruly again in January? Because your dad and I would love to have you back again.”

That got him the ghost of a smile. “Really?”

“Of course. Although there might be a better way to do it than making your Mom angry.”

From below, John called up. “Hey, Ryan. Get your butt down here. The shuttle’s waiting.”

Ryan gave Torey a quick squeeze around the shoulders. “I have to go. I’m sorry you won’t be here when I get back. You visit again soon, okay?”

To his surprise, she turned and hugged him back. “Have a good Christmas.”

“Yeah. You too. Listen, can I tell your dad? About the baby?”

“You won’t tell him if I say no?”

“It’s not my business, really,” Ryan said cautiously. “But I think it might make things easier for him to understand, if he knows.”

“Okay.”

“That’s good. Thank you. You have a nice holiday too.” And Ryan headed down the stairs carefully, lugging his full bag. All he had to do was make it out the door without tripping over the bag, say goodbye to John with his children watching, and tell the man that his ex-wife was pregnant. Piece of cake.

Bars in airports were all the same, Ryan thought. Too bright, too quiet, and filled with people sitting alone trying to get sloshed before their flight. At least he was getting sloshed after his flight.

He should have been on the shuttle by now, on his way back to the bosom of his so-called loving family. No, that wasn’t fair, they
were
a loving family. Which was part of the problem. For a year, his father had had this strained cheer whenever he talked to Ryan. Like he couldn’t admit he was worried, like he had to pretend everything was going to be perfect, because he couldn’t admit things were never going to be okay.

Which was bullshit, both ways. The leg would never be perfect. But Ryan
was
okay. He’d figured out what he wanted, and gone for it. He was back on track. He didn’t need to be treated as fragile.

He took a long swallow of his drink. The scotch rolled smooth and smoky over his tongue and down his throat, and he had a moment’s flash of John, sitting at a table, glass in hand. He slapped his glass back down a little roughly. The dregs were low enough not to spill.

He slid off his stool, adjusted his cane and grabbed the handle of his damned carry-on bag. He was tempted to just leave it, but if someone walked off with the kids’ gifts it would put a damper on Christmas. In the bathroom, he leaned the bag in a corner, finished up and then stared at his reflection in the mirror. Dark hair, green eyes, nothing he hadn’t seen a thousand times. He’d stood like this often enough, combing his hair and wondering whether the girl
du jour
liked what she saw enough to say yes. Shouldn’t he somehow look different now? When he had a
guy
liking what
he
saw?

The farther he got from John, the more unreal that moment in the kitchen seemed. The person who had stood there passionately kissing another man was someone Ryan didn’t recognize. He leaned closer, looking himself in the eyes. His return stare was blurred by fatigue and alcohol, but not…gay?

He suddenly missed his mother with a sharp pang. Someone to talk to who would just plain be on his side. Someone without hang-ups and agendas who would let him talk this thing out. He left the bathroom but paused in the dim hallway. His cell phone was in his pocket. He leaned his shoulders against the wall, angled his cane against his leg and pulled the phone out. And then hesitated with his fingers on the buttons.

He could call John. But if the kids were around it would mean hushed voices and cryptic euphemisms. And anyway, talking to John wouldn’t help him figure out where he stood.

His friends from school were casual, the relationships built on study sessions and sharing class notes and agonizing over cryptic exams. He couldn’t think of one he would even say the word “gay” to. His buddies from the firehouse had been closer than kin, but the distance between them had widened. And they were not the type to talk about feelings with. Except…

He dialed from memory. The phone rang twice and then a woman’s sleepy voice said, “This better be important.”

“Um, Andrea?”

There was a second of dead air. “Ryan? No, can’t be. Ry Ward lost my phone number. He never calls. I get little say-nothing e-mails about the weather from him.”

“I’ve never e-mailed about the weather.”

“Last one you sent, and I quote, ‘We’re having an ice storm.’ End quote.”

“That’s not weather. That’s like a natural disaster.”

“Only if you break a bone or wreck your car.” Andrea’s voice warmed. “It
is
you. How are you doing, Ry? It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Likewise.” His throat got tight for a moment. Andrea had been the lone woman in the firehouse. As such she had worked hard and played even harder, holding her own among the guys. She was a hundred and thirty pounds of pure muscle and attitude, and they’d been pretty close back when. “I’ve missed you.”

“Well, if you hadn’t moved a thousand freaking miles away, you wouldn’t have had to. Or if you’d picked up the phone now and then. I was beginning to think you’d forgotten I exist.”

“If I crawl on my hands and knees and beg your pardon, will you talk to me?”

“I’d think about it.”

Ryan tilted his head back against the wall. Andrea’s familiar voice wrapped around him. “Tell me about yourself, about all the guys. Catch me up to date.”

“What? You have an hour? I’d need that just to go through Harry’s harem.”

“Hit the high points.”

Her chuckle was still the same. “You mean the low points?” But she willingly rattled off a string of news. A couple of babies, a wedding, a messy divorce, a winning basketball team, a half dozen new regulations that made no fucking sense, a batch of chili so hot even Miguel wouldn’t eat it. He let it seep in.

Eventually she paused. “What about you, Ry? I’m doing all the talking here.”

“I’m good. I’m fine. Classes are going well.”

“You seeing anyone?”

Not at this precise moment in this damned airport.
“Not really.” He took a breath. “One odd thing happened. Um, Andrea, do you think I look gay?”

“You? Jesus, no. Why, did some guy hit on you?”

“Something like that.”

Andrea snorted. “Well he’s either a fool or a complete optimist. Relax, Ry, you don’t look gay. We all know how much you appreciate the ladies.”

“I’ve never had a long-term girlfriend.”

“Have you ever wanted one? I thought you were the king of the hit-and-run.”

“Something more settled might be nice.”

“Well, halleluiah! I wondered if I’d ever see the day. Did you have someone particular in mind?”

“No,” he said hastily. “Just thinking.”

“Well, you go on trying to do that. Maybe you’ll get the hang of it someday.”

“Bitch. I’m spilling my guts here and you’re making fun of me.”

“I somehow missed the spilling-guts part. Unless you do have a girlfriend.”

“No.” He went for a half-truth. “Closest I’ve come lately is the guy who hit on me.”

“You should ask him if he has a sister.” Andrea’s voice sobered. “Seriously, Ry. You’re a nice guy. Some girl will take a look and realize you’re worth wading through all the bullshit you put out there.”

He grunted noncommittally.

“Ryan, you appreciate women, you talk to them like you care about more than the double-D bustline. You went from girl to girl and took what was offered, sure, but I always figured you’d find a nice woman someday and settle down. You’re that type.”

“Maybe.” He sighed. “It’s a pity you’re in a different state, hot stuff.”

She laughed. “We make great friends, but we’d be lousy lovers. Together I mean, because when you’re not around, I’m awesome.”

“And if I don’t agree with that, you’d hit me.”

“If you were within reach, you bastard. Listen, I have to go. But call me soon. E-mail is just not the same thing. And hang in there. The girl who finally lands you will be a lucky woman. Shit, there’s my alarm. I have to go on shift.”

Ryan closed his eyes. He could almost see her, getting ready in the evening dusk. And the other guys, straggling in to the firehouse, joking with each other, topping each other’s tales of who did what during their down-time. “Say hi to the guys for me.”

“Sure. Bye.”

He stood there another minute, listening to the silence on the phone. So it wasn’t some vibe he’d always had. Not that Andrea was necessarily the most perceptive person in the world but… He needed to finish that drink.

The glass was still on the bar where he’d left it. He rolled the last drops around in his mouth and wondered if he needed another. He would go home soon, back to the family who had no fucking clue about what he’d been doing for the last few months. He needed some kind of cushion, some way to squeeze himself back into being the guy they expected to see. Because he wasn’t ready to show them anything else. He might never be ready.

The bartender was busy at a table. Ryan turned the glass around in his hand. He wasn’t drunk yet, far from it. He needed one more. Or maybe two. Or…he looked around the bar. At the tables, several couples sat together, laughing, leaning in. They looked at ease and comfortable.

Or what he needed was…to get laid. It had been too long. Which was screwing with his brain. He liked John. Of course he did. Liked him a lot, but still, Ryan wasn’t gay. He never had been. He’d always appreciated big tits and a tight ass. He liked a woman’s lips, her hair. Like that blonde over at the end of the bar.

Maybe he had been going too fast. Maybe he owed it to himself
and
to John to think this thing through. He caught the blonde’s eye, gave her a small smile. Wheel of chance. If she blew him off, he’d go home. If she came over… Her return smile was bright. With an eye on him, she picked up her glass and slid down the bar.

“So, coming in or leaving town?” she asked.

“Just got in. You?”

“I work for United. I’m unwinding, end of the day.”

“You look good, unwound,” Ryan told her, with his best boyish grin.
Aren’t you a bit old to be going for boyish
, the voice in his head asked. So his material was a little rusty. So sue him.

“Well, thank you, sir,” she said, showing a dimple.

Ryan held out a hand. “I’m Ryan.”

“Melissa.”

“Can I buy you a drink?”

She raised the glass in her hand. “Got one. And that’s my limit. But they do a mean quesadilla. I should probably eat something, to soak up the drink.”

Ryan looked around, nodded left. “There’s a table over there.”

Half an hour later, Ryan was thoroughly sick of himself. He sat back somewhere in the back of his brain and watched Ryan Ward operate on auto-pilot. Med student, firefighter, fucking hero, he had all the lines. And Melissa was definitely interested. Her calf pressed against his under the table. Her eyes were fixed on him. All the female comebacks—rapt attention, smiles in the right places, little tidbits about herself and then she’d turn the conversation right back to him.
Guys like to talk about themselves.
He wondered what magazine she’d read that in.