Total Rush (20 page)

Gemma paused. “You've been a little off this week.”

“‘Off'? What does that mean?”

“Moody. Quiet. Uncommunicative.”

“Maybe I'm just a moody, quiet, uncommunicative guy.”

“Maybe.” Gemma sounded uncertain as she moved to put some more glasses away. “You and Frankie seemed to get along well.”

“Yeah, I liked Frankie,” said Sean, taking over so Gemma wouldn't have drag out her step stool.

“She seemed to like you. I'm sure she'll give me the full report on the phone tomorrow.”

Sean chuckled.

“I think Miguel and Theo liked you, too,” Gemma said tentatively.

“Hard to tell, since all they did was talk about themselves.” Sean could feel the last ounce of patience drain from his body.

Gemma sighed. “I know. They were a bit over the top tonight.”

“You mean they're not always like that?” Sean asked.

“God, no. Be thankful: At least they spared you their dueling Liza Minnelli impersonations.”

Sean looked stricken.

“That was a joke, honey. Relax. I think they were deliberately trying to scare you off.”

“Why's that?”

“They don't like to share me. I'm going to call both of them tomorrow and tell them they were very naughty boys.”

“Good. Because I have to tell you, my initial impression was that Miguel's a nasty queen and Tay-oh is a pretentious ass. I was having a tough time understanding why you're friends with them.”

Gemma looked taken aback. “They weren't
that
bad.”

Sean snorted. “That's debatable.”

“At least they're interesting,” Gemma blurted defensively.

“And my friends aren't?” Sean felt his blood pressure surge when Gemma looked away guiltily. “I don't believe you! At least my friends are down to earth!”

“So? That doesn't mean they're interesting!” Gemma slammed the cabinet door shut.

“Oh, excuse me. I guess being a firefighter and saving people's lives is boring. I guess being a nurse is boring, too. And a haircutter. At least my friends are doing something meaningful with their lives! At least they contribute!”

“Why are you being so critical?”

“I'm not being critical, I'm being honest. They're jerks, Gemma.”

“Well, your friends watch stupid, mind-numbing shows on TV and baseball and think it's funny to insult someone who runs their own business!” Gemma countered hotly.

Sean chuckled softly. “That says it all.”

“I think your friends are nice,” was Gemma's lame comeback. “I just—”

Sean held up a hand. “Never mind. Let's just drop it, all right? I'm too damn tired.” He took the plate Gemma passed him and stacked it in the cabinet. “One thing, though: Why did you make such a big deal of my being a stockbroker before I was a firefighter?”

“I didn't make a big deal of it. I just thought it was interesting, that's all.”

“Yeah?”

Gemma looked at him warily. “What are you getting at?”

“You sure you didn't tell them I used to be on Wall Street because you didn't want them to think I was a plain, dumb firefighter who listens to Bruce and drinks beer?”

Gemma looked on the verge of tears. “Does that really sound like something I would do?”

The plaintiveness in her voice cut him. He knew he was being a prick. “I don't know.”

“Well, I wouldn't. And if you think I would, then you don't know me at all.” She put the last of the dishes away.

Sean wished he could open a window and let the tension just waft away. Or better yet, turn back the clock a few minutes and lie politely, telling her he thought the evening went well. But he couldn't. His eye caught Gemma's; she was feeling it, too, the estrangement, the sense of dislocation.

“So, now what?” he offered glumly.

Gemma covered a yawn with her hand. “I'm exhausted. Let's go to bed.”

“Actually,” said Sean, “I'm going to sleep at my own place tonight, if you don't mind.”

“Oh.”

How, Sean wondered, could such a little word ring with both surprise and pain?

“Don't worry, nothing's wrong,” he assured her, drawing her into an embrace. “I just haven't been sleeping well and I do better in my own bed. You know that.”

“No problem.” Gemma gently cupped his face with her hand. “Why aren't you sleeping?”

Sean broke away. “Stuff. You know.”

“Sean—”

“Gemma. ” His voice rang with warning. “Let it go, baby, okay?” He twined his fingers through hers, pressing his lips tenderly to her forehead. “I'll give you a call tomorrow after my shift. Maybe we'll drive out to the beach.”

“That would be nice,” Gemma replied in a thoroughly noncommittal voice—the same voice she'd used after their disastrous date at O'Toole's.

Another kiss and he was out the door, back upstairs to his own place.
Thank God that's over with,
he thought to himself, reflecting back on dinner. Stripping off, he slid between the sheets and closed his eyes, expecting sleep to hit him like a prizefighter throwing the final victorious punch. Instead, he was back at the brownstone, and when he wasn't there, his mind was chasing itself thinking about Gemma. Sleep never came.

 

 

Sean didn't call
the next day. Or the next. Uneasy, Gemma left him a message—just one—though she knew he might accuse her of worrying over trifles. When another day passed and he didn't call back, she called an emergency meeting at the diner with Frankie.

“I have to tell you, I don't think it looks good.” Frankie sounded like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. “First he tells you not to tell his folks you're a witch, then he doesn't like your friends—except me, of course”—she added happily—“and to top it all off, he passes up an opportunity for sex?” Frankie shook her head. “Not good.”

“He hasn't been himself since that brownstone fire. Not that I can get him to talk about it.”

“This goes beyond the brownstone fire.”

“I know, I know.” Gemma picked listlessly at the English muffin on her plate. “What do you think I should do?”

“That's obvious: Knock on his door and find out what the hell is going on.”

“You don't think that's too pushy?”

“Pushy? Gemma, this is your boyfriend we're talking about here. If my boyfriend went AWOL for three days and didn't return my calls, you can bet your butt I'd be pounding on his door. You deserve an explanation.”

“I know. I'm just not sure I want to hear what it is.”

 

 

“Hang on.”

Sean's voice through the closed door sounded put-upon. Gemma tensed, not knowing what to expect. The knuckles of her right hand were throbbing. Two more minutes and she would have called the fire department to break in. Talk about irony.

The door swung open, and there stood Sean. He looked like he hadn't slept in days.

“Come on in,” he said in a flat voice. Apprehensive, Gemma followed him inside, surprised to see Pete and Roger's cages covered in the middle of the day. Usually, when Sean was up, the birds were, too.

“I've been worried,” she told him.

“I know.” He sounded weary. “I've been meaning to call you back, I just . . .” He licked his lips, looking lost. “Have a seat.”

Gemma sat down, unable to take her eyes off him. “What's going on, Sean?”

“I'm not feeling too well.”

“Flu?”

He laughed bitterly. “I wish.”

He flopped down in a chair opposite her. She couldn't believe how awful he looked. His lively blue eyes were shockingly lackluster, ringed with dark circles. Three days' worth of stubble grizzled his face and neck. He looked more than sick; he looked tormented.

“Talk to me, Sean.”

“About what?”

Gemma worked to keep her voice gentle. “Why haven't you returned my calls?”

“I told you: I haven't been feeling too hot.”

“Physically or mentally?”

His eyes slowly rose to hers. “Both, actually.”

Gemma knit her hands together. “Does this have anything to do with that brownstone fire?”

“Does what have to do with it?”

“You're not feeling well,” Gemma said carefully.

Sean leaned back in his chair, sighing. “No.”

She studied his face: the haunted eyes, the pale skin. “You're lying.”

“You're right. I am.”

“Oh, Sean.” She wanted to go to him but his expression—remote, inaccessible—stopped her.

“I don't want to talk about it, Gemma.”

“Sean.” Her voice bordered on a plea. “There's no need to suffer alone. I'm here for you, I'll listen.”

“I just said I don't want to talk about it.”

“You might feel better if you do.”

“How would you know?” Sean sneered. He gave a short, staccato laugh. “I mean, what the fuck do you know about searching a house, thinking you did a good job, then finding out later you almost left a kid to burn?”

Gemma flinched.
So that's what happened.
“I don't.” Her eyes began filling with tears. “But I'm here for you. Please, let me help you.”

“There's nothing you can do,” Sean said woodenly.

“I can hold you. I can listen.”

“I'm fine,” Sean insisted through clenched teeth.

“Cutting yourself off from people is not ‘fine.'” She twisted her hands helplessly. “Have you been calling in sick to work?”

“What?” He frowned. “No. I pulled a forty-eight-hour shift, so now I'm off for seven days.”

“When do you go back?”

“Sunday.”

“And what are you going to do until then? Hide in here and play it over and over again in your mind?”

“Maybe,” Sean mused bitterly, looking away. When he looked back at her, Gemma got the sense that, right now, the simplest human interaction took tremendous emotional effort for him. He could barely meet her eyes. “Look, I'm not sure this is working for me right now.”

Alarm shot through Gemma. “‘This'?”

“Us. I don't like your friends and you don't like mine. You can't deal with the facts of my job and frankly, if we're being honest here, your being a witch is just a little too weird for me. Face it, Gemma: The only place we work is in bed.”

Tears threatened but Gemma held them back. “That's not true,” she said quietly.

“Yeah, babe, it is.”

“So, what are you saying?” Gemma struggled to keep her voice from getting shrill or desperate. “You want to split up?”

Sean looked pained. “For now, yeah, maybe.”

“For now?” Gemma couldn't believe what she was hearing. “What, I'm supposed to be at your beck and call when and if you change your mind?”

“No.”

“Then what?”

“I don't know,” Sean groaned, clutching his head. “I can't even think straight right now.”

“Well, think about this: Either we're together, or we're apart. You choose.”

Sean hung his head. “I think you better go.”

Shaking, Gemma slowly stood. “You're sure about this?”

“I just told you I can't even think straight right now!” Sean snapped. His face was a map of misery. “Look, just do whatever the hell you want, okay?”

Gemma moved toward the door, taking back the key to her apartment that lay on a small side table. She was determined to at least hold her tears until she was back at her place. She thought of slamming the door, or just leaving without a word, but that wasn't who she was, and she didn't wish to leave things that way. Instead, she made herself turn back to face him.

“Take care of yourself, Sean. Please.” She returned his key.

Sean jerked his head in an approximation of a nod, refusing to look at her.

She slipped through the door without a word more.

He hadn't planned
to tell her he wanted to take a break.

He'd been pissed off yesterday when he'd first heard her knocking at the door, but he knew he owed her an explanation, however lame. He just wasn't prepared for how raw he felt, how resentful, at being asked to talk about the brownstone fire; at being asked to talk, period. He knew she meant well, and she was simply reacting to the sight of him in pain. But it angered him rather than making him feel appreciative. It felt like intrusion. Then the words slipped out, a by-product of his bottled-up anger and confusion. But now that she'd granted his wish—permanently, he guessed—he wondered if it had been the right thing to do.

Forcing himself up and out of bed, he went to the kitchen to make some coffee and feed his birds. He had to face the outside world today: There was a retirement party for one of the guys at 49 Engine, and if he didn't show, he'd never hear the end of it. He'd go, have a beer, offer his congrats, then crawl back into his cave.

Anything was endurable for half an hour.

 

 

“
No offense, but
you look like shit.”

“Nice to see you, too,” Sean replied to Mike Leary as he walked into the Huntington Elks Club. The place was packed with firefighters and their families. The man of the hour, Dennis McNab, was holding court at a long table in the front of the room with some of the guys from his company. Raucous laughter was the soundtrack of the day, making Sean feel even worse for being such a sad sack.