My husband was working on his birthday, so I surprised him at the fire station with cake and balloons — no one smiled when I walked in, and his captain asked, “You don’t know yet?”
“You have absolutely no idea what I’m thinking.”
His face tightened.
“You’re right. But Garrett isn’t…”
He glanced at Captain Holloway.
Then he stopped himself.
That made everything worse.
I drove home with the balloons filling half the car and the cake sliding back and forth on the passenger seat.
Garrett wasn’t there.
I called him.
No answer.
I called again.
Nothing.
By the fourth call, anger had replaced fear.
I went into our bedroom and opened the closet.
His station uniform was there.
So was his gear bag.
I began searching.
I hated myself for it, but I searched anyway.
Drawers. Jacket pockets. The desk in the spare room.
Inside the pocket of an old gray hoodie, I found a folded receipt.
It was from a hardware store.
Under it was a piece of paper with an address written in Garrett’s handwriting.
I recognized the last name beside it.
Mercer.
Wade Mercer.
I drove there.
Wade’s widow, Elise, had moved after the fire. I had sent her Christmas cards and checked in several times, but we weren’t close enough for me to know the new address.
Her house was a small white place at the end of a quiet street.
Garrett’s truck was parked outside.
I sat behind the wheel staring at it.
My first feeling was relief.
Then came another thought I hated myself for having.
What if Garrett and Elise—
I pushed it away.
But after seven weeks of lies, I no longer knew what was impossible.
I walked toward the house.
Before I reached the porch, I heard hammering from the backyard.
I followed the sound.
Garrett was standing beside a half-built wooden workbench.
Beside him was Wade’s fourteen-year-old son, Calvin.
Both of them turned when they saw me.
Garrett went completely pale.
“Nadine?”
I looked at his jeans.
His old T-shirt.
The work gloves.
No uniform.
No firehouse.
Nothing he had told me that morning was true.
“Happy birthday,” I said.
Calvin looked between us.
“I’ll go inside.”
Garrett pulled off his gloves.
“How did you find me?”
“That’s your first question?”
He closed his eyes.
“I went to the station.”
His shoulders dropped.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.
Then I asked, “Where have you been for seven weeks?”
Garrett sat heavily on the edge of the unfinished workbench.
“Some days here.”
“Doing what?”
“Helping Elise with the house. Helping Calvin.”
“And the other days?”
“Counseling.”
“What else?”
He stared at the ground.
“Sometimes nowhere.”
I frowned.
“What does that mean?”
“It means sometimes I leave the house at six, park somewhere, and sit in my truck for hours because I don’t know where else to go.”
Something inside me cracked.
“Why?”
His eyes filled.
