Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75699 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 378(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Longing hit me square in the chest.
Life was too short and precious to keep burying my deepest wants. It hurt to unearth those wants and acknowledge them in the daylight, but something had to change. Something had to give, and that something was me.
“Not this time.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Declan
A cold, drippy March rain greeted me upon my return to Portland, and by the time I made my way to my dad’s truck in the pickup line, full-on sheets of rain poured from the sky. For a moment, I missed the desert. Funny how fast I’d become used to the dryness again.
“You hungry?” Dad asked as we left the airport. “Denver will tease me about cheating on him with Portland food, but I’d rather get an early dinner and avoid the worst of this rain and rush hour.”
“Sure, we can eat. I skipped lunch,” I admitted as Dad turned away from the highway and toward the nearby shopping area filled with big-box stores and chain restaurants. He wasn’t nearly the foodie his boyfriend was, and I wasn’t surprised when he picked a local chain burger place. “And sorry for making you battle traffic. I know the flight was at an awkward time. I could have caught the Mount Hope shuttle—”
Dad made an indignant noise as he parked near the restaurant’s entrance. “I’m not letting my kid catch the shuttle when I’ve got a perfectly working truck.”
“You sound like Grandpa.” I snort-laughed because it was true. Dad sounded exactly like his fire chief father.
“Turns out he has some wisdom.” Dad adopted a superior tone. “You’ll see someday.”
“You do know I’m an adult now.” I was still bristling at the kid remark, more so because of the talk we needed to have. I supposed a public restaurant wasn’t the worst choice for said talk, but it sure wasn’t the best. Accordingly, I was grateful when the young hostess seated us at a booth in the back.
“Yep.” Dad slid in across from me. “You can even order a beer with the dinner I’m about to buy you.”
“I can buy.”
“Adult, check. Generous, check.” Dad ticked items off on an imaginary list. “But I’m buying. I know bike parts aren’t cheap.”
Once a dad, always a dad. I was tempted to show him my bank account, which, despite meager beginnings when I was a rookie rider, now had a balance that surprised even me. Instead of snapping back like I might have another time, I softened my tone. “Have I said thank you enough? For helping me get my start?”
“Eh.” Cheeks going pink, Dad shrugged. For all our differences, we were equally bad at taking praise. “It’s what parents do. And your sister’s college wasn’t cheap either.”
“Well, thank you.”
Dad shook his head, eyes strangely sentimental. “Still not sure where you got the racing gene from, but everyone says you were born to ride.”
I had to chortle again. “My mom’s off in Antarctica, and my dad runs into burning buildings for shits and giggles, and you wonder how I fell in love with an extreme sport?”
Dad paused before replying as a waiter around my age with an impressive collar of neck tattoos arrived to take our orders. We both got the same Oregon cheddar and caramelized sweet onion burger and fries combo, and I ordered that beer. I had a feeling I was going to need it.
“I guess you did get a thrill-seeking gene,” Dad allowed after the waiter left. “I just always thought you’d be—”
“A firefighter. I know.” I groaned and rolled my eyes. “Generation whatever of Murphys operating the hose.”
“Hey. I never pressured you to be a firefighter.” Dad frowned, leaning forward across the table to give me a hard stare. “Sure, that’s the Murphy legacy, but I never tried to force it on you.”
“I know.” I exhaled hard as the waiter returned with my beer and Dad’s soda. He was right that he’d never pushed for me to go to the fire academy, but that legacy he spoke of was a weighty thing, present at every family gathering, a continuing reminder of how I didn’t quite fit as a Murphy.
“And honestly, I was going to say baseball coach, which is likely as silly as thinking you’d be a firefighter.” He smiled. I didn’t. However, he continued, undeterred, “You always seemed a little older, quieter than the kids on your team, but you had a good grasp of the game. There’s this natural kindness to you as well. And for all your math scores never showed it, you could spit out stats like nobody’s business.”
“A coach?” I made a sour face, deliberately ignoring his compliments as they made me more than a little itchy. I wasn’t sure I saw myself as kind. I was trying, like when I did nice things for Jonas, but Dad seemed to have a better opinion of me than I did. “I’m not good with kids.”