But by the time my team had the roadside fire on Route Twelve contained and returned to the firehouse Sunday evening, Icing was locked up tight.
Monday is one of my days off this week, but I stopped by the firehouse this morning to do some paperwork, anyway, hoping to be there when Naomi opened up. But when it came time to leave for the station’s annual holiday lunch, the Whitehouses still hadn’t showed.
I decided to let myself off the hook and try again tomorrow. If there was ever a time to give myself a break, this is it.
Jenny passed exactly two years ago today.
That morning, I kissed her good-bye and teased her about wearing a hideous, sparkly Santa Claus sweatshirt her Mee-maw had made her to go shopping. That afternoon I’d been called in to identify her body.
On the first anniversary of her death, I spent the entire day at a megaplex movie theater in Atlanta, hopping from film to film, hiding out from everyone I know, letting myself get caught up in stories other than my own. But today I hadn’t felt like hiding.
I started the morning by taking flowers to the cemetery and having a talk with Jenny, filling her in on all the news from the last time I visited a few months ago. I even told her about Naomi moving back to town and how mixed-up it’s got me.
Jenny knew Naomi was a big part of my past, even though my wife moved to Bliss River in her twenties and never witnessed the high school romance that defined my teen years.
Strangely, by the time I left I felt…calmer. Better. More centered and like myself than I have in a long time.
For the first time since her passing, I was soothed, not depressed, by a visit to Jenny’s grave. I could practically hear her voice in my head, telling me to relax and that the opportunity to apologize to Naomi would present itself when the time was right.
Jenny was a big believer in letting things work themselves out and not pushing people or situations too hard.
And now Naomi is here and the chance to start fresh has fallen into my lap, the way Naomi used to when we were younger.
Back in high school, Naomi would burst into my bedroom while I was studying and plunk herself down in my lap, inserting herself between me and my computer screen, refusing to let me concentrate on chemistry homework or English papers or anything serious until she’d “kissed me until she didn’t miss me” anymore. That usually took at least an hour. In my bed.
My dad was too busy to pay attention to whether Jamison or I had girls in our rooms—one of the upsides of being raised by a single parent. From the time I was sixteen, I was free to shut my bedroom door, lock it tight, and make love to Naomi until we were both limp and boneless and my sheets smelled of her perfume.
I take another drink and force thoughts of naked Naomi to the back of my mind. Thoughts like that are the opposite of relaxing, and a good way to ensure I make a fool of myself all over again.
“Hey,” Naomi says, casting an uncertain glance my way as she and her sister come to stand beside me. “Work party?”
“Yeah,” I say in what I hope is a pleasant tone. “We have it here every year. Best buffalo wings in Georgia.”
“Really? In the entire state?” Maddie’s brows arch skeptically. “That’s a big claim, mister.”
“Well, I’m not a professional like you two,” I say. “But I know wings, and these are pretty impressive.”
Maddie unwinds her arm from Naomi’s. “That’s it. I’m going to go order us a plate. I can’t believe I’ve never had the wings here before, but we’re going to remedy that right now.”
“Have some of ours,” I say, motioning to the buffet. “We have plenty, and friends of the station are always welcome. Especially friends who bring us cookies.”
“Oh yeah? So you liked those, did you?” Maddie asks, a gleam in her eye.
“Loved them,” I say with a smile. I’ve always had a soft spot for Naomi’s little sister. She was such a sweet kid and has clearly grown into an even sweeter woman. “They were the best cookies I’ve ever had. In Georgia or any other state.”
Maddie claps her hands. “Good, I’m so glad. They’re my secret weapon.”
“Maddie’s cookies could bring about world peace,” Naomi says. “If we could just get everyone to sit down and eat one together at the same time, they’d see how perfect life is and never fight again.”
I chuckle, taking note of the way Naomi’s eyes flick uncertainly to my face at the sound. She’s obviously expecting a repeat performance of the “Jake the Jerk” show, but I refuse to go there. After lying awake most of Friday night, thinking back on what a fool I made of myself, I had to admit I hadn’t been civil. Not even close.