Crossfire (Cross Duet #1)

25. IVY

25

IVY

As I stepped into Grams’s apartment within the assisted living facility, a warm smile spread across my face. The living room was a cozy enclave with a well-worn sofa and recliner that sat by the soft glow of sunlight filtering through the window. Like usual, I found my grandmother there, her thin frame seeming smaller than ever against the plush cushions.

“Grams,” I called out.

Her brown eyes, though dulled by age, sparkled with joy at the sight of me.

“Ivy, my dear,” she replied, her thin lips curling into a lopsided grin—a remnant of the stroke that had left its mark on her. “What a wonderful surprise to see you today.”

I took a moment to appreciate the details that made Grams who she was—her short white hair that revealed her scalp when the light hit it just right, her frail frame that seemed to shrink a little more each year, and the peppering of age spots and freckles that adorned her pale arms, each one a story waiting to be told. And while her right side was still sluggish from the lingering shadow of her stroke, she carried herself with a certain resilience—a testament to her enduring spirit in the face of everything she’d been through.

Leaning down to give her a gentle hug, I drew in the lilac scent of her favorite perfume. The familiar aroma enveloped me, offering comfort and nostalgia.

I settled onto the sofa beside her, the fabric soft beneath my hands, worn from years of love and use.

“I wanted to check in on you and see how you were doing.” Half true. Also true? I’d been on a romantic walk—so blinded with damn hearts over my eyes that I hadn’t realized I’d ambled to her assisted living facility.

At least I wasn’t alone after Grayson’s humiliating preemptive breakup.

“Is there anything you need help with today?” I asked.

Grams shook her head, her smile never wavering.

“You’re always so thoughtful, dear. I’m doing just fine here. The staff takes good care of me, and I have everything I need.”

See? I needed to hear that. Because my ego was beyond tempted to march down to the office where Grayson was talking to that billing guy and tell him to pound sand. That I didn’t want his help. Mature, I know, but what can I say? Evidently, rejection sucks even more when it comes from:

A savior who uttered the words, “Touch her again, and I’ll kill you.”

The hottest guy I’d ever met in my life and the one my hormones wanted to elope with the moment they saw him.

A man who’d gone out of his way to meet with me again, only to then push me away. Like, Yeah, now that I’ve seen your personality and hot mess of a life? Hard pass.

In any case, thank you, universe, for reminding me that my pride needed to stop its internal temper tantrum and focus on how important it was for Grams to not lose this place.

Grams’s home was a sanctuary that offered her not just shelter, but a semblance of independence she cherished deeply. The small kitchen’s dangerous appliances had been shut off for her protection—she had the option of having food brought to her or dining in the main hall so she wouldn’t be alone. Equipped with safety railings in both the bedroom and bathroom, her apartment provided a balance of care and dignity, ensuring her days were filled with comfort, and down the hall, anytime she joined the other people, there was a community of chatter and laughter.

Losing this place would mean losing more than just a residence; it would mean losing a piece of her world where every detail—from the scent of freshly baked bread in the mornings to the staff and patients’ smiling faces—contributed to her sense of well-being and connection.

When I noticed a slight shiver, I grabbed the afghan from the sofa. Its soft wool fibers warmed my hands as I draped it over her, gently repositioning the pillow behind her back before reclaiming my seat.

“Tell me about your day, Grams. I’d love to hear what you’ve been up to.”

So I can stop replaying that kiss in my mind. It wasn’t like it was the most earth-shattering, romantic kiss of my life. Definitely not. Okay, fine, it was, but after rejecting me, he didn’t deserve that title, and he didn’t deserve for his kiss to mess me up inside.

Lord Panty Melter didn’t want me, and I didn’t want anyone who didn’t want me.

Speaking of Grayson…

As Grams told me how she’d spent her morning playing checkers with her favorite friend here, my chest clenched, wondering if he was making any progress.

After a couple of minutes of filling me in on her day, Grams’s attention drifted to the photo of Dad hanging on the wall. In it, he stood proudly in his fireman uniform, a ladder truck behind him. The sight of his smile, frozen in time, sent a pang through my heart.

I remember climbing on that fire truck as a little girl when Dad brought me to the station. I remember the cold steel beneath my small hands, the thrill as I descended to the bumper. Sitting here now, I could almost smell the mix of diesel that clung to everything there, the array of tools and gadgets shining in the light.

Growing up, I’d always fixated on the heroic side of his job. The triumphant rescues, the lives saved. It seemed so rewarding, so noble, but now, I wondered about the darker aspects of his career. The times when he wouldn’t get there soon enough, when the screams of victims went silent before he could reach them. With his job exposing him to horrors the rest of us couldn’t fathom, were there haunting memories that accumulated in his heart, year after year, like a toxic buildup he couldn’t shake?

I wonder if every life lost had chipped away at his spirit until he simply…couldn’t take it anymore. The weight of all those almost rescues, all those what-ifs—was that what finally broke him?

“Your father loved that job,” Grams murmured.

I swallowed the lump forming in my throat. “I miss him, Grams. Every day.”

She reached for my hand, her skin thin and papery against mine. “I miss him, too, Ivy. There’s not a moment that goes by where I don’t think of him and wonder why his life was cut short too early.”

I squeezed her hand, understanding the unspoken question that haunted us both. “Why do you think he did it?”

I couldn’t believe I’d finally asked her this. A better person would never ask a mother to explain why her son ended his life. A better person would be her rock.

“I’ve asked myself that many times,” Grams admitted. She was silent for a long time, and then almost to herself, she added, “Perhaps he wrote the reason in his journal.”

My heart jolted. I vaguely remembered Dad scribbling in a worn, leather-bound book, but I never knew it to be a journal per se. He’d said it was his gratitude book, part of his daily habit to express thanks for at least three things in his life. Maybe he wrote other things in it, too?

The problem was, I had no idea what happened to it after his death. We’d cleaned out his belongings in a fog of sorrow; I’d grabbed things like pictures, but I couldn’t recall if I’d ever seen that ratty journal. If I had it, it would be in the box in my closet. At home.

If there were answers to be found, they might be hidden within those pages.

I felt a renewed sense of determination that maybe, just maybe, today was the day I’d get the answers I’d been searching for.

After I finished my shift and had the quick meeting with Detective Mitchell, I’d go home and hunt for the thing.

If I found it, the question remained: would it have the answers I hoped for?