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Stokes pulls off his mask and takes a deep breath, a smile coming to his face. “It’s a great day to be in the CFD, baby.”

“You got that right. Truck twelve.” I extend my fist.

“Truck twelve.” Stokes bumps my fist with his own.

Calls like this put everything into perspective. This job—saving lives, is what matters. The rest is just noise, and my pity party is over because I’m no longer listening.

CHAPTER10

NOW

LEXI

Isit cross-legged on the double person lounge chair under our patio’s wooden pergola. My dad has made our backyard an oasis. There are tall palm trees around the perimeter of the pool fence. Patio stone walkways lead from the pool to the driveway, and to my mother’s reading patio, as she likes to call it. There’s an oversized, cushioned lawn chair, a porch swing, and all-weather loveseat so my mother can vary her reading positions depending on her mood.

She loves to sit out here and read her latest romance novel. My dad, cringe-worthily so, admits that her pastime benefits him too by putting my mother in a spicy mood.

Gross.

That sums up my parents, grossly in love with each other. My mother can’t bend over without my dad’s hand on her ass. He can’t pass a florist without picking up a beautiful bouquet for my mom. He doesn’t allow too much time to pass without surprising her with something: a trip, a new reading chair, a fancy date night. Their incessant gushing over one another never ends.

I hate romance novels and my parents' marriage. Okay, that isn’t fair. I don’t despise their marriage, only the idea of its perfection. The truth is, I’m jealous.

The happy couples in the romance novels with the perfect sex and the swoon-worthy partner who would die for them. Gag. That’s not real life. Despite growing up with my parents’ example of love, I find it hard to believe. They must be one in a million.

The couples from movies, books, and this house…aren’t reality. I’ve seen what’s out there, and its bleak. There aren’t men like my father.

Besides my dad, in my almost twenty-four years of life, I’ve only met one.

I tap my purple inked pen against the blank page of my notebook. The latest raved-about self-help books are sprawled before me.

–How To Live Your Best Life in Ten Easy Steps.

–Find Your Inner Peace.

–Love Others by Loving Yourself First.

–The Truth About Happiness.

Apparently,a world of knowledge is at my fingertips, and I’ve yet to crack a spine or take any notes. It’s overwhelming.

Staring across our yard and into our neighbors, I admire the Spanish moss they have hanging from all their trees. I’ve always loved the look of Spanish moss. It’s so eerie yet pretty at the same time.

Not one ounce of the majestic moss hangs from our trees. Supposedly, it can often house spiders, and my mother hates spiders with a passion. In our hot climate, giant bugs—especially spiders, are a given. But my dad tries to decrease the odds for my mom whenever he can, which is why he keeps our yard moss free.

That’s not too gross, I guess. It’s kind of sweet.

Would Boss have been the kind of man to remove moss from trees for me? I bet he would have. Not that it matters now.

I don’t know how or why but I’m broken. It’s a fact. The one in a million will never pick me because I’ll only bring misery.

I can’t be bitter about my life if I don’t have the courage to change. I simply don’t know where to start.

“Lexi-pie.” My mother’s nickname for me pulls me from my thoughts. “I made your favorite cheesecake recipe.” She closes the porch door and makes her way over to me, extending a plate with strawberry drizzled cheesecake.

“It looks amazing.” I take the dessert from her. “Thank you.”

She eyes me suspiciously, looking from the books to me, before plopping into the loveseat. “Are you okay? You’ve been extraordinarily quiet since you got back from Chicago. Did you and Campbell have a falling out?”

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