Page 17 of To the Moon and Back
Ashley definitely didn’t want to talk about it now. She kept her phone in her pocket on the short drive. As soon as she had a minute alone, she would read the letter. And of course she’d share it with Kari and later with Landon. They could all brainstorm how to help the guy. Which actually might not be possible. Ashley had gotten only one detail in the brief time she’d had the note open. Something she couldn’t stop thinking about. It was the guy’s name. The guy who clearly had a broken heart.
Brady Bradshaw.
6
B rady gripped the handlebars and leaned his motorcycle into the curve ahead of him. He took the ramp onto the freeway faster than he should’ve, the wind rushing at him like it was alive, washing over him. He lowered his head to cut the draft and picked up speed.
Jenna hadn’t come.
Eleven years in a row and still she hadn’t been back. At least not that he’d ever seen. And she’d never found his letters. Otherwise she would’ve at least contacted him. Because you don’t just have the best day of your life with someone and not reach out if you get the chance.
That’s what Brady figured.
Back in the beginning, on the second and third years after the two of them met, Brady assured himself that his feelings for her would grow less over time. If he never saw her again, eventually he would forget they’d ever met. He might even stop going to the memorial.
But it was more than a decade later and Brady hadn’t forgotten her. Not at all. Her image in his mind had grown stronger, clearer. His determination to find her had never been more consuming. He exited the freeway and slowed for a stoplight. What was it about her?
Brady knew the answer. He had convinced himself that she was the only girl on the planet who could understand him. Or was it something deeper? Maybe having feelings for a figment of his imagination was easier than falling for someone right in front of him. One of the girls he’d met over the years.
The light turned green. Brady clenched his jaw as he sped through the intersection. Whatever it was, the girl had hold of his heart. That much had never changed. He lowered his head again, the wind pushing at him. If only it were tomorrow already. Then he would’ve survived another anniversary.
He wove in and out of traffic until he saw Jefferson Street. A quick right and he picked up speed again. Images from earlier filled his mind. The people along the fence, the way none of them were Jenna. And who was the pretty brunette who kept staring at him? For a few minutes back at the memorial he’d even wondered if she maybe knew Jenna. Maybe the girl Brady dreamed about had sent this woman to see if he’d be there.
The idea was crazy. Whoever the brunette was, Brady didn’t know her. It had to be she recognized him from Survivor, or maybe from some news show about the bombing. He leaned hard into a left turn. Speed like this wasn’t his usual style. Only once a year, when he wanted to outrun the brokenness inside him. Most days he drove his pickup truck. He’d been at the scene of too many motorcycle accidents. He knew better than to drive like this.
But the anniversary had its own rules.
A right turn at the next light and another right. Two lefts and there it was. The house where he had first learned he might actually survive all this. The home of Cheryl and Rodney Fisher. The couple he’d met at the memorial when he was still in high school.
Brady cut the engine, parked his bike and locked up his helmet. He removed his sunglasses and set them in the small compartment next to his helmet. He wouldn’t be here long. Just enough to let the couple know he remembered them.
He still appreciated them.
Cheryl opened the door before he reached the front walkway. She stepped onto the porch and smiled. Not the typical smile of a person expecting company. Not the smile Cheryl would’ve had before April 19, 1995. But the smile of someone wounded. The closer Brady got the more he could see she’d been crying.
And of course.
This day was a nightmare for them, same as it was for him. The day all of them wanted to rewrite. That they might be anywhere but the Alfred P. Murrah Federal Building that fateful Wednesday. The Fishers had lost their two-year-old son, Jimmy, in the bombing. He wasn’t actually in the daycare center. His nineteen-year- old aunt—Cheryl’s sister—had just entered the building, intent on signing Jimmy in at the facility.
They were ten yards away from the front desk when the bomb hit.
Cheryl’s sister had died, too.
Brady reached the top of the stairs and immediately Cheryl’s arms were around him. He was never sure, but Brady had a feeling that in some ways he took the place of Jimmy. Never mind that Jimmy was black and Brady was white. Brady felt like Jimmy was his sibling. The boy would’ve been a few years younger than Brady. Like a little brother. Or maybe a best friend. Jimmy had been the Fishers’ only child. They never had another baby after the bombing. Their doctor said sometimes high levels of stress could make a woman infertile.
Collateral damage after the bombing.
“Brady.” Cheryl pulled back from the hug and found his eyes. “Thanks for stopping by.” She kept her arm around his waist as they headed into the house. “Rodney’s waiting for you.” Brady followed her inside and there was Rodney, sitting at the kitchen table, newspaper spread out before him. One of the last of a generation who still read one.
Brady took a step forward. “Mr. Fisher.”
“Brady.” He closed the paper and stood, stretching out his arms. “Come here.”
This was their way. The Fishers saw Brady as family. One of their own. They had moved past handshakes and formalities years ago. Rodney hugged Brady the way parents hug their kids when they return from war. The older man drew back and studied him. “You look good. Still doing that workout?”
“CrossFit? Yes, sir.” He chuckled. “Gotta be ready for the next big fire.”
Cheryl patted his hand. “You’ll be ready.” Her tone told him she was proud of him. “No one’s more ready than you, Brady.” She motioned to the living room. “Let’s sit down. I put out coffee and snacks.”
