Page 52 of Avery's Hero

There’s no sign of him inside or outside the fire station.

It’s nearly an hour later when I finally spot him through the windshield of my truck.

On the boardwalk. Sitting next to Avery on a bench. The two of them are staring at the ocean.

Fuck.

CHAPTER TWENTY

It’s a busy evening on the boardwalk. People walking, biking, running, pushing baby carriages.

When I left the firehouse, I needed some fresh air. Heading to the beach seemed like the natural thing to do.

“We haven’t met.” I say as I drop onto the far end of a bright blue bench that sits on the edge of the town’s boardwalk.

The eyes that turn toward me are shockingly identical to Brock’s.

“I’m Avery Ellis.” I extend my hand.

He stares at it for a few seconds before hesitantly shaking it. Like his dad, his hands are big, but they aren’troughened by work yet. This is probably what Brock looked like at fifteen too. His son’s going to be built like the chief one day.

Without any idea what I’m doing, I say, “I was in your dad’s office when you came in.”

“I know,” he says flatly and scrubs his hands over his face. Just like his dad.

“Wasn’t sure if you saw me. You were pretty mad.”

“Oh, I saw you and the look of shock on your face.”

We sit in silence as a group of girls on skateboards roll by, their tires whirring on the concrete, their ponytails dancing in the wind. Lincoln doesn’t blink. He just stares ahead at the water, a bitter, hurt look in his eyes.

“Your dad loves you.”

He picks at the frayed hole in his jeans. “That’s a joke, right?” he says finally.

“Nope.”

“How would you know?”

“He told me.”

Finally, he looks at me again. In that tone that only teenagers can make, he asks, “Who are you, anyway?”

“I’m a new firefighter that just started working for your dad.”

I don’t mention that things are far more complicated than that. The last thing I want him to think is that his father’s involvement with me is related to his decision.

Lincoln leans forward, props his elbows on his lanky knees and buries his face in his hands. “Boarding school. I can’t fucking believe he’d do something like that.”

For a few seconds, I swallow down my panic. The words ‘boarding school’ still evoke a terrifying rush of chemicals inside my body. A metallic taste fills my throat, and I have to force my breathingto slow.

After sixty seconds of trying to tame my emotions, I ask, “Do you want to talk to me about what’s going on between you and your dad?”

For a long time, he doesn’t say anything. Then he leans back on the bench. When he looks at me again, his eyes look so much older. The boy is gone. The man he’s going to soon be is looking back at me. “Things are fucked,” he says quietly.

“Is something wrong at school?”

His eyes shift away, to the horizon, then to his feet.

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