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The first time May senses something is off, she’s out with Bobby.
It’s one of their regular father-daughter weekends. They’ve driven to Glendale for a viral cafe that’s been flooding her TikTok feed all week. After forty minutes waiting in a sun-baked line that curls around the block, they finally grab a table.
Two black sesame and pistachio cronuts sit between them, looking perfect, glossy, and social media-ready.
May holds up her phone, thumb hovering over the record button.
“All right, moment of truth,” she grins. “Let’s see what you really think.”
Sunday brunch became their thing ever since Bobby showed up in their lives. It started by accident. One morning, he found her on the patio, slumped over SAT workbooks. Her coffee had gone cold, and he offered to make his over-the-top decadent hot chocolate, the one with shaved dark chocolate and torched marshmallows, as a pick-me-up, but she turned him down. He watched her for a moment, then said, “This is a five-alarm emergency. Let’s go for a drive.”
Thirty-five minutes later, they were at a family-run seafood joint by the Santa Monica Pier, where salt air mixed with the smell of fryer oil and warm bread. She didn’t say much at first, but by the time her fingers were slick with lobster butter and the crunch of beer-battered cod echoed in her ears, her shoulders had dropped an inch. Maybe two.
After that, she started carving out time for them every weekend. Sometimes they hunted for the newest cafe openings or viral breakfast joints. Sometimes they stuck with familiar haunts. On every outing, she picked the places, and he played the food critic, dissecting the bitterness of espresso, the crunch of a croissant, or the fluffiness of pancakes.
Somewhere between bites, she started talking. First, about college choices and the pressure of living up to her parents’ expectations. About the gnawing uncertainties of adulthood. Then came the deeper conversations, about heartbreak. Rejection.
Bobby listened without judgment, always. Never offered advice unless she asked. His steady presence anchored her. When words failed, he knew how to fill the silence with a bad joke or just a firm, assuring nod that said I got your back, kiddo.
By the time they got home, the world always felt a little easier to bear.
Now, at the cafe, Bobby takes a small bite of the cronut. His smile flickers, then fades into the steam rising from his coffee. “It’s good,” he nods, but the tone is off.
May tilts her head, watching him more closely now.
It’s not unusual for Bobby to go quiet sometimes, to disappear inside his own mind, especially around the holidays when grief circles back like clockwork. But he’s never let it seep into their brunches before. This has always been their bubble, their protected space, full of light and warmth.
“You sure you’re okay?” she asks. “We can ditch this and grab tacos on the way back.”
He meets her eyes a second too long, like he’s deciding how much truth he’s willing to share. Then comes another half-smile, tighter this time, more of retreat than reassurance.
“I’m fine,” Bobby says, letting out a soft laugh that falls a little flat. “Just feeling nostalgic. It’s wild, isn’t it? You’re almost done with college. Harry’s a senior. Feels like I blinked and you both grew up.”
He reaches across the table, squeezes her hand.
“I feel lucky, May. So lucky. Watching you two grow up…it’s more than I ever expected to have. More than I probably deserve.”
Then, as if flipping a switch, he returns to critiquing the pastry, dissecting its texture and the balance of flavours.
But May isn’t listening anymore. Instead, she’s watching his eyes.
They’ve gone somewhere far away again. Probably back to that dark, winter night in Minnesota that he never talks about.
The second time something feels off, May is standing in a used car dealership with Bobby, the third one they’ve visited for the day.
Staring bright and early, they’ve been hunting for something practical enough to survive a forty-minute commute to her summer internship at the law firm, and cheap enough not to ruin her budget. But with every test drive, her wish list keeps growing: decent seats, good mileage, something that won’t embarrass her on a date.
By noon, even the salesman had given up, disappearing inside under the excuse of “paperwork.”
“Why do all these cars suck?” she mutters, glaring at a 2015 Toyota Camry in highlighter yellow.
Bobby pats her shoulder and points to the car’s $11,721 price tag and the “50% OFF” sticker beneath it.
May squints. “Absolutely not. If I drive that, Mom would tail me just to write me a ticket herself.”
His laugh carries across the lot, warm and effortless.
“And then she’d arrest me for letting you buy it.”
They move on to a steel-grey Honda Accord that’s been baking in the sun. Under ten grand, two previous accidents, decent mileage, nothing special. The seats look tired, the fabric looks worn, as if it’s absorbed too many summers before arriving at the lot. Not ideal for first impressions, but boring enough to keep her mom calm.
“I think this might be—”
“What about my truck?”
May stops mid-sentence. “What?”
He says it so casually that for a second, she wonders if she misheard. For as long as she’s known him, that truck has been untouchable. Sacred, even. Bobby washes it every weekend by hand, changes the oil himself, and keeps the interior spotless. Her brother nearly put it in a ditch once; Bobby hasn’t allowed him near the driver’s seat again.
Even her mom treats the truck like it’s borrowed porcelain.
“My truck…”
“I heard you,” she says, slowly. “Why?”
He shrugs, easy and unreadable. “Why not? It’s got good mileage. I had it serviced a couple of months ago. They redid the upholstery and installed a new stereo. It’d be perfect for you.”
The truck is impressive, both from the outside and the inside. Heated seats, wood trim, sunroof, and leather that still smells new. It’s more of a luxury SUV than a pickup, and it suits her stepfather perfectly.
“Bobby, I can’t take your truck. It’s your baby.”
“It’s just a truck, May,” he says. “I won’t need it much longer anyway.”
Something in the way he says it makes her stomach drop. The smile that follows doesn’t help; it’s small, distracted, and doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
After a beat, as if he’s caught the lingering weight of his own words, he adds lightly, “I can always borrow your mom’s car.”
But the moment settles, refusing to leave her mind.
The third time May feels something’s off, it’s at the station.
Her morning unexpectedly opens up when her professor cancels class. Instead of wasting the free hours, she drives to that viral bakery she’s been hearing about. The one selling cakes that look like real fruit. She picks up a sampler box in her brand new (well, new to her) Honda Accord, already imagining Bobby’s reaction on camera.
The firehouse is unusually quiet when she walks in. Empty, except for Ravi leaning against the loft railing, scrolling his phone.
“Hey,” she calls.
He looks up, grinning as he jogs down the stairs. “Hey, yourself.”
They hug, and his eyes flick to the bakery bag. “Still trying to make Cap TikTok-famous?”
“Trying,” she says. “The algorithm apparently hates me.”
Ravi tilts his head, pretending to think. The corner of his lips curls up, “You know, sexy firefighter Cap is still an option—”
She cuts him off with a raised hand. “I’m going to stop you right there.”
Her stomach churns at the memory of walking in on her mother in Bobby’s turnout jacket, red lace underneath, and Bobby in an apron, hiding in the darkness of their kitchen. The emotional scars are as fresh now as they were five years ago. She forces the thought away.
“Just trying to help,” Ravi mutters, half-smiling.
May clears her throat, scanning the empty bays. “They out on a call?”
“Yeah. Been gone a couple of hours.”
“I’ll wait in his office,” she says, already moving.
Ravi hesitates but doesn’t stop her. He follows halfway down the hall before she closes the door between them.
Inside the office, the gentle hum of the building fills the space. May exhales, setting the pastry bag on Bobby’s desk. The clutter feels familiar: coffee mug rings, a half-open drawer, a photo of the four of them at a vineyard, but her eyes catch on a stack of papers beside his computer.
The top page reads: Life Insurance Policy Statement.
From the date stamp, it was updated a week ago.
Her hand hovers before she picks it up. The lines of names, numbers and signatures blur. Guilt twists in her chest, and she puts it back exactly where it was. But the image sticks, the implication stays burned into her mind.
She thinks back to the morning at the cafe when his smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. To the day he offered her his truck. And now this.
Her pulse quickens. She’s not the type to believe in coincidences.
The door opens. Bobby steps in, still in his turnout gear, smelling of smoke and sweat. He pauses when he sees her and the bakery bag on his desk.
“Hey,” he says, a tired, wistful look crosses his face. “Which one’s this?”
“Hyper-realistic fruit cakes,” she says, trying to sound casual.
He whistles, the corners of his mouth twitching up. “Damn. All right, we are certainly not sharing these. I made them tiramisu earlier. I'm going to hit the showers, then we're gonna devour these.”
May chuckles, but the sound feels thin. When the door closes behind him, the silence presses in again.
Something is definitely wrong.
The fourth time, it’s Ravi who notices.
May’s in the library, half-distracted by the glow of her laptop. Her essay—The Influence of Sensory Perception on Daily Decision-Making—has stalled at the same sentence for half an hour when her phone buzzes.
Ravi: hey u busy?
She hesitates, staring at the message. Bobby’s crew rarely texts her unless something’s up. Hen’s the only one who checks in just to chat.
Still, curiosity wins.
May: kinda but what’s up?
The reply comes within seconds.
Ravi: cap’s been acting weird
Her chest tightens.
May: weird how?
The three typing dots flash, disappear, then reappear.
Ravi: ok so first of ur dad’s a legend. best captain i’ve ever worked under. but lately idk…he’s different. kinda distant
Ravi: he’s delegating everything!! buck’s been in charge of meals 2 weeks straight. hen & chim are doing calls n meetings with the chief.
Ravi: and yesterday he randomly decided to teach me hose management???? just walked up like “kid, today we get it right.” completely outta nowhere. he’s never done that.
Ravi: feels like he’s in a rush to pass stuff on.
May re-reads the texts. The words blur before her eyes.
The dots appear again.
Ravi: [link] saw this earlier. article abt mental health of first responders. says we’re more likely to die by suicide than on the job.
Ravi: i don’t wanna freak u out. my cousin killed himself when we were 14. i still think abt all the signs i missed.
Ravi: i care abt cap. i’d rather sound paranoid than stay quiet.
May exhales slowly. The relief of having her fears confirmed twists into something sick in her gut. It’s not paranoia. It’s not in her head. Bobby is slipping, and only she and Ravi seem to have noticed.
Telling her mom isn’t an option. Ever since the honeymoon from hell, she’s been brittle. Always on edge, snapping and flinching at nothing. Dropping this would shatter her. And Bobby? He’d shut down the second they tried to talk about it.
She types quickly.
May: thanks for telling me. i’ve noticed too
May: pls dont say anything yet. i’ll talk to him. promise
Her fingers hover over the phone screen, but she can’t think of anything else to add that wouldn’t sound empty.
Ravi: ok. but if u need backup i can tie a mean reef knot. we can literally make him sit n listen.
A short, shaky laugh escapes her before she can stop it.
Later that night, May finds Bobby in the kitchen making dinner.
“Where is everyone?” she asks, dropping her bag onto a chair.
He looks up from the cutting board. Neat rows of chopped bell peppers and carrots line the counter, and a saucepan simmers on the stove. The air smells like rosemary and thyme.
“Hey,” he says, smiling as he pulls her into a quick hug. “Your mom’s still on shift. Harry went to the movies.”
“Hmm. So what’s for dinner?”
“Roast chicken, mushroom risotto, stir-fry veggies, and a creamy pumpkin soup.”
Her stomach growls before she can answer.
“What’s the occasion? You and Mom fight or something?”
Bobby chuckles, turning back to the cutting board. “No fights. I just wanted to cook. You’ve all been working so hard. You deserve to be spoiled once in a while.”
Something in the way he says it, soft, deliberate, hooks onto her unease. Ravi’s texts replay in her mind. The delegation, the sudden training lessons, and, before that, the updated insurance policy and the attempt to give away his beloved truck.
With the house quiet, this is the moment to confront her stepfather. But asking outright, ‘Are you planning to hurt yourself?’ feels impossible.
It feels too accusatory. Too cruel. Bobby, who has always shown up for her, who has carried this family more times than they can count, doesn’t deserve to be cornered like this.
So she circles the question instead. Picking up a ladle, she moves towards the stove, as if helping is all she’s come for.
“The university’s hosting a mental health awareness week next month,” she says, casually, stirring the soup. “They asked me to speak at one of the sessions.”
Bobby nods, listening.
“I was thinking of talking about something personal.”
She pauses.
Even now, the memory sits heavy on her mind. The mocking, the bullying. Relentless. Neverending. The way it chipped at her day after day. The numb stretch of hours, the thick, suffocating despair, her life shrinking around her until all she could see was a dark tunnel with no exit in sight.
“I don’t know if Mom ever told you this, but when I was fifteen, I took a bunch of her sleeping pills.” She glances at him. “Ended up in the hospital, then a psychiatric hold for 24 hours.”
Bobby’s hands still, his grip on the knife tightening. “She told me,” he murmurs.
He knows where this is going. She can see it in his shoulders, the way they tense just a little.
“When I took them,” May says, “I didn’t want to die. Not really. I just…I wanted the pain to stop.”
He doesn’t look up, and she expects him to change the subject. To deflect, to shut down the conversation even before it’s begun. But he doesn’t. So, she keeps going.
“The worst part wasn’t the hospital. It was waking up and seeing Mom sitting there. I’ve never seen her look like that. She seemed so…utterly broken.”
When Bobby finally looks at her, his eyes are filled with regret, as if he wishes he could turn back time and be there for them. Both her and her mom.
“I’m sorry you went through that,” he says, in a low voice.
May turns off the stove and leans against the counter. “Have you ever…?” She doesn’t finish the question.
He meets her eyes and nods. Then he pulls up a chair.
“Twice,” he says. His voice sounds rougher than she expects, and the honesty catches her off guard. “Right after the fire. I drank until I couldn’t feel anything. It helped for a while. Then I figured if I just kept going, maybe I’d join Brooke and Robbie on the other side.”
He lets out a short, humourless laugh.
“Once I woke up in a church basement. The other time, in a hospital bed, waiting for my suspension hearing.”
May reaches for his hands. He holds on, like it’s the only thing keeping him afloat. She’s never seen him this vulnerable, this exposed, and the thought makes her chest ache.
She does what therapy taught her: she listens without interrupting.
“I wanted the pain to stop, too,” he says, staring at the floor. “You think you’re finally past it, that you’ve got it handled, and then something drags you right back. It never really goes away.”
May leans forward. “What happened?”
He exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “A few weeks ago, I met a man on a call. Amir Casey.”
She holds still, not daring to breathe or do anything that might lead him to shut her out.
“He’s a travelling nurse now,” Bobby says, his voice turning bitter. “Didn’t recognise him at first. Last time I saw him, half his face wasn’t burned.”
The rest clicks into place.
“He survived the apartment fire."
Bobby nods once, his mouth drawn tight with regret. “Yeah. I’ve spent so long trying to make up for the ones who died, I never stopped to think about the ones who lived. Amir lost his wife that night. And every night since, he’s lived with the fallout of my choices.”
May could tell him the fire wasn’t his fault.
She knows from Hen that the St. Paul Fire Department had cleared him of any wrongdoing. No negligence or malice on his part. But she loves him too much to know that’s not what he needs or wants to hear.
“After I came home,” she says, instead, picking at her sleeve, “I thought about trying again. But I kept picturing Mom in that hospital chair. That’s when I knew I couldn’t do that to her again.”
Bobby nods, eyes fixed on the counter.
“So I got help. I learned to look for the light when things get dark.”
That perks him up a little. “Your mother has a habit of saving lives, even the ones that don’t want to be saved,” he says, and the lines in his face begin to ease.
“When I first came to L.A., I had this little book with a hundred and forty-eight lines in it. Every time I saved a life, I wrote it down. One life saved for every life I had lost in the fire.”
May holds her breath.
“After I saved the hundred and forty-eighth life, I was going to…” He stops himself, looking away.
“What made you stay?”
“Your mom,” he says, and a real smile breaks through this time, lighting up his face. “She said yes to dinner. Suddenly, I had a reason to stick around. Then I met you and Harry, and I knew my place was right here, with all of you.”
May mirrors his expression, warm, gentle. It feels shared, rooted.
They sit in that understanding for a while, until Bobby gets up to check on dinner. Halfway through, he pauses, frowning a little as realisation hits. “You don’t think I’m planning to hurt myself again, do you?”
She hesitates, her mouth opening, closing, the words forming and dying before they can leave her.
Bobby gives her a look she knows too well. The one that says, Don’t even think about lying, or I’m telling your mom.
And everything spills out: the way his behaviour at the cafe and at the car dealership unsettled her; the way the updated insurance policy sitting in his office had made her lose sleep.
“Ravi noticed too,” she adds. “He said he lost someone once because he didn’t see the signs.”
Bobby rolls his eyes so hard it’s almost comical. “I should make him wash the engines for a month for snitching.”
“Don’t!” May blurts, jumping to her feet. “I mean…he said something because he cares. Because we all do, Bobby. Harry needs you. Mom needs you. And I need my dad, the guy who’d wait an hour in line with me on his off days for some ridiculous, overhyped pastry.”
Stepping forward, he hugs her.
“I didn’t mean to worry you,” he says, rubbing her back. When they pull apart, he goes on, “I’m not going anywhere. Actually…I’ve been thinking about retiring. I updated the insurance before making any big decisions. And the truck’s yours whenever you want it. Just promise me you'll never let your brother behind the wheel again.”
May lets out a small, shaky laugh and her whole body seems to exhale with it. After weeks of worrying, the tension finally breaks.
“Does Mom know you’re thinking about retirement?”
He looks sheepish. “Not yet. I’m working on how to tell her. Might need to bribe her with one of those pistachio cronuts.”
“I’ll supply every viral pastry in Los Angeles,” May says, lips curling up conspiratorially, “as long as you promise to stick around for a long, long time.”
“I will,” Bobby grins. “I promise.”
FIN