CHAPTER 15
TWO SIPS OF TEA, ONE BAG OF TRAIL MIX, FOUR IBUPROFEN
“Thank you” didn’t encompass my gratitude, but I said it anyway as I motioned for Grant to come inside my house.
He’d silently driven me home—no questions—taken my key when my hand shook too hard to get it into the lock, and opened my door.
We hesitated inside the doorway.
“I—”
He held up a hand. “You don’t have to explain.”
My eyes scanned the carpet as I nodded, thankful for the permission to remain silent.
“I’m going to shower.” A medicinal film clung to my skin, along with the dried blood on my arm. I needed to get it all off.
“Good,” he said. “I’ll make you some tea. You haven’t had dinner.”
My stomach swayed. “I’m not hungry.”
Instead of insisting, he nodded again, and I turned to walk upstairs, leaving Grant alone in my living room without further instruction.
I peeled the clothes from my body, popped four ibuprofens into my mouth, and swallowed them in the shower, where the water scalded my skin and burned away the memory. Though maybe this was more like branding, driving it in until it rode with the blood in my veins, always there, always a part of me.
A wave of embarrassment rose up from the steam in the shower. The morning played through my mind. What was I thinking?
I’d gone to that riding spot because I knew he’d be there. I’d wanted to tell him about winning the Fletchers over, about being one signature away from victory.
I gently shampooed my hair. I’d spent an hour straightening it this morning, which felt like a year ago, and now it was ruined. I could straighten it again, but I had a lump on my head that likely wouldn’t appreciate the 410-degree heat of the iron. The strands curled under the hot water, and my already pounding head felt like it was coming off my shoulders. I pictured Grant finding me in a heap at the bottom of the bathtub, water pelting my unconscious, naked body. The image was enough to get me out. I placed my feet on the plush rug at the entry to my shower. The white fibers brushed the inside of my toes as I ripped my robe off the hook at the side of the shower, threw it on, belted it too tight, and sank down against the shower door.
My soppy curls dripped onto the rug and my shoulders, soaking the fabrics as my head fell back onto the glass. I ignored the pain that shot through my skull and let the tears fall down my face, unstoppable as the force that had ushered me through the hospital, barefoot, and into the parking lot. I suddenly felt like I couldn’t do any of this, not my business, not friendships, not life. And now Grant knew how uncapable I was. Suspicion was so, so different from cold, hard evidence.
Several minutes later, after the tears had stopped, my leaden feet took me to my closet, where I pulled out a T-shirt and leggings. I twisted my wet hair into a loose bun without a mirror because I was unable to face myself.
I pulled open my bedroom door, stopping short when I saw a collection of goodies on the hardwood floor at my feet.
My eyes went to the note first. I picked it up and shoved it into the tiny pocket of my leggings, then grabbed the steaming mug of black tea and the glass of water.
He’d been right at my door. The thought unfurled an ache in my shoulders.
The plate I grabbed next was neatly arranged with cheese, crackers, grapes, and a baggie of Grant’s signature trail mix, the one that, ridiculously, didn’t contain Cap’n Crunch. It took me two trips to get everything he’d put outside my door. I filled my arms with what was left: granola bars, another bottle of ibuprofen, an ice pack wrapped in a kitchen towel, an energy drink—the kind frequently found on bicycle rides—and the paperwork from the hospital that told me what to do for a concussion. I placed everything on my dresser, all but the papers from the ER; those I crumpled up and tossed into the bathroom wastebasket. How had he even gotten those anyway?
I crossed my legs on the bed, pulled open the baggie of trail mix, and inhaled, then placed the bag on the pillow beside me. The tea was still warm, and I wrapped my hands around it, wishing it was the green tea I’d pretended to hate.
After two sips, I pulled out Grant’s note.
Let me know if you need anything. I’m here if you need me. Please don’t hesitate. Please.
—Grant
I found my phone and texted him a thank-you. This is what any friend would do. The kind of friend who bought his sister a whole property that he planned to pour countless funds, time, and energy into. Just for her. Because he cared that much. Because I’d inspired him.
I winced as my head made contact with the headboard. My eyelids closed, and as I waited for the pain medication to kick in, I felt myself falling asleep.
My neck ached—my head had fallen into an unnatural angle—when I woke up to the sound of a text. The glowing red numbers on the clock next to my bed made my eyeballs quiver as they told me it was eight p.m. The little gray bubble on my phone held a message from Chad, telling me he’d be getting in late tonight and would Uber over, so I didn’t have to pick him up from the airport. He said something cryptic, too, about his gift arriving before he did.
I’d completely forgotten about Chad because it didn’t seem like a Friday night. I wished he’d been delayed until tomorrow. I didn’t want to talk to anyone. At least I’d have the next two hours alone.
I downed another two ibuprofen and shivered. Lingering tendrils of the day swept over my skin like a spiderweb, making gooseflesh rise up on my arms.
Coffee, I thought. Maybe another cup of tea.
The air-return vent rustled in the hallway outside my bedroom door, but other than that, the house was quiet until I maneuvered down the stairs. Each creaky board moaned under the pressure of my foot. The last one was so loud that it sounded like it said, Hey there. But my temporary amusement was replaced with panic when I realized the words hadn’t been from a stair tread but had come from the man sitting on a couch I didn’t own.
The man and his mustache.