Chapter 23 #2
“Now, you just sit down over there and put your feet up. I’m going to give you the most heavenly mud mask you’ve ever had, and something refreshing to drink while you get comfortable.
Then we’ll move to the massage table and focus on releasing all of that tension you’re carrying around.
I can already tell your shoulders are a mess. ”
She’s not wrong, and I’m already feeling like a queen as two more women come in with the refreshments and the supplies for the mask. It’s easy to see why Margo raves about the service here—it’s a full-body, all-five-senses experience that’s as relaxing as it is refreshing.
But my mind keeps drifting to Grant’s hands on the wall beside my head in that hallway, to the rough growl in his voice when he said he wanted to bend me over the sauna bench, and to the way he looked at me at the bar—all protective and possessive in a way that should probably bother me but doesn’t.
“You’re tensing up again,” Kristina says as she applies the mask. “Try to relax. Can you hear those waves in the background? Let your thoughts drift away on those waves.”
I’m trying. I take a deep breath and do everything I can to stay present in this wonderful, warm, luxurious moment instead of replaying every interaction I’ve had with Grant over the past week.
It works, mostly.
By the time the mask comes off and we move to the massage table, I already feel more relaxed and centered.
And by the time Kristina and her magical hands have finished massaging out all the stress and tension in my body, I feel like I might even be able to enjoy the rest of my evening without spiraling into an anxious, over-thinking mess.
I change back into my clothes, drink my complimentary cucumber water, and thank Kristina profusely before heading back out to my car.
The drive home is quiet, the streets are relatively empty, and I’m feeling calm and centered enough to let myself enjoy the peaceful silence as I take the long way back.
When I finally pull into the driveway, all the lights are off except for the porch light that Grant likes to leave on when we’re all gone. It’s just another reminder that the house really is empty, and that I still have the whole night to myself.
And I last about forty-five minutes alone before I can’t take it anymore.
It’s too empty and way too quiet. I keep walking from the living room to the kitchen to the living room, convincing myself I want a snack, then going back again to sit mindlessly in front of the TV without truly watching whatever is on.
Yeah, this isn’t going to work.
Not when I’m so used to April’s chatter and Grant’s quiet-but-steady presence in the background.
All that time—not to mention Margo’s money—I spent at the spa trying to relax and get into a good headspace is going to be for nothing if I don’t get out of this house and find something else to distract my traitorous brain.
So I change into a dress I haven’t worn since before I was pregnant with April.
It’s black and fitted, but just stretchy enough to flatter the curves that came with motherhood.
I put on actual makeup, rather than the swipe of mascara and lip gloss that I barely manage on a good day.
I even dig out a pair of heels from the back of my closet.
I’m not trying to impress anyone in particular tonight, but I’ve been given this pass by my sister and Grant and the universe, maybe, to go out and experience my life the way it used to be.
Back when people saw me as something other than a mother or a sister or a friend.
Back when I felt like a woman in my own right, even if I wasn’t always completely comfortable in my own skin.
So yeah, I’m going to make this night count.
I’m going to wear this little black dress and these painful heels out to a bar downtown that I’ve passed a dozen times but never even considered stopping to check out.
It’s the kind of place that oozes sophistication and money, which are two things that I don’t normally have in huge quantities.
But hey, this is my single-woman fantasy, and nobody else needs to know the truth or the reality that will come crashing back down around me when I come back to this big, empty house at the end of the night.
The bartender is at least ten years younger than I am, but he has a friendly smile and he’s definitely pretending not to check out my cleavage as I walk up to order a drink, so it already feels like I’ve won a minor victory as soon as I walk through the door.
I order a glass of white wine and settle onto a leather barstool like I belong here.
Like I’m a woman who goes to upscale bars alone without worrying about getting hit on by strangers or whether I have lipstick on my teeth.
Like I’m confident and single, with no other plans than enjoying some time to myself.
The bartender brings my wine and I take a slow sip, determined to savor the crisp, cold taste. But the more I try not to think about Grant, the more my brain tries to sabotage me.
So I do what any grown, rational adult would do when they’re trying to get someone off their mind. I down the glass of wine and immediately order another.
The bartender raises a brow, but doesn’t ask any questions. By the time he pours another glass and slides it across the bar with a smile, the first one is starting to kick in. I’m starting to feel more comfortable here, more able to look around and take in my surroundings.
Like the way there are three separate guys who keep glancing my way, and how it feels surprisingly good to be noticed even if it’s also completely unfamiliar territory for me.
What would Grant say about that? And now I’m back to square one, with his intense, brooding eyes front and center in my mind again.
“Excuse me,” I motion the bartender over with what I hope is a sweet smile. “Would you mind changing the TV across from me to the hockey game? The Aces are playing tonight.”
He reaches for the remote behind him without hesitating. “Yeah, no problem.”
He doesn’t ask me if I know anyone on the team. Or if I’m feeling guilty for being out on the town while a certain someone is playing his heart out, tending his goal like his life depends on it.
The bartender flips through the channels and stops right on Grant’s face.
The game is in its final minutes and the score is close.
I scoot to the edge of my barstool and watch as he makes save after save, with reflexes that are so lightning-fast and natural that it seems like he’s hardly even trying.
The Aces pull ahead with less than a minute left, and the arena erupts into cheers and chants as the final buzzer sounds. The camera follows Grant as he skates away from the goal, and I feel myself starting to smile as his teammates mob him with their congratulations.
He takes off his helmet and I can see that he’s smiling too. Well, as close as he gets to a smile while he still has his game face on. But the corners of his mouth are turned up and there are a few crinkles at the edges of his eyes.
When he looks into the camera, it almost feels like he’s smiling right at me.
“Hi there, pretty lady.” A man’s voice startles me from my thoughts, which is probably for the best. Especially that last thought. “Is anyone sitting here?”
I look over like a deer caught in headlights to find a man gesturing to the empty stool next to mine. He’s probably in his mid-forties, well-dressed and decent-looking, with a confident smile.
“No, it’s free.” I try to muster some of that flirty energy I was supposed to be channeling tonight, or at least a little enthusiasm for the possibility of some grown-up conversation.
But I’m distracted now, and my rebellious brain is already finding ways to compare the new stranger to the man I can’t seem to get off my mind, no matter where I go or what I do.
The new guy doesn’t seem bothered, though, and his smile doesn’t falter. “I have to say, it’s refreshing to see a beautiful woman who is actually into sports. Are you an Aces fan?”
“Sort of a newer fan, I guess. I mostly started following them this season.”
“You’ve picked a good team, and a good season to start watching. They’re having a hell of a run.”
I nod and make small talk with him for a few minutes, all while reminding myself that this is what I came here to do. The wine feels warm in my belly, and this guy is clearly interested in more than just hockey.
But it feels all wrong.
His compliments sound rehearsed. His smile is a little too quick and a little too wide.
When he leans in closer and drops his voice lower, I can tell he’s trying to be intimate, but all it does is make me feel uncomfortable.
It’s so different from the way I felt when Grant boxed me in against that wall. That wasn’t uncomfortable at all.
I should be paying more attention to the guy next to me, but my eyes drift back over to the TV just as they’re replaying that close-up of Grant’s almost-smiling face, and I realize I’m already smiling again in anticipation.
My heart is beating faster, and my stomach is doing that fluttery thing that I’ve come to associate with Grant—and only Grant.
And I’m getting all of this from a five-second close-up shot of the hockey game.
“So what do you say?” The guy is still talking, and I realize I haven’t heard a single word he’s said for at least the past minute. “Can I buy you another drink?”
“Actually, I—” I fumble for my wallet, then pull out enough cash to cover my tab and a generous tip. “I need to go. I’m sorry.”
“Wait, what? Did I say something wrong?”
But I’m already off the barstool with my purse on my shoulder. “No, it’s not you. I just have to leave. Right now.”
I don’t wait for a response. I just start walking through the crowd until I make it out the door and into the parking lot. My keys are in my hand and I’m staring at my car, but I stop myself from getting behind the wheel. I’m not drunk, but I’m definitely too tipsy to drive home safely.
I need a cab. I’ll deal with coming back for my car in the morning. Or later tonight. Or whenever. I just need to get away from this bar. My phone says there’s a driver available seven minutes away, so that will have to be good enough.
The worst part about tonight is that I’m still not sure why I felt like I had to come out here in the first place. I’m not sure if I was trying to prove something to myself, or to Grant, or to the universe in general.
But all I’ve succeeded in proving so far is that I can’t stop thinking about Grant, even when I have every reason in the world not to.