Chapter 20
KENDALL
I inspect myself in the mirror. My hair cascades over my shoulders in loose curls.
It’s finally cool enough to wear something autumn-inspired, so I’ve chosen a short skirt and tall boots for my—what are we calling it?
Rendezvous?—with Grant. I’m not ready to call it a date.
That makes it sound more serious than what it is.
I’m skipping out on hanging with my friends for this, and when I think about it, guilt pinches at me. No one besides Maria knows what’s been going on with Grant. I can’t imagine confessing yet.
A knock sounds at the door. My heels clack on the laminate floor, each step coinciding with a thump of my heart. I throw the door open.
Grant leans against my door frame in a brown leather jacket like he’s James fucking Dean. My stomach dips, and I can feel a full body swoon coming on, all the way down to my toes.
He takes a second to scan me. His eyes pop when he sees bare thigh, and his smile suggests indecent thoughts when his gaze returns to my face.
“You ready?”
There could be some double entendre there, I’m sure, but I don’t comment on that. I step out the door and turn to lock it, and when I face forward again, I link my arm through his. He stiffens in surprise.
“Where are we eating?”
“I took the liberty of making a reservation.” He pulls his keys out as we walk to his car. “A steak place, if that’s okay.”
“Ooh, fancy.” I let go of his arm and slide into the passenger seat of his car. “Sounds good to me.”
Once we’re in the car, the scent of him envelops me, a spicy essence that reminds me of sitting by a campfire in the woods. His shadowed profile stands out against the evening sky. We had to plan for a late dinner given his obscene schedule.
“On a scale of one to ten, how exhausted are you?” I turn my attention toward him.
“Before I came over? A hundred.” He shoots a grin at me. “I’m pretty awake when you’re near, though. Like I’ve had a pot of coffee.”
It’s somehow one of the more flattering things anyone’s ever said to me.
And I can certainly relate. Buzzing energy loops through my veins when he’s around, constant to the point of inconvenience, and my heart rate jumps all over the place.
His hands—the same ones that perform surgeries with such competence, that touch my body with reverence—rest easily on the steering wheel, despite his claims of jitteriness.
“Have you read your book yet? The one you got at the bookstore?”
He turns onto the Watterson to head toward our destination. The trees zoom by. “Yep. It was good, but the medical inaccuracies were worse than I thought they’d be. Lots of characters walking off injuries that should have incapacitated them.”
I laugh. “You gotta let that shit go. Just pretend it’s another universe where the laws of physics don’t apply.”
“I think, maybe, I’m not as laid back as you.”
“Well, yeah. That’s an understatement. You were born with a résumé and a list of career goals in your hand.”
The car rumbles with his next turn.
“That makes me sound like no fun at all,” he says. “But we’d be a good team, you and me. You would lighten me up, and I would keep you from joining a punk rock band and running off to New York.”
“Like you could stop me,” I say. “Too bad, anyway. We already established that my worst fear is being poor again. So, career stability it is.”
We’re quiet for a few moments. I shift on my heated seat. If you’d told me as a kid that I’d get to ride in a car that made my ass warm, I probably would have been ecstatic about that luxury.
I also would have been shocked at the man next to me, but life is funny like that.
We eventually pull up to a brick restaurant with a black awning. Grant swings into a parking spot across the street and meets me at my door.
“I’ve been to this place,” I say.
“It’s not the most upscale restaurant in town or anything.” He sounds unsure of himself.
“Are you kidding me? I love this. Much less pretentious.”
We cross the street together, and Grant reaches for my hand.
I let him take it. As usual, just the touch of our skin together sets off sparks.
The half-moon casts a sliver of light over the dark pavement, and the air’s thick with autumn petrichor from an earlier rain.
It’s achingly romantic, and it’s getting more and more difficult to shove my emotions into a black box, never to be examined again.
Inside, Grant gives the host his name, then thanks the man when he walks us to our table. It’s not a white tablecloth sort of place, but I wasn’t lying when I said I liked that better. There’s a speakeasy kind of feel: dark woods, glass chandeliers, and comfy leather chairs.
We sip water and chat about the menu, our upcoming week, the weather. It’s pleasant, but I can tell he’s working up to a weightier topic.
He sets his drink down. We’ve ordered wine, a peppery red that’s delightfully smooth on my tongue.
“Can we have a serious discussion for a few minutes?”
“Is there any other kind?” At his eye roll, I continue. “Okay. Shoot.”
“You remember how I told you that I never apologized to you because it would have been only for me?”
I nod.
“I’ve been sitting with that. That discomfort, I mean.
Of just knowing there’s no way I can make myself feel better, and that I shouldn’t make it about my feelings at all.
” He drums his fingers on the table. Our waiter starts to walk toward us but, perhaps sensing the gravity of our conversation, pretends he’s forgotten something and walks out of the room again.
“What do you want from me, Kendall? I know it’s not just material stuff. What would make you feel better?”
“Grant.” My eyes sting. Damn it.
“Come on, Kendall. Please talk to me.”
I sigh. “At first, I thought that answer was nothing. Then I thought a sincere apology would suffice, and you’ve definitely given me that. But I think what would help me most, honestly, is your real understanding of what you did. Of how it impacted me. I want you to know it, deep down.”
He doesn’t look away from me. We’re in a private corner here, and in the dim lighting my courage builds.
“You once wrote something in Sharpie on my backpack. I don’t remember the whole phrase, but it was something cruel.
” He winces, but I continue. “I scrubbed at it, but it wouldn’t come off, so I tossed it.
I was too proud to keep carrying it. So, I used a plastic grocery bag for a while, because we didn’t have money for a replacement.
I felt like such a loser.” I look down. “If I didn’t have good friends at the time, it would have been worse.
Luckily, they helped me deal. But it left a mark. ”
His eyes stay trained on me.
“I’m okay, now,” I say. “And I’ve enjoyed what we’re doing here. You asked what I want from you, though, and I think it’s just that. Your awareness of how you actually influenced my life.”
Grant opens his mouth to speak, but the waiter comes to take our order before he can say anything. He thanks the man with a smile—I’ve noticed how well he treats service staff—and grips his napkin.
“I get it,” he says. “I really do. I’ve tossed and turned over it for years. I’ve imagined what your life would have been like.”
“Are you sure? Because it could have been worse than it was for me. Much worse.”
His face crumples inward, and I watch him school his expression before he speaks again.
“Someone told me something once,” he says.
He pauses, ducking his head like he’s searching for words.
“A therapist, actually. She said that all of us hurt people, that’s just a part of being human, but the kind of prolonged bullying I engaged in leaves an indelible mark.
” He gestures to his heart. “Like a tattoo. And that mark grows bigger and uglier over time, especially if the hurt continues. The person can cover the tattoo eventually, but it’s still there.
I know I left a mark on you. I wish I could erase it completely. ”
I still. For once, I don’t interject.
“I notice everything about you,” he continues, speaking softly.
“How you take your coffee with hazelnut creamer. The way you hum to yourself quietly when you’re washing your hands, or typing on your laptop.
How you wear your glasses on clinic days but braid your hair on OR days.
” He looks at me. “But I also notice how you flinch when someone compliments you. How you shy away from anything that leaves you unguarded. And I wonder how much of that is my fault.”
Something sharp and aching arrows through me. I’ve been waiting years to hear those kinds of things from him, and he couldn’t have put it better if he tried.
He means it too. His sincerity projects with each word. For the first time, I allow room for a sliver of a foreign concept, at least when it comes to him: forgiveness. It builds in the corners of my heart.
“Grant,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “You really have done so much work.”
“Yeah. That’s an understatement.”
We stare at each other. Chatter from other diners reaches us, but it feels distant. Like we’re in our own bubble. What am I going to do now? He’s just swept away some of the pall hanging over my adolescence.
He reaches across the table to grasp my hand, and I let him, savoring the feel of his thumb sweeping across my skin. The intensity of our eye contact plucks at tender spot in my chest. I almost can’t stand it.
I pull back. “All right,” I tell him. “Enough serious talk.” I prop my chin on my hands. “You mentioned travel, before. Tell me some of the places on your list. I know you have them.”