Chapter 7 #2
“I mean, no pressure, Cor. Only if it would be fun for you. Just an idea,” he says, with a sort of dismissive gesture, as if waving away the idea.
“No, I mean, yeah. I mean, I don’t think I can compete with Wanda, though.
They’ll all be like, ‘Where’s the hot, gothy brunette, and why have you replaced her with a ham stuffed into a dress?
’ and you’ll be like, ‘No, it’s not deli meat, it’s just a fat chick who can kinda play the piano.
..but definitely needs sheet music.’” I laugh, but Grant does not.
I instantly regret the joke. Finn is used to it, so he doesn’t feel the need to counter it with a comment. Sometimes he asks if I’m fishing. Truth be told, it’s just habit. I’m not, at least on a conscious level, seeking a compliment; it’s just what I know to say in the moment.
“I hope you don’t really think that,” he says.
“Sorry, just a joke.” I blush, feeling self-conscious now.
“I’ve always thought you were breathtaking,” he says, and I almost want to laugh. I mean, Paige is, by any standard, breathtaking. I know he’s just trying to be kind.
“Sorry. I don’t—I mean, yeah...” I quickly change the subject.
“I could maybe play a couple nights. I’ll have to check in with Finn, see if.
..” but I don’t know how to finish that.
I don’t check with him about much anymore.
I take on more than I can keep up with all the time, and I never get his input.
Mia is starting to drive herself to practices and friends’ houses.
Nobody needs to okay this. Still, I don’t want to agree quickly to do it.
I’d rather be like the aloof Paige and give him a solid maybe, but it sounds thrilling.
“Well, let me know.” He smiles. “For real, no pressure.”
“I’ll do it!” I say, like a total lunatic, but he doesn’t seem to notice my overzealousness and gives a Woot into his cupped hand. We both laugh.
Some old jazz song comes on that I don’t recognize, and he sings, off-key, to the lyrics.
It’s the wine, probably. Me being flushed and giddy, him singing Sinatra and Dean Martin, but it’s really nice.
He holds the Parmesan mock microphone across the booth to me when the female part of the duet comes on, and I hold my hands up in protest, giggling.
“I don’t know it,” I say. Then he gets up and holds out his hand for me to take.
I think he’s a little tipsy. I know him to be someone who very rarely drinks.
In fact, Paige mentioned it more than once—that he can be a bit of a judgy-judger when it comes to people imbibing too much, so I’m surprised.
I stand and take his hand, and he pulls me in to dance, still singing bits of lyrics here and there.
I can feel my pulse in my throat and the wine buzzing in my head.
Then the playful twirling and humming along to the music stops, and we just sway slowly, holding one another.
I don’t know why, but I rest my head on his shoulder.
It feels like we’re barely moving. I can feel the warmth of his breath on my neck and the tapping of his heartbeat against my chest. I can feel my eyes sting with tears that are trying to surface, but I blink them back, not understanding where they’re coming from.
I swallow, and it sounds loud between my ears. I should go.
When I look up at him, ready to pull away and comment on how late it’s getting, our foreheads meet, and we let them.
We stand together like that a moment, and then he moves his hand to the side of my face and cups my cheek gently.
When our eyes meet, I wonder what the hell I’m letting happen, but then suddenly, synchronously, we don’t let it happen.
We don’t kiss. He drops his head, and he squeezes my hand almost apologetically.
Then he pulls me to him in a hug that feels desperate.
We both silently hold on to one another tightly.
For a long time. Then, still without speaking, we let go, and I walk to the booth to pick up my coat and bag and go to the door.
When I look back, we exchange a joyless smile.
I take in the room, the empty glasses and dim light, all the life and noise and laughter that filled the place only an hour ago, and now Grant standing in the wake of it all.
I imagine he’ll turn off the lights, climb the back wooden staircase with what’s left in the wine bottle, and lie down on his mattress, so very alone. My heart races in my chest.
I want to go with him. What would he do if I dropped my things and took his hand and led him toward the staircase?
What would he do if, right here, I kissed him and started to unbutton the front of his shirt?
The desire feels overwhelming. I almost move to him, but I feel paralyzed.
I open my mouth to say something, and he looks at me expectantly, but I find that I don’t know what to say, so I just flash my flat palm as a sort of awkward wave goodbye, and I leave.
By the time the cab drops me off at my house, a slushy rain has started and falls in icy pellets that sound like bullets on the metal of the car.
I’m distracted by thoughts of Grant, so I almost don’t notice a figure standing across the street, backlit by the garage light.
It’s Georgia’s husband, Lucas. He’s standing, glass in hand, his shoulders hunched, staring out into the sleet, which is falling sideways.
Even though he’s mostly shadowed in silhouette, I see his face when the headlights flit across him briefly, and he looks drenched and upset.
When I exit the car, I pop my umbrella, and the cab drives away.
I pause a moment before I run inside, not knowing if I should say something.
I lift my hand in a tentative wave, but he doesn’t wave back.
He doesn’t move at all. Then I see his garage door slowly close in front of him until I can only see his legs, then darkness as the interior light is extinguished.