Chapter 6
6
TESSA
November
Tingles.
They ran up and down my body, from my toes to my scalp—like waves—and I closed my eyes, breathing in and letting myself sink into the feeling.
In all honesty, the movie hadn’t even been that good, but the ending—the ending had given me chills. I’d happily watch two hours of mediocre if it ended with that moment. The hero had pulled the heroine close, one arm around her waist and the other hand cupping her cheek, and I longed for that moment in real life.
Except I’d had it once. I’d had that exact moment with Grant Dupree at the wedding, a moment that had given me the chills just as surely as this movie?—
A knock drew me out of my thoughts and I stood from the couch, holding down the menu button on my remote until all evidence of my midday rom-com binge was gone. I twisted the lock and let the door fall open, walking away before it swung enough to reveal my visitor. With anyone else it might’ve been rude, but it was Val at the door, and Val wasn’t a guest. They actually had a key to the house, but they never bothered to dig it out and I didn’t make them.
Val took a single look at my screen and grinned. “Binging more shitty movies?” they asked.
The no sat poised on my lips, but with a shrug I replied, “Yeah.” I glanced back at Val, who wore their favorite blue polkadot housewife dress with a pair of platform army boots.
“Was it a good one, at least?”
I shrugged again. “It was only okay, but the end was good.”
“The ends are my favorite,” they agreed.
“Whatcha’ doin’ here?” I asked.
Val helped themself to a bowl of grapes from the fridge, setting it between us. “It’s still a week until Thanksgiving Break and we need to do something awesome today.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Define awesome.”
“Target?”
“Seriously?” I asked, trying not to focus too hard on what sad lives we led.
They shrugged a single shoulder and popped a grape in their mouth. “I can’t stop buying composition journals. Not even sure what I’m going to do with them, but I found some with little octopuses all over them. I obviously had to have them.”
“That does sound cute,” I conceded.
They plucked another grape and said, “Or we could go to the Dancing Glass.”
The Dancing Glass was not just a bar in town, it was the only bar in town. This was good when you were meeting up with friends—no confusion—but it was less appealing when you were avoiding someone. Not that I was avoiding Grant Dupree. I just didn’t want to see him. Ever.
“Yeah, we could,” I said, failing to scrounge up any enthusiasm.
“What’s with you?” Val asked.
It was a fair question, and Val was the only person I would ever consider telling the truth to, especially since they already knew all the sordid details. “Grant.” The word came out as a long-suffering sigh.
Val’s dark eyes went wide, and they tucked a black curl behind their ear. I knew Valentina Estrada as well as I knew myself, and this wide-eyed expression did not mean “ Holy shit, I didn’t think of that. That would be so awkward.” Nope. This expression meant, “ Oh. That’s still a thing you’re thinking about?”
And they weren’t wrong, because more than anything I wished I wasn’t still thinking about it. Too bad every damn moment had branded itself on my brain.
“Banging your sister’s brother-in-law with your back against old flowered wallpaper was that good?” Val asked, pulling me from my thoughts. Their brow was cocked skeptically. I knew this brow-cock was actively questioning the connection I’d felt to Grant that night, and it was a fair question . The farther we got from the wedding, the more I was questioning the connection.
Who leaves their sister’s wedding reception with the best man and has vertical sex pressed to the wall of her parents’ hotel room? Characters in porns, that’s who. Not regular, sensible people who teach fifth grade. “Apparently it was,” I replied.
“Okay, so, Target?”
I was shaking my head before the words were fully out of their mouth. “No, no. This is crazy. It’s been almost three months. We can’t spend the rest of our twenties at Target. I won’t do that to you, Val.”
Val reached across the table, gathering both my hands in theirs and tipping their chin to look at me seriously. “Tessa Davis, if I could live in a Target like those kids in From the Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler , I would legit do it. So let’s be clear, this is no hardship for me.”
“Pretty sure those kids ran away to a museum,” I said.
“An art museum,” they confirmed with a scowl. “Because they’re from New York. I’m a child of the midwest, so I’ll be running away to Target, thank you very much.”
“The Dancing Glass,” I replied with finality.
“You’re sure?” Val offered.
I wasn’t sure. Although it wasn’t certain Grant would be at the local bar on a Saturday night, I couldn’t rule it out, and that nugget of uncertainty gnawed at me. “Of course I’m sure,” I lied. I didn’t usually lie to Val, but I figured white lies like this didn’t count because they knew me well enough to know I was being far more polite than honest.
Being the only bar in town meant the Dancing Glass was in the unique position of not having to lure patrons. As a result, it was hideous. A neon sign above the door—which featured a martini glass that winked in and out of two positions—gave the place its name. Inside was the predictable long oak bar and haphazard four-tops. The walls were decorated with an assortment of posters—Michael Jordan, a mysterious NASCAR driver I couldn’t recognize and had never figured out the signature of, and even a Got Milk poster featuring a woman dressed in head-to-toe leather—all interspersed between beer signs from every conceivable era and strung with red and green chili pepper lights. The decor made no sense, but it was the Dancing Glass. It didn’t need to.
I held the door open for Val and they walked through, scanning the place for me like the friend they were. “Jock is here,” they murmured, only loud enough for me to hear.
“I can handle Jock,” I replied, flashing my license at Barry, who’d worked the door for half my life and knew me well, but demanded I take out my damn license every time.
“Jock would love for you to handle him,” Val replied dryly. As usual, they weren’t wrong. Not at all deterred by my lack of interest at Nora and Ethan’s wedding, Jock had continued to hit on me at every opportunity. The man took pride in living up to his moniker, it seemed, and he delighted in crude jokes and bad pick-up lines. Fortunately for him, he had a body carved out of stone. Unfortunately for me, that body made those bad pick-up lines sound decent after three beers.
Looking at Val seriously I said, “He would, and if I drink enough, I may start to think it sounds like a good idea. I’m counting on you to make sure that never happens.”
“You can be sure I’ll never let you go home with Jock,” Val murmured with a roll of their eyes as they led the way to the bar through a throng of people. Val bellied up and I stepped into place behind them, handing them a twenty.
The bartender, Annisa, grinned widely. “Finally, people I like to see on a Saturday night,” she said, earning a wry look from her best friend, Griffin, who sat at the bar with a beer in one hand. The bar was busy, but Annisa leaned forward, giving us her full attention. “What are you two up to?”
Val shrugged. “It was this or Target.”
Annisa shook her head. “You chose poorly.”
“But we get to hang out with Griff,” Val replied brightly.
“This round’s on me. You two should see if you can get a table,” Griff offered.
“I saw one back here,” I said, since I’d had my head on a swivel since we’d entered The Dancing Glass and I’d noticed a free table near the back.
Was I the tiniest bit disappointed when I didn’t see Grant?
I plead the fifth.
Val and I headed for the table with Griff following closely behind, holding all three of our beer bottles. “Thanks again for this, Griff,” I said as he joined us at the raised four-top, sitting down next to Val, who had taken the spot opposite me. Griff was ruggedly handsome—one of those big beard/flannel shirt types. He wasn’t exactly my type, but I wouldn’t have ruled him out if not for Annisa. She’d been best friends with Griffin since we were all kids, and though they would both claim up and down there was nothing romantic between them, anyone with eyes was pretty skeptical.
“Is it just you tonight?” Val asked, and all three of us knew they were asking about Griff’s brother Everett, who was usually with him.
“Everett is on some business trip,” Griff said. “He’ll be back Tuesday.”
“Where to?” I asked, far more interested in the location than the man, though I would never admit that.
“New York. Main offices are there, and he had to give some sort of presentation.”
Everett had tried on more than one occasion to explain what he did as a graphic designer at a big PR company, but it was confusing and never what I assumed graphic designers did, so I was at a total loss. “That’s cool,” I said, because it was the most polite thing a disinterested human could say when faced with that information.
“Hey, Tessy.” A body slid into the vacant seat next to me, and I didn’t need to look to know it was Jock. He was the only person on Earth who would dare call me such a stupid nickname. Unfortunately for Jock, I’d had all of one sip of beer so far tonight, and that wasn’t even close to the minimum required to make him tolerable.
“Hello, Jock,” I said coolly.
He elbowed me softly in the ribs. “You should call me if you’re coming up here.”
“If we called, would you stay home?” Val asked, grinning widely.
Jock flashed a look toward Val, but didn’t reply. Despite his muscular physique, Jock was not a fighter. He went to great lengths to avoid conflict, in fact. It was a point in his favor, certainly, but the only real point, since he was dull in the extreme. “Did you hear we’re starting a winter dodgeball tournament? I helped organize it.”
I fell back on my favorite blow-off response. “That’s cool.”
Val nodded. “I heard about that, too. I didn’t know you were part of it, Jurkowski. I’m impressed.”
Jock brightened visibly under Val’s rare praise. “Yeah. It gets so boring in the winter, so me and a few of the guys came up with the idea for dodgeball.” He looked at me. “You should join.”
“Dodgeball? No thank—” The words died in my throat as I watched Grant walk through the door. He was scanning, much as I had when I came in, and I leaned forward on my elbows, hoping to hide myself behind Val, who had their back to the door. Surprised by my stammering, Val followed my gaze, glancing behind her quickly and then finishing my thought for me.
“Have you seen Tessa play sports? She’d probably trip on a ball and kill herself,” Val said. Jock laughed and it sounded ridiculously loud, even in the noisy bar.
And then Grant’s eyes fell on my table—on me.
“Thanks a lot, Val,” I said, my thanks equal parts for their joke and for the attention they’d drawn to the table, but they already knew that. “I probably would break my neck, though. I’m really clumsy,” I said, my eyes never wavering from Grant as I spoke. Jock laughed again, and Grant’s brow furrowed deeper than usual. Then he looked away, finding a seat at the bar and smiling his hello to Annisa.
I’d deftly avoided Grant for more than two months, and now he sat fifteen feet away with his back to me and it was eating me alive. I took an oversized swig of my beer. “I’ll get the next round,” I announced, standing from the table with my half-empty bottle in hand. I took another drink for good measure.
“I’ll come with you,” Jock offered, standing up next to me. Val reached across the table, touching Jock’s arm.
“She said she’d get it, Jurkowski. Tessa doesn’t need a man to do everything for her, right, Tess?”
“They’re right,” I said seriously. “Thank you, Val. I couldn’t have said it better.”
Griffin shrugged, apparently satisfied with my sudden showing of feminism if it meant he didn’t need to get up.
“Okay,” Jock replied doubtfully.
I picked up Jock’s empty beer, bringing both bottles to the bar. I set them down in the space next to Grant, leaning against the bar, but Grant didn’t turn to look at me. I was tempted to clear my throat or poke him or something.
“Settling for Jock after all?” Grant asked gruffly, somehow knowing it was me without ever turning to look.
“No, of course not,” I said, my eyes on Annisa as she walked to my end of the bar. “Four High Lifes, please.” Annisa walked away to pull the four bottles of beer.
“Then why have you been avoiding me?” he asked bluntly, finally turning to face me.
I inhaled deeply, ready to lie, then hesitated. Based on his steely tone, I expected to find anger on his face, but what I saw made my chest deflate and my shoulders sag. He looked hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
Grant grunted. “Fuck, Tess. An apology is worse.”
“I—”
I knew the apology was worse. I’d felt it the moment it left my lips, but I was genuinely sorry. Annisa set the bottles in front of me, and I handed her my credit card. “I’ll just keep a tab open, Annisa. Thanks,” I said brightly.
“You’ve got it, sweetheart. Another for you?” she asked Grant, but he shook his head.
“Not until my date gets here. Thank you, though.”
I picked up the bottles—and not smoothly, either. I ended up with four bottles held awkwardly in my arms against my chest. “I didn’t realize you had a date. Sorry. I’m glad I saw you—I mean, it was good to see you—to say hi.” There comes a point in uncontrolled babbling when it’s best to just cut and run, and I’d reached that, so I turned heel and walked back to our table quickly.
I had to belly up to the table to even attempt to put the drinks down, thanks to the way I was holding them, and I was relieved when Val and Griff stepped in and lifted their drinks from my arms. I was trying to use my stomach to leverage the last two drinks into the table when I felt a hand on my arm.
“Can I borrow Tessa for a minute? I want to ask her something about a patient of mine who’s struggling with reading.” Grant lifted the remaining two bottles from my arms, setting them on the table and guiding me away by the elbow before anyone had time to protest.
We continued walking without pause, out the door and around one side of The Dancing Glass. Then Grant stopped walking and let go of me. “Is the kid having problems with comprehension or fluency?” I asked quizzically.
“What? There’s no kid.” Grant ran his hand through his hair, looking agitated. “I just wanted to say, this is bullshit.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, so I stood, staring at him wide eyed and silent.
“I called you.”
He had. Never texted, only called, which had felt like a sign, since I avoided talking on the phone at all costs.
“You didn’t answer.”
“I really hate telephones,” I explained, though I knew it wasn’t a reasonable explanation.
Grant rubbed his face tiredly. It was dark on the side of the building where we stood, but his blue eyes glowed in what little light reflected. “I tried to call you. I went to all my parents’ stupid parties thinking I’d run into you. You don’t get to blow me off for months and then say ‘ sorry .’”
I leaned against the wall, my shoulders sagging, biting back the impulse to apologize again. “Instead of sorry, can I say thank you?”
His nose crinkled as if he were considering something odious, his gut reaction a clear no . “For what?”
“Claire and Emily were terrible to you after…you know. You could’ve told them it was me and they wouldn’t have flown off the handle like that.”
“You wouldn’t have wanted that.”
“No,” I agreed. “There were always a hundred different reasons why I shouldn’t be with you, and after we were caught there were a hundred and one.”
Grant propped his hand on one side of my head, which brought him closer while still preserving some distance. “Tell me the reasons,” he said roughly.
He looked like he was ready to hear a laundry list of reasons he wasn’t good enough. “Well, for starters, I think you’ve had a crush on my sister for, like, ever.”
Grant shook his head, frowning. “I wasn’t especially interested in Claire—I barely knew Claire—I just always thought she was the kind of woman who would complement my personality very well.”
“And she’s beautiful,” I added.
That face again—it was as if he were shrugging my comments off with a simple twitch of his eyebrows. “She is, but so are you. More so,” he said as if this were an objective fact.
“Well, my mother thinks you’re a fated pair,” I said flatly.
Grant sighed, sounding impatient, his elbow crooking just enough to bring our faces within inches. “First of all, your sister seems perfectly happy with Hudson North—whom I’m beginning to think is a pretty good guy—and your mother only cares about one thing, and it isn’t getting me and Claire together.”
Hudson was a good guy, considering he’d seen my face when he walked in on Grant and me having sex and he’d told no one, but the second half of Grant’s sentence drew my attention more. “What does my mom care about?” I asked cautiously.
“Getting your sister home. She wants you all here in Bridgeport, and setting me up with Claire was her best shot at bringing her home. Looking back, she basically said as much the night she told me I should pursue her. I didn’t realize at the time, but it seems pretty clear now. She even told me if Claire and I ended up dating, she’d need my help to find someone for Emily next.”
“Oh,” I said. My mother’s motivations had never occurred to me, and though I might like to see Claire and Emily move closer, it stung to realize I wasn’t enough for my mom and never would be. I didn’t want to focus on that, though, so I continued my list. “You’re my doctor,” I said. “Wouldn’t that be a conflict of interest?”
“I’m not your doctor.”
“You are,” I insisted, though it was possible he was right.
“I’ve been back home for sixteen months, working with my dad, and I’ve never seen you at the office.”
Well, yeah. I was twenty-five. How often was I supposed to need the doctor? “I haven’t been sick,” I said. “But your dad was my doctor and he’s handing his patients over to you, right? I got a letter about it.”
Grant rolled his eyes, but his lips had twitched up into that lopsided grin I liked. “He’s only handing some over to me. You can remain my father’s patient. He won’t be retiring fully for awhile.”
My nose curled. “That’s just as bad. What if I need some sort of check-up that requires me to be naked? Then you and your dad will have both seen my boobs.”
Grant laughed—that same barking one that caught me off guard the first time he’d done it, when I told him he looked like a White Walker. I wasn’t expecting the laugh this time either, but I’d closed my eyes and imagined him laughing so many times in the past few months that it wasn’t even surprising anymore. “I’ll refer you to Dr. Gwynn. She’s great, and only a town over. You’ll love her, just don’t tell anyone else about her. Sound good?” He was still smiling, his face hovering a couple inches from mine, and I could imagine leaning in to kiss him, just as I had twice before. I didn’t, though. Not when I knew any sort of relationship was off the table.
“I don’t get sick very often,” I replied. He was still smiling. My eyes were on the gentle curve of his lips as they closed the distance and found mine, and then I lost myself in his kiss.