Chapter 13
Grant was furious with himself for wrecking everything with that stupid, impulsive kiss.
He berated himself whenever he thought of Madeline—which was every few minutes, it seemed—as the rest of the week, then the weekend, then the month wore on.
Each day seemed bleaker than the one before, with nothing but unending work stretching into the future.
What had he been thinking? He’d met the first person he felt some semblance of connection to and curiosity about in more than a year, and what did he do?
Acted like a hormone-addled teenager. Idiot!
Unfortunately, his genuine regret and sincere wish that he could yank the moment back couldn’t block another truth.
Whenever his brain took a break from recriminations, it liked to replay the moment with Madeline in torturous detail.
The hint of patchouli and sandalwood her skin gave off.
It had driven him deliciously crazy all night while they visited—and seemed like the sexiest smell in the world to him.
Holly always favored sweet, candy-like scents, which Grant had really liked and thought were his thing.
He was surprised and titillated to realize he could like something else. Maybe even like it more.
The warm receptiveness of Madeline’s mouth and brazen tongue.
The sensation of her body softening and melding to his.
And worst—best?—of all: how for that brief, surging time, their desire had been mutual and all-consuming.
But he’d been so damn lonely—a fact he could only see now that he’d experienced that loneliness alleviated, however briefly, by Madeline’s company.
He’d happily rewind the clock, forgo that amazing kiss, just to .
. . what? To have her to talk to. To benefit from her empathetic ear and gentle teasing.
To not face every day alone with no one but Grover for company.
Poor dog. Grant knew how sick he was of himself.
Grover, cheerful by nature, must find him really hard to bear, day in, day out.
He was also ashamed that he’d unloaded his confusion and grief about Holly, along with some of his sadness and anger over his dad’s passing, onto Madeline.
She’d revealed she’d lost her husband, daughter, and sister in a car accident, which explained the well of pain he sensed in her, but no specific details.
He would’ve happily tried to shoulder some of her burdens—but hadn’t wanted to press, knowing how it felt when people poked and prodded your tenderest bits like they were mere conversation fodder.
Now, though, he felt he’d gained more from meeting her than she would ever get in return.
Thus, his mind cycled in a constant loop as he worked.
That was the only benefit of his whole pathetic almost-makes-a-friend-then-blows-it debacle: that he’d been working—apologies to Grover—like a dog.
The weather had cooperated, and there was finally a vehicle-wide path from the main driveway to the first bay of the two-bay shop.
Still not good enough for the insurance company, but at least the recent photos he’d provided had gotten them to promise an interim policy once both bays and all of the house’s entranceways were accessible.
Even better, they’d renew the interim policy annually with the caveat—and continued photo evidence—that the other features they had issues with were being addressed.
Grant spoke to the freckle-faced kid who always seemed to be on shift when he got his daily burger—choosing an alternate route to the diner that took longer but had the advantage of not driving past The Second Chance Shop.
And for three days in a row, he chased off a group of door-to-door canvassers trying to raise funds for some youth event—feeling bad at first because they were nice people with good intentions, but with increasing rudeness, then outright hostility when they wouldn’t take the hint.
Other than that, he hadn’t spoken to another person since Madeline had left his tiny home.
He’d wondered if he should stop by to see her, but his nerve always failed him.
Besides, she’d been very clear that she didn’t want to see him in any capacity, friends or . . . anything else.
At one point, craving human voices, he turned on “Happy,” a podcast he’d recently started listening to because the creators promised that “anyone and everyone” could become happier.
He was skeptical but figured, at the very least, listening to it shouldn’t make him unhappier.
And so far, it was usually all right. In less pessimistic moments, he even thought he might be successfully brainwashed into a regular state of something slightly better than flat-out morose.
Today’s guest speaker, however, was talking about anger and saying that often the angry person wasn’t really angry; they were sad—but that lots of people felt more comfortable expressing anger than sorrow. Blah, blah, blah—
“Thanks, Captain Obvious,” Grant muttered after about three minutes. “I hope you didn’t pay for a degree to achieve that bit of genius.”
He also hoped his tablet wasn’t damaged when he pretty much punched it to stop the nagging voice. Was anybody ever actually helped by this drivel?
Finally, as July rolled around, he found his groove again, realizing that Madeline had unintentionally done him a favor.
The only thing you could depend on in this life was that people were undependable.
They sent out mixed signals or disappointed you in big or small ways.
Sometimes it was intentional. They let you down or betrayed you out of cruelty or indifferent narcissism, like Holly.
Other times, perhaps even oftentimes, it was unwitting, like in Madeline’s case, and there was no casual meanness or callous disregard involved at all.
They’d been hurt or scarred, so were battle-weary and wary too.
Besides, while he found Madeline interesting and definitely attractive—because he had eyes and a pulse, after all—it wasn’t like he had anything remotely like feelings for her.
It was for the best that they’d come to their senses before heading down a road Grant knew too well and ended with him being decimated again.
Even friendships held too much risk. He didn’t let himself dig too deeply into that last thought, knowing full well he’d have a hard time convincing his actual brain that something like friendship was a waste.