Chapter 8 #2
When he offers nothing further, Grace makes a mental note—that’s two Caldwell siblings who seem to have beef with Easton. It’s curious, though, because having a framed picture of someone in your house doesn’t exactly scream mortal enemy.
Thighs starting to burn, Grace finally surrenders and stands, stuffing her hands into her pockets and walking awkwardly into the safety of the center of the room.
It’s as though she can’t be too close to any one thing—his pictures, his furniture, him.
With every little directionless step she takes, Crew watches her with slightly narrowed eyes.
There’s no judgment in them, at least from what she can see.
It’s just…curiosity. Like she’s some kind of puzzle with no picture on the box to guide him in piecing things together.
She purses her lips, eyes scanning the room.
“This is a nice place,” she says, because she can’t think of anything else to say to fill up the silence.
She’s never been one to talk just for the sake of talking, but she’s…
unnerved. Really, she should head out. At this rate, the longer she stands in his space, the higher the odds are that she’ll stick her foot directly into her mouth.
“Thanks,” he replies. “I can’t take much credit for it.”
“No?” She chances a look in his direction, then feigns shock and asks, “You mean you’re not an interior designer in your spare time?”
Crew’s smile returns, this time with teeth.
It’s a sight to behold, the crookedness that overcomes his mouth when he fully grins.
It humanizes him in a way nothing else does, bringing him back down to earth to stand among the mortals.
Grace has to look away, but now she’s smiling, too. “Was it your mom?”
From the corner of her eye, she sees him shake his head. “My sister. She moved in here when my grandfather died. Forced my dad to give up his credit card for a few months while she swapped out the gun safes and stag heads for all of this.” His eyes dance around the room.
“Safes, as in plural?” Grace replies, amused.
Crew chuckles. “I think he had one in every closet.”
“A man who liked to stay prepared,” she muses.
“Oh, that’s not even the half of it.” He points at a door on the opposite side of the house, past the little kitchenette. “There’s a half-completed doomsday bunker in the backyard.”
Grace barks out a laugh. “What was his nonperishable of choice?”
Crew grimaces. “Black-eyed peas.”
“Hey,” she counters. “There’s decent protein in those. Gotta be strategic in the apocalypse.”
“You spend a lot of time thinking about the apocalypse?”
Grace snorts. “Among other things.”
Unconsciously, she’s made her way back toward the wall of pictures and knickknacks.
She lands on one of Renata, young and suntanned in a flowy pink dress, sitting in a lounge chair with an easy smile on her face.
At the edge of the chair, leaning back onto her mother’s legs, is the same little girl from the tub.
School-aged Caia’s brown hair is roughly chopped, almost like she took a pair of scissors to it herself.
Her smile is wide, and her two front teeth are notably absent.
“Why’d she leave?” Grace asks before she can think better of it.
Something about this night—this chaotic, ridiculous night—has honest, bald curiosity bubbling up her throat until she can’t help but let it free.
When Crew doesn’t answer for a beat, she turns toward him, embarrassment creeping up into her cheeks and turning them hot.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “It’s none of my business.”
Crew shakes his head. “It’s fine,” he says, but his smile has once again transformed into something much less bright and warm.
There’s a sadness twisting his mouth now, and it has seeped into his eyes, too.
“She left for the same reasons we all did. Change of scenery. A chance to be just another face in a crowd. To put some distance between her and the Caldwell dynasty.” The last words come out a touch derisively; Crew looks past Grace to stare at the picture that sparked her curiosity.
“She’s a VP at a software company in New York now. ”
With a slow nod, Grace says, “That’s impressive.”
“Yeah,” Crew agrees. “Always been a real go-getter.”
“And you?” An internal, exasperated sigh looses in her belly at the question. Good God on a hot dog, Grace Louise. Stop giving this man the third degree.
But Crew just chuckles, shaking his head. “I can confidently say I’m the least worldly of the three of us. Getting deployed was the only time I’ve ever left the country.”
“If it makes you feel any better,” Grace counters, rocking back onto her heels, “I’ve never left the state.
” She admits this to him without considering the implications—he already knows her background, and that the company she kept until recently was less than desirable.
But continuing to paint the picture of her past, sharpening it with details like the one she just shared—she wonders if he’ll pity her.
But the look in his eyes doesn’t speak to pity, or shock, or anything, really. He’s simply giving her the opportunity to elaborate, and when she doesn’t, he offers a lighthearted shrug. “Well, Texas is as good as it gets, in my opinion.”
It’s a lifeline. An easy out. Grace gives him an appreciative nod. “Good to know.”
Boone lets out a heavy sigh from his place on the couch—all their yammering is disrupting his nap. At the sound, Crew’s head swings around to look at the dog, and he rolls his eyes.
“He’s become very dramatic in his old age.”
Boone’s eyes dart to Crew, and Grace doesn’t know if it’s possible, but it looks like Boone then rolls his eyes in response. A beat of silence passes between Grace and Crew, both staring lovingly at the dog as he drifts back to sleep.
Then Crew faces her again, and he must have some want or need to level the playing field, because he asks, “Was your family from Texas originally?”
She knows he isn’t asking about Bellamy.
And though he’s just being kind and offering the same curiosity she’s badgered him with all evening, Grace can’t help the physical reaction that comes when anyone asks or talks about her family.
A crater-size hole in her gut throbs; the back of her neck begins to feel warm.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes falling to the floor, to the supremely dirty boots that she should’ve taken off at the door.
He doesn’t say anything in response, but he keeps his eyes on her, patiently waiting for more.
Grace clears her throat, figuring she owes him at least a morsel of detail after everything he’s supplied.
Grace swallows, and her saliva tastes like battery acid.
She has to stop herself from recoiling as it stings her throat.
“Bellamy is my mom’s older brother. She grew up at Braxton. My dad was from somewhere close to Lubbock.” She can only hope Crew doesn’t probe that statement further; the last thing Grace wants to talk about right now is her father.
Crew must sense it, because he pivots with an earnest, unexpected follow-up question: “Were you ever happy there? At Braxton?” Grace can feel the lines of her face hardening.
A rush of cold envelops her heart. With his voice rawer than before, Crew adds, “There had to be something to live for, right?”
Like an old friend, grief waves at her as it settles beside, around, and within her.
It must’ve missed her, for how strongly it’s attaching itself to every fiber of her being right now.
Grace takes a deep breath, psyching herself up to broach this topic.
If she doesn’t say something to Crew now, she’s worried the grief will lodge itself in her throat.
“I had a horse. A palomino. She was my birthday present when I turned seventeen, when my uncle was still parading around like some saint, like he was the most benevolent, generous person in the world for taking me in. Her name was Vesta.”
Crew listens without comment, and he keeps his eyes intently focused on her. When he doesn’t say anything in response, Grace finds herself needing to clarify something.
“He sold her to the first buyer willing to take her off his hands. To punish me. I—” Grace’s throat seizes, that painful grief finally moving in. “I don’t know where she is now. I would’ve taken her with me if I could’ve.”
His face falls, his brows pulling together.
Suddenly, he’s standing, walking into her space, and he looks devastated.
As though, somehow, he can feel the sadness that is coursing through her, and he’s taking some of it into himself.
Helping her carry it. “Grace,” he says, his voice painfully soft. “I’m sorry.”
Instinctively, she takes a step back. It’s easier to be farther away, and it’s definitely easier to put this topic to rest sooner rather than later.
“It’s fine,” Grace says quickly, unconvincingly.
“Really.” She looks toward the front door, thinking it looks like a beacon, a port in a storm.
“I should probably get going,” she says, already walking.
She only takes about four steps before Crew says something that stops her in her tracks.
“I know Cooper didn’t trip.”
Grace looks over her shoulder at him. There’s no anger or frustration in his expression—he maintains the evenness he’s had for their whole conversation, tapping his fingers rhythmically against his jean-clad thigh. “I also get why you lied about it.”
Slowly, Grace turns around. Better to face the judgment head-on, chin high.
But his next words aren’t punitive or derisive; his next words surprise her. “Is Waylon okay?”
Grace blinks, schooling her face into something neutral. “He’ll be fine,” she replies, then tilts her head in consideration. “I’ll give him extra cookies tomorrow for not kicking anyone in the face.”
Crew smiles softly. “Charitable bastard.”
“He handled it better than I would have.”
His head tilts slightly. “And Duke?”