CHAPTER SIXTEEN
LINA
I t’s been a few days since the Halloween party, and I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t woken up in Grant Vandenberg’s bed feeling absolutely mortified.
I left his house after being stirred awake by the sound of his bedroom door creaking open and the view of Savannah Sinclair peeking her head past the doorframe. With Grant still sound asleep next to me, I knew I had to get the hell out of there.
She was still in her Halloween costume, too. The one I heard people murmuring about throughout the party because of how hot she looked.
And of course, it made the most sense in the world that she was dressed as Cupid. With a gold corset embroidered with gems and a light pink skirt. She also had hearts all over her, knee-high stockings, and, obviously, Cupid’s arrow.
The look on her face said it all—wide eyes, parted lips, like she wasn’t expecting me to be the one in his bed. And I don’t think she was there to make sure Grant was sleeping alright.
All around, it was awkward.
If Savannah sneaking into Grant’s room for a five a.m. fuck was commonplace, I never wanted to know about it. Nor did I want to be present for it.
Which is why I stood up, pulled my silk robe on from the night before, and walked right past her, down the stairs, and out the door. A walk of shame almost as bad as when I had to be wheeled out of the hospital to Grant’s car.
She tried to talk to me as I passed her, to apologize, telling me to stay, but I had seen enough.
It wasn’t even about her at that point. I knew from the few encounters I’d had with her how utterly sweet she was. It was about the fact that I was clearly interrupting something between her and Grant, and that felt wrong.
With plans of never thinking of my Halloween spent under Grant’s sheets—or the way I was woken by his fuck buddy standing in the doorway ever again—I threw myself into school, drowned myself in lectures, and had successfully avoided Grant for three whole days.
Until today, when I’m almost through ordering my breakfast wrap at the student union, in between my economics and International Law class, only to hear a familiar voice come up behind me.
“Didn’t think you were a hash brown girl.”
I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. Grant Vandenberg has that signature drawl in his voice—lazy, cocky, and annoyingly warm. My spine stiffens, fingers tightening around the coffee I haven’t even taken a sip of yet.
“Didn’t think you were the type to talk to girls after they leave your bed.” I turn slowly.
He looks a similar kind of frustratingly good every time I see him. I’m almost positive it’s because he just got done with football practice. With a gray hoodie slung over one shoulder and his hair still damp, with a few ringlets falling down his forehead.
“Is that why you left without saying anything?” His smile falters, just a flicker, before he leans in slightly.
“That,” I say, my tone sharp, “and the surprise guest appearance from Savannah Sinclair.”
His jaw twitches. He didn’t even seem shocked to hear that Savannah has been in his room, and that tells me everything I need to know about what transpired after I left. “She wasn’t?—”
“Don’t,” I say, holding up a hand. I press it directly over his mouth, effectively cutting off anything else he tries to add.
All he does is grin, and it completely infuriates me, which is the only reason I rip my hand off his face and drop it back down at my side.
“Whatever she was or wasn’t there for, it’s not my business.”
Grant’s not my boyfriend. He doesn’t owe me an explanation.
“Lina—” I side-step him when my order is called.
“I don’t care, Grant.”
I know he’s following me because a chill runs down my spine from the brush of hot air when he audibly sighs. And when I take a seat at one of the many tables, he doesn’t hesitate to sit across from me.
“You still can’t sleep, can you?”
I look up from my wrap, confusion lacing my face. “What?”
“Meredith has been talking to Braxton, and she’s worried about you. Says that you don’t go to sleep until late at night, and everyone’s worried about you getting up at ungodly hours to go on runs again.”
This is exactly why I didn’t want everyone to know about ‘the incident,’ as they’ve been so subtly referring to it as. It’s too much to explain. My going to the hospital caused everyone to surround me in panic.
I blink, stunned by the pivot. “You’ve got Meredith and Braxton tracking my sleep schedule now?”
His brows form a V, arms crossing over his chest like he’s the one who should be offended. “No—well, it’s more Eden. I hear about it from Meredith and Braxton. You’ve got friends who care about you and are worried you’re running yourself into the ground.”
“I’m not.” I take a bite of my wrap to prove how fine I am, chewing like it’s the most casual thing in the world and not a cover for the storm raging behind my eyes. “I don’t even know why it would matter to you so much.”
What I don’t say is, ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground for a lot longer than you’ve been aware of.’
“Are you doing drugs?” he asks outright.
I start to laugh, but when the serious expression covering his face stays fully intact, I stop, confusion overcoming me. “What?”
“Are you doing drugs? Is that why you’re not sleeping? Why you had the seizure? I never heard anything about a tox screen at the hospital.”
“No. Grant, what the hell?” I stare at him, thrown. “You don’t see me for more than three days, and you immediately assume I’m strung out?”
He leans forward, eyes locked on mine like he’s trying to catch me in a lie. “If you are, you need to tell me.” His voice sounds a bit desperate now. “I can help.”
“I’m not on anything.”
“You’re not sleeping. You have been running at insane hours until you pass out and have a seizure. I’m not making this up.”
“Grant.” I lean forward in the same way he did. “I’m not doing drugs. My sleep schedule has been messed up ever since my mom’s funeral. Like the doctor said, it was my body’s reaction to pure exhaustion.”
“What do you mean your sleep schedule has been messed up?”
My shoulders hitch. “It just has been, but it’s not a big deal.”
“You slept fine at my house.”
“I was drunk.”
“So, what? You get drunk so you can go to sleep?”
I scoff. “It was one time. Don’t act like it’s part of my bedtime routine.”
The alcohol in my system must have made it easier for me to let my guard down, but it’s not like I drank with the intention of falling asleep afterward.
Grant exhales hard through his nose, the edge in his posture finally easing. “Okay. Sorry.”
“Did you just apologize?” My stunned expression makes him frown.
“I didn’t mean to come at you like that. I just—Eden’s worried. Mer’s worried, which is making Braxton worried. And yeah, maybe I’m a little worried too.”
“Well, don’t be.” I cross my arms over my chest, using the motion as armor.
“You slept at my place.”
“I was drunk,” I repeat. “Remember?”
“Yeah, but you slept.” His voice drops, softens in that way that makes me instantly want to bristle. “For probably the first real time since they gave you a sedative in the hospital.”
“What’s your point?”
“Maybe you could try it again. Not the drinking part—just… sleep. At my place.”
The amount of vulnerability that would involve makes my skin crawl.
“Are you serious?”
“It’s just a suggestion,” he says quickly, hands up like he’s warding off a blow. “No strings. No Savannah. Just… sleep. You can even lock the door if that helps.”
It does help.
And it shouldn’t .
Because what happens if I fall asleep beside him again? What happens if I start to feel safe in a space that isn’t mine? What happens if history repeats itself?
“I’m not a stray cat, Grant. I don’t need to be taken in.” I’m also not willing to risk another Savannah Sinclair run-in. If she wants to be the one in Grant’s bed, I’m not going to stand in her way.
“Didn’t say you did. But if you’re not sleeping anyway…”
I shake my head, picking at the wrapper on my breakfast. “I’ll think about it.”
“Okay.” His voice is low and non-pushy. “It’s just an offer.”
Even without looking up, I can feel him watching me, like he’s trying not to press his luck. He stands slowly, chair scraping back against the tile. I think he’s going to leave it at that, but then his voice cuts through the air again.
“And for the record,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets, “I consider you a friend, Lina. Not, like… a capital F kind of friend, but still.”
“Oh, I’m just friend enough for you to beg me to sleep in your bed?”
He flashes that crooked grin that always seems about one smirk away from getting him punched. “What can I say? I must have a soft spot for bitchy insomniacs.”
Okay, I do have to hold back my laugh at that before replying, “Gee. Thanks.”
“Just wanted to clear that up before you go writing in your diary about how I’m in love with you or something.”
I roll my eyes. “Trust me, I’m not worried.”
“Good,” he says. “Sleep on it.”
“If I could sleep on it, there would be nothing to decide.”
Grant backs away with a wink, and then he’s gone.
Sauntering out like he didn’t just drag my entire past into the present with a single conversation.
And I sit there, heart racing because I know what I want.
I want to sleep again. I want to believe that this time, the person next to me won’t get up and wreck me while I’m dreaming.
But that’s the problem with wanting.
It makes you hope.
And hoping is just another form of sleep.
Soft, sweet, and one breath away from being broken.