CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
LINA
G rant has been a pain in my ass ever since I talked to him in the Union on Monday.
Not only because he’s still extremely worried, but also because he seems to believe he has the solution to all of my problems.
As if his bed is some type of magical force—the only thing that can effectively get me to sleep.
I’ve told him a hundred times that the only reason I slept in his bed the night of Halloween was because of how drunk I was, and if he really wanted to help me sleep, the only way he could do that is if I were to come over and get shitfaced every night.
Just what I need. An alcohol addiction.
He doesn’t seem convinced, though. He is insistent on the fact that I should try out his bed again.
And because of that fact, my roommates have all formed a collective alliance with the one and only Grant Vandenberg—who has been showing up in our apartment sometime after dinner for the past three days.
“Are you going to sleep on the couch tonight?” I ask sarcastically when I open the front door.
Broad shoulders fill the doorway as his brown eyes bore into me. He’s wearing sweats, matching the navy quarter-zip he has on, and his hair is tousled, like he’s run his hands through it one too many times.
He’s also doing that thing guys do where they lean against the doorway and cross their arms. I’m not sure if it’s meant to be intimidating, but either way, it’s yet another thing I’m glad to have solidified in my eidetic memory.
Grant gives me a look. One I shouldn’t find as attractive as I do. “I will if that means you’re not going to go running in the middle of the night.”
“I haven’t gone running since I got out of the hospital. That was over two weeks ago.”
“Yeah, but you’re still not sleeping.”
“How would you know?” I challenge.
“All the girls tell me they hear you pacing in the middle of the night.” He points out. “So, you’re not exactly making the best case for why you don’t need my help.”
Okay, so I have been pacing the confines of my room in the middle of the night, but only because lying still feels impossible when my brain starts spinning. I don’t see the problem in moving my body in order to stop my brain from running laps all on its own.
“It’s not something I can turn off, Grant.
My body has been programmed to barely sleep for the past year.
Maybe longer.” I let out a exasperated sound, pulling my crewneck back into place when it slips off my shoulder.
“Oh, and by the way, it’s really annoying that you’ve been meeting up with my friends at lunch to discuss my business.
“A year of barely any sleep?” he muses. “All the more reason your body must be begging you to go to bed.”
“Not how that works.” I return back to the living room with Grant following closely behind. “And I don’t like when people try to change the subject.” Even though it’s my number one tactic.
He sighs. “I’ve been going to lunch with Braxton and the girls because we all have classes that end at the same time near the courtyard while you’re in your Global Health class. Not because I’ve been trying to undermine you.”
“Tell me again how I’m supposed to be able to sleep next to you and your giant savior complex.”
“Come on,” he urges, taking a seat next to me on the couch. “Just imagine how good a full night of sleep would feel. Just like on Halloween.”
I have imagined it. In fact, it’s the one thing I envy every night for the first few hours when I try to sleep.
“Oh yes, Grant, because your bed is so magic. ” I pretend to fawn, waving a hand in front of my face like I’m cooling a blush. “Plus, I can’t get that great of sleep when your hookups are knocking down the door before six a.m.”
He rolls his eyes. “I would make sure that wouldn’t happen again, and you know it. Regardless, even waking up at five would give you way more sleep than what you’re getting now.”
Thinking about the two, maybe three, hours of sleep I have been managing causes a yawn to seize my body. I withhold it the best I can, but from the way he smiles, I know Grant caught on.
It makes me even more angry.
“Don’t you have enough girls trying to get in your bed?” My voice is harsh.
Grant doesn’t flinch. He’s used to me being overly abrasive toward him, and I kind of hate him for it. “Yeah, but now I’m more worried about getting a certain girl into any bed. To sleep. ”
“I’m not your charity case, Grant.”
Normally, this would be the point where I get up off the couch and walk into my bedroom, putting a door between us. I don’t want to have this conversation.
But I know I can’t do that because I know I owe Grant more than I care to admit. He was there for me when my own body wasn’t. He made sure I was okay. He stayed with me. And I don’t think I can punish him for wanting to continue doing that.
I don’t want to slap the hand that pulled me out of the fire.
Yet, I can’t shake the fear of the type of vulnerability that it would take to sleep next to someone. Because I’m well aware it has the ability to undo me entirely.
Just like it did after Gage.
When my mom died, he stayed with me every night until I fell asleep. That was back when I could sleep.
That all ended when I found him having sex with my best friend in the same bed he had lulled me to sleep in the night before. In my bedroom. During my mom’s wake. Days after her death.
Somehow, the person who held me through it all managed to prove that even in my most vulnerable, unguarded state, I couldn’t trust anyone to stay.
So, yeah, falling asleep next to someone feels less like peace and more like walking back into a house I’ve already watched burn down.
“I know that,” he responds. “I’m not here because I think I have to be. I’m here because I can’t handle the idea of something happening to you and me not being there to help.”
Grant doesn’t know all of it, though. Not really.
He knows the vague pieces: my mom, the breakup, and the fact that I don’t sleep much. But not the way it all connects. Not how one betrayal rewired the way I process closeness. How sleep feels less like rest and more like a dare.
“Why do you care?” I ask sharply, not being able to help myself.
I’m not exactly the poster child for being the most emotionally intelligent. My feelings usually arrive in sharp bursts I don’t always understand, like a weather forecast I forget to check.
With that being said, I’m not good at understanding other people’s emotions either. I can’t comprehend why Grant would care about whether something happens to me. Not when I’ve brushed him off the way I have.
I can only assume he has his own reasons. Ones that aren’t for me to know.
“It’s hard for me to not to,” he says, running his hands through his messy brown hair. “I tend to be a worst-case scenario type of person.”
I keep my eyes on him. “Why would my worst-case scenario be your responsibility?”
He stiffens. “Because if there’s something I can do to help—to keep it from happening—then I want to. I’m what most people would call a doomsday prepper . I try to do as much damage control as possible. And if I’m being truthful, I’ve been tearing myself up over what happened to you.”
My face downturns. I can see it now. The way he reacts in every situation is equivalent to someone who is desperately trying to keep people out of harm's way.
The glass on the kitchen floor. When I was puking in his backyard. Him fixing our laundry shelf.
Me passing out and seizing in front of him must have been his worst nightmare.
It makes me feel guilty, but I also can’t push past my own issues to take up his offer. I know what it’s like to need somebody in my most vulnerable state, and that’s not a position I’m willing to put myself in again.
“I don’t need you to do damage control on my behalf.”
“Too bad. I’m not going to stand by and let you work your body to the bone again and again when I’ve already witnessed it happen once.”
“It’s not your job,” I say stubbornly.
“I’m not asking for a job. I’m asking for you to let me help . Just like I did on Halloween. Why can’t you accept that?”
This conversation is going in circles, and I can’t stand it. This has already been tough for me, trying to understand Grant’s perspective and not completely disregard his feelings.
But it’s glaringly obvious that he will continue with the same point, drilling it into the ground over and over again, no matter what I respond with. He wants everything to go his way. I’ve known this about him.
Which is why I stand up from the couch and walk into my bedroom. “Goodnight, Grant.” I have no problem being avoidant of conversations I want no part of.
I start my nightly routine of pretending that I’m getting ready for bed. I change into pajamas. Brush my teeth. Wash my face.
And once I’m safely under the covers, staring straight up at the ceiling while I try not to let the floodgate holding back all of my overwhelming thoughts collapse, there’s a knock at the door.
I don’t even say “come in” before it’s creaking open, which gives me a good indicator that it’s probably one of the girls.
“Lina?” Kara’s voice whispers through the dark.
I sit up slightly. “Yeah?”
She steps further into the room, shutting the door as I turn on my bedside lamp.
“Are you actually going to sleep, or just pretending because Grant is making himself comfortable on our couch?” Kara sits on the foot of my bed.
“What do you think?” I ask, leaning back against my headboard.
“I think what you’re doing isn’t working, and if he’s offering to help you, you should let him.”
“What is he going to do to help me sleep? Knock me out?”
“Well, if that’s all it would take, then I could do that,” she jokes before her face sobers again. “I’m being serious, Lina. If it’s worked once, it seems realistic to try it again. It’s bad enough that you went to the hospital out of pure exhaustion. Do you seriously want that to happen again?”
“It’s out of my control, Kar.”