CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LINA
O nce my breakdown fades, and I realize I’m standing in the entryway of Grant’s apartment as he keeps his arms tightly wrapped around me, embarrassment I rarely ever feel sets in.
The longer I stand here with him, the more I pick up on his continual movements. How every so often his hands trail up and down in a comforting motion, and how after that, he threads one of his hands through my hair, smoothing his fingers down the back of my head.
It dawns on me how utterly obvious it is that he has two sisters. No man would be able to comfort someone so seamlessly without the right amount of training—the type I know Abby and Claire both instilled in him.
Behind the jock athlete who puts on the front of an asshole playboy stands a man who grew up drawing circles and elements from the periodic table on his sisters’ backs and wiping their tears gently from their cheeks.
The desire to cry is something I want completely cleared from my mind. And now that I’ve realized how embarrassing it is that I cried in my friend with a lowercase f ’s arms, it’s become a foreign entity, and my eyes have dried completely.
When I pull slightly away from him, no longer soaking the fabric of his sweatshirt, he glances down at me.
And just like that, I’m undone all over again.
Because it’s not fair, really. It’s not fair that he gets to look at me like I’m something precious when every cell in my body is already warring against feeling too much.
I wish I could resist him. God, I wish I could.
I wish I could see him for what he so desperately wants everyone else to—the cocky, too-good-looking-for-his-own-good fuckboy who doesn’t take anything seriously, least of all a girl’s heart.
I wish I could tuck myself back into the version of him that’s easier to hate. Easier to survive. Easier to leave.
But standing here, wrapped in his arms, breathing in the scent of laundry detergent and worn cotton and him, I know better.
I know the truth. The one he keeps hidden behind bad jokes and cocky smirks and the gleam of more in his eyes.
I know the boy who learned tenderness before he learned detachment. The boy who knows how to catch someone when they fall because he’s done it a hundred times before. The boy who holds me like I’m not a burden.
Like I’m something he’s proud to carry.
And it wrecks me.
“I wish you were mean to me,” I find myself telling him, against every other instinct I have.
“Yeah?” Grant almost laughs, like he thinks I’m kidding.
I swallow around the lump in my throat. “Yeah.”
“Why is that?”
“I know we’re friends, and I’m glad, but it felt easier before— when I thought you were being an asshole.”
Then I could be infuriated with him, just like I momentarily was when we first met.
I could shove him into a box labeled “mistake” and tape it up tight and never look back.
Instead, he stands here, holding me like I’m something breakable.
“I get it—I do—but Lina, I never meant to be mean to you,” he says, barely above a whisper.
“I know, I know. You told me I was too pretty to be at Yale. I took it as an insult and overreacted.”
“I wish I would have known you better then, because I would have told you what I know now—that you are the smartest person I’ve ever met, and somehow, still the one I can’t stop looking at.”
Grant’s words land with the kind of weight I’m not prepared to hold, saddling on my chest like a sandbag.
“You don’t mean that,” I say, already trying to outrun the way it makes me feel.
“I didn’t know you like I do now, and I had nothing to compliment you on other than what I did know.
At that moment, the only thing I did know was that I felt like I couldn’t breathe when I looked at you.
” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck.
“I was trying to be nice to you, Lina. Clearly, it’s not something I’m the most well-versed in. ”
“Don’t use this as an excuse to brag about how often girls throw themselves at you and that’s why you have no social skills,” I joke, as a poor attempt at ignoring how my chest feels as though it’s caving in on itself.
Then, quietly, he says, “You’re the only person I’ve ever tried with. That’s gotta count for something.”
That smile never leaves his lips, and it makes my breath catch. It’s not sweet in a disarming way, but instead in a way that says, “You could ruin me, and I would let you.”
And whether he’s just disgustingly perfect, or if that is just what he’s trying to convey, my heart is halfway to thinking the exact same thing.
“I’m sorry for being an asshole,” he adds after a beat.
“I’m sorry for being a bitch.”
He shrugs. “Meh. It’s kind of our thing: I’m an asshole, you’re a bitch. It works.”
The corners of my mouth tug up.
“It works,” I agree softly. Too softly. Like the words aren’t really about insults anymore, but something heavier. Something closer to the truth.
The truth is that we work.
Grant’s eyes stay locked on mine, serious in a way that makes it impossible to breathe right.
“You want to stay tonight?” he asks, voice low.
It’s not loaded. Not some innuendo like he would’ve made back when we first met. It’s a simple offer. An open door.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Without another word, he takes my hand, tugging me gently toward the living room, where a forgotten game of Madden is still playing itself out. He picks up the controller, and when he goes to shut it off, I shake my head, stopping him.
“Go ahead,” I tell him when he looks back over at me. “You can keep playing.”
“You sure?”
“Not like I’m going to be sleeping anytime soon, anyway.”
When he nods, I make myself comfortable on the couch, pulling the blanket off the back of it and curling up against the armrest while Grant settles beside me.
Every so often, I can feel him glance over at me, like he’s making sure I’m still okay—still here. And every time he does, I feel that same stupid wrecked feeling crawl back up my spine. Warm. Full. Terrifying.
Tonight was the first time I’ve ever cried about my mom in front of anyone—the first time I’ve really broken down.
I don’t know whether I find comfort in Grant because he knows what it’s like to grieve for a mother, or if it’s because he’s become my friend. Either way, I think there’s something to be said about the fact that he’s the one I find myself seeking.
I try to pay attention for a bit while Grant plays Madden, quietly asking questions and nodding along. But eventually, I let my eyes drift closed. Not to sleep, but to lie here comfortably.
And after a moment, I feel Grant reach out to rest a hand on my back, scratching lightly up and down. I peek my eyes open the tiniest bit to see that he’s still playing the game, his other hand on the controller.
“How are you doing that?” I whisper, impressed with his obvious display of dexterity.
Grant smiles. “My sisters.”
“They made you scratch their backs while you played video games?” I laugh just imagining it.
“Lina, I’m not exaggerating when I tell you they made me scratch their backs any chance they got. It’s probably going to take up ninety percent of my time when we’re all home for Christmas.”
“That’s cute,” I murmur, smiling into the couch cushion, feeling the smallest, strangest kind of peace settle in my chest.
“Don’t tell anyone,” he says, nudging my foot with his. “I have a reputation to protect.”
I hum, letting my eyes drift closed again. “Your secret’s safe with me.”