CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
GRANT
“ I should have never revealed my talents,” I jokingly groan as I follow Lina through the grocery store a few blocks from campus.
Barely an hour ago, she called me, sounding all innocent while she asked me what I was doing for the rest of the night. I immediately knew she was scheming something from the tone in her voice.
“What do you want?” I had asked.
She laughed lightly, and that was when I heard the three other giggles in the background of the call. It cued me in on the co-conspirators, including all four of the roommates, plus Savannah.
“Do you want ice cream or something?” That’s usually what Meredith calls Braxton for.
After a few seconds where all I could hear was mumbled deliberation, Lina asked, “Will you make us grilled cheeses for dinner?”
And despite the jokes I made complaining about being exploited and becoming their personal chef, the two of us knew all along I couldn’t tell her no.
I grew up with two older sisters, ones who never once hesitated to delegate a chore or two.
Most of them involved things they thought would embarrass me, like buying tampons or a very specific type of girly shampoo.
I’ve known what it’s like to be handed all types of grunt work.
In fact, I’m pretty well-versed in the art of forced errand-running.
That’s how I’ve ended up here, pushing the cart while pointing out the couple of items I would need to make the perfect grilled cheese. I have a strong feeling that this is going to become a common occurrence.
I offered to go to the store by myself to collect what I need, but Lina insisted on coming with me. She wants to know everything I need, probably because it will be easier to con me into late-night grilled cheeses in the future if she already has all the stuff.
“Your talents will be greatly appreciated,” she replies with a smile.
I grin, shaking my head. “You know, I didn’t realize I was signing up to be the unofficial chef of the whole floor.”
Lina laughs, tossing a bag of sharp cheddar that I point out into the cart. “You’re going to run that joke into the ground, aren’t you?”
“I’m sure I’ll get over it,” I say lightheartedly, although she already knows I’m fucking with her. “I’m sure if I still lived with my sisters, I’d be making grilled cheese every night, anyway. Abby has already asked me to come over and make them for her at least ten times.”
“And you do it, don’t you?” she says, one eyebrow raised as she tosses a pack of butter into the cart like she’s making a point.
“Yeah. Of course I do. She’s pregnant; what am I supposed to do? Say no?”
“You’re such a softie,” Lina grins, nudging my shoulder with hers as we move toward the bread aisle.
“Sometimes,” I counter. “Only for people using emotional manipulation tactics.”
It’s part of my nature—taking care of others, making sure the people I care about aren’t carrying more weight than they have to. It all comes back to the same mindset of ‘ maybe I can prevent something from happening if I’m as good to them as I can possibly be.’
“So, all of us,” she says sweetly, grabbing a loaf of sourdough when I point at it.
I side-eye her playfully. “Exactly. Are you sure you don’t want to write this stuff down? I can make you a list of everything I use.”
She shakes her head. “I’ll remember.”
“Of course you will.”
“Seriously, though, thank you.” Lina rubs the sleeve of her sweatshirt between her fingertips. “There’s been a weird feeling in the apartment recently, and I think having other people come over will cut up the monotony of our lives.”
Yeah, tonight will also be the first time I’m staying the night at Lina’s apartment instead of her coming to mine.
It shouldn’t feel significant—but it does. The shift in routine. The fact that her comfort zone is beginning to stretch just enough to make room for me inside of it. Her bed instead of mine, her toothbrush cup, a cluttered living room, and a fridge full of mismatched Tupperware and Diet Coke cans.
The novelty of it all feels romantic in a way I’ve never experienced—one I never thought I could experience until now.
A couple weeks is all it’s taken for Lina to completely upend my routine, in the best way possible.
I’ve been a little lost in my own head lately. Trying not to show it. Trying to hold everything at arm’s length and pretend like that counts as processing.
Tonight might not fix anything. But it’s grilled cheese, noise, and laughter in a room that doesn’t feel like mine. That’s got to count for something.
It’s the push and pull I’ve been trying to force my brain to accept. The new shape my life is starting to take—the parts of me that are hers now, whether I meant to give them or not.
And I’m scared.
Because I’ve never let someone this close without having an exit strategy tucked somewhere behind my ribs.
But over the past couple weeks, Lina and I have worked out what this is between us. A few nights after I picked her up from a party at Savannah’s sorority house, she stumbled out, saying something about how it is possible to get drunk off champagne.
I was so fond of her at that moment—laughing at how adorably drunk she was—that I wasn’t prepared for what she said once I got her into my car.
From the passenger seat of my Aston Martin, she asked, “So, is this a thing now? Or am I just your favorite late-night habit?”
I looked over at her—barefoot, cheeks flushed from champagne, hair falling out of its clip—and I swear, I felt it in my chest.
“You’re not a habit, Lina,” I said softly. “You’re the part of my day I look forward to most.”
I watched the realization settle in her eyes.
And if she hadn’t been drunk, I would’ve told her, " You’ve been it for me long before either of us admitted it."
This isn’t casual. This isn’t a one- or two- or ten-time thing.
This is it for us.
“We should get tomato soup,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and slowing near the canned goods.
“You’re going to make soup and grilled cheese? How lucky am I?” She fans her face dramatically, all enticing.
I shrug, reaching for the can. “I guess I’m on a slippery slope toward being a 1950s housewife.”
She snorts. “We’ll get you a frilly apron and a pearl necklace.”
“Just as long as I get a martini too.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” she says, grinning. “I’ll make sure it’s ready for you when you’re done putting in the work over the stove.”
I let the words wash over me. Let myself bask in the absurdity and comfort of her teasing, the cart rattling beneath my hand, the fluorescent lights, and the distant hum of music overhead.
When we get to the back of the store, I automatically head toward the ice cream, grabbing a gallon of peanut butter half-baked before continuing on my way.
“Did you just—” Lina cuts herself off, seeming stunned. “How did you know that?”
“Braxton buys you guys this ice cream all the time. Of course I know what kind is the household favorite.”
She narrows her eyes like she’s trying to figure out if I’m lying, then lets out a quiet laugh, the kind she tries to hide behind the back of her hand. “Okay, I’m officially impressed.”
“Don’t be. The idea of something as simple as remembering an ice cream flavor makes me feel weirdly guilty—like I’m being rewarded for showing up when that should’ve been the standard all along. “I’m just observant.”
There’s still an ounce of her that seems skeptical. “What kind of man are you? This feels so rare. ”
“You’re so fucking dramatic.” I joke, putting a hand on the back of her head, threading my fingers through her hair, and pulling her alongside me through the rest of the aisle.
She’s looking down at her phone, and once we make it to the self-checkout where I start scanning items, her face downturns, her eyes still glued to the screen.
“What is it?” I ask, bagging the bread and cheese.
“Savannah just sent me the new Notes of New Haven post,” Lina says quietly.
The beep of the scanner fills the quiet between us, but I can still practically hear the gears turning in her head.
“Who’s it about?”
“Kara.”
I glance up at her, trying to gauge her reaction. “What’s it say?”
“ Kara Carr caught doing blow weeks after breakup with Jack Voss. ”
I stiffen, feeling my jaw tighten. “Is that true?”
“The pictures look pretty convincing.”
“Lina…” I sigh, running my hands roughly through my hair. “I’m not trying to be that person, but if there are any drugs in your apartment, I can’t go in there. I can’t do it.”
I don’t look at her as I say it. I can’t. Because the second I do, I’ll see the way she flinches, and I’ll want to take it back.
But I can’t.
Because every memory of my mom comes rushing back to me like a fucked-up movie playing in my mind. Finding her passed out in the kitchen, the look in her eye, the ambulance lights painting our front lawn in blue and red hues. I can’t go back to that; I can’t even be adjacent to it.
I swallow hard, trying to rid the feeling, but it only feels like it’s closing tighter, like I’m choking on the past I can’t outrun.
She doesn’t tell me it’s fine, she doesn’t promise Kara’s clean, she doesn’t give me the kind of answer that would make this easier.
Instead, she nods once and says, “There aren’t. And if there were, I’d never ask you to walk into that.” Her voice is steady, but her hands shake a little when she reaches for the bags.
Pulling my wallet out, I grab my credit card and stick it into the reader. By the time I pay and take the receipt, crumpling it in my hand without looking at the total, Lina’s still standing beside the cart with her arms looped through the plastic bags.
She doesn’t look at me, but I can feel her waiting.
I grab a few of the heavier bags from her and nudge my shoulder into hers gently. “And I’m not trying to sound like an asshole telling you what to do.”
Her eyes glance up to meet mine, hazel eyes sharp but soft at the edges. “You don’t. It’s completely understandable that you wouldn’t want to be around drugs.”
She pushes the cart toward the sliding doors, and I follow, the automatic glass parting as we exit the small-town grocery store. Outside, the air is cooler. I shift the bags in my arms and fall into step beside her.
“I didn’t even know it was still happening,” she says quietly. “With Kara.”
“I know.” I’m sure she wouldn’t have allowed it to happen with her knowledge.
“She’s been off lately, but I thought it was the Jack thing. Not…” Her voice trails off, and I hear the unspoken ending like she said it anyway. Not this.
I don’t tell her I get it. That’s not enough. I’ve heard that phrase too many times, and it’s never made anything easier.
Instead, I say, “If anything ever felt off in your apartment, I hope you’d tell me.”
She glances over, eyebrows pulled tight. “You don’t think I’d lie to you about something like that, do you?”
“No,” I answer quickly. “No, I don’t. I just know how easy it is to not say anything. To think it’s not your place. Or that it’s not a big enough deal.”
Her shoulders relax a little, and when I glance at her again, she’s walking like she’s somewhere else—half in her head, half here.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Not really,” she admits, with no hesitation. “But I will be.”
That’s the thing about Lina. She never pretends to feel something she doesn’t. But she also never lets herself stay there too long. I think it has something to do with how she can’t fully discern whether her feelings are rational, so she’d rather ignore them.
She knows her friend is in the wrong, but she also doesn’t know what to do about it.
I walk a few steps in front of her, getting to the car and putting the bags in the trunk before opening the passenger seat for her to get in.
She slides into the seat wordlessly, and I shut the door gently behind her and round the front of the car, climbing in behind the wheel.
The silence in the car makes the click of her seatbelt sound louder than it should as I pull out of the parking lot and head back toward our apartment building.