Chapter 4
Grace
The host of the morning news show, Jerry Jeff, brayed in a high-pitched voice, like someone who had just been kicked in the nuts. I was so absorbed in my morning jam toast and iced tea that I missed the first half of the joke. And, of course, I had another distraction—Cyrus’s wet hair.
I never refrained from tracing the outlines of his body, just like he keeps drinking me in. But that’s where the invisible line that we—or, more precisely, I—drew in our relationship lies, the one that neither of us ever crosses. We live together in a relationship without sex.
He steals a slice from my plate, and the thin toast cracks loudly beneath his strong teeth. He flashes me an overwhelming smile, topped off with a wink.
I smile at how cheeky and relaxed he is—and how much he tries to make me feel comfortable in my own skin. Day in, day out.
“Naughty,” I mumble, letting out a soft sigh through my slightly parted lips as I watch him run his fingers through his wet, dark hair, cool drops of water sliding down his bare torso.
He pulls a black tank top over his head and downs his coffee in one gulp.
No combing his hair, no checking the mirror.
Cyrus likes to look wild and free. He’s wearing a pair of fashionable, loose black jeans that don’t cling to the lines of his muscular legs and butt—but draw attention to them anyway.
The melodious clink of the chains clipped to his side forms a rhythmic counterpoint to his heavy steps.
His rich, fresh, masculine scent fills the tiny kitchen, making a certain place in my body throb.
My hormones are unpredictable.
I enjoy these moments. They’re warm and satisfying, because Cyrus can touch the woman buried deep inside me without touching me physically.
He’s fighting for my trust—and I’d love nothing more than to hand it over to him on a golden platter.
But there are other moments—dark, cold, and terrifying.
I keep switching between the two, and I never know which Grace I’ll get at any given time.
After waking up, the thought of kissing him revolted me, but now… now I feel like I could go even further than a kiss.
“We’re taking different cars.”
His voice is light and smooth, but the message beneath it makes my skin crawl.
“Today too?” I sigh bitterly and bore my sad eyes into his.
“I’m undercover, Grace.”
“I know, but I don’t like it anyway.”
I cross my arms like a petulant child, but my eyes are as unyielding as my mom’s used to be.
Cyrus shakes his head and ties his shoelaces.
“I’m more scared of that look than of any shithead in this area,” he jokes.
A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. Cyrus crouches down beside me, brushes the wet hair stuck to his face back with his fingers, and looks at me as if I were a million-dollar prize.
Warmth fills my chest, and a sweet tingling runs through my body.
I cup his face in my palm and kiss his full lips.
When he deepens the kiss, the wet warmth and pleasant throbbing in my most intimate place make me want more.
My fingers comb through his wet hair, and I set my feet on the cool floor where I’d been sitting cross-legged.
My bare thighs rest against Cyrus’s naked shoulders, against his hot skin.
I’m afraid, trembling like a leaf in the wind. Still, this might be the moment we’ve both been waiting for. Maybe this is where I will become someone capable of living in a normal relationship with him. Someone who is worthy of being with him.
“Grace… Don’t cry, Grace,” he whispers against my lips. His voice tears me out of the sweetness and yanks me back into bitter reality. My weakness slaps me in the face. My heart twists.
“I’m so sorry, Cyrus,” I whisper with my eyes shut. I’m trembling—the shaking sinks into my bones, and big tears roll down my face.
“Believe me, I’d be the happiest person alive if I could…” I shake my head like a rabid dog. The air is stuck in my dry throat.
“There’s nothing to be sorry about. I know how hard you’re trying. But you shouldn’t force it just to make me happy.”
Anger floods my body. My hand clenches into a fist, and I slam it into my thigh in frustration.
The impact goes deep, radiating along my femur.
I’m hurting myself. But this pain passes quickly—while the pain deep inside doesn’t.
That torment doesn’t go away, doesn’t even subside.
It’s an eternal, loud, howling storm, its low notes driving me crazy. I’m constantly running from it.
I’m mad at Nikky, Bo, and his gang. I’m mad at Chase Baker and Mr. Miller—but I’m most angry with myself.
Cyrus wipes the tears from my face and asks me to open my eyes. Without a word.
I don’t want to look into those dark eyes that, for years, have held nothing but irritating pity. Because twenty-year-old Grace McCarty is suffering from severe emotional constipation, sitting on the ruins of her life, wallowing in bitter, ashen self-pity.
“It’s only been two years, Grace. Give yourself time.”
My eyes fly open.
“But how much?” I snap.
“Seriously, Cyrus. How much time do I need to be whole? To be normal? While the whole world keeps reminding me that I’m a weirdo?” I snort, irritated.
“Everyone around you treats me like this. I’ve heard it many times that we don’t match—from your mom, your friends, your colleagues…
even old Jack, the car mechanic, told me once.
Not only because of what happened, but because I have the face of a ‘noble lady,’” I emphasize the last words, hoping the irony will land.
“That my face is too delicate for someone like you. I hate to hear this, because you aren’t less than me.
Just because you’re a… a wild man, both inside and out, doesn’t mean you’re worth less than I am.
I know this isn’t why your friends keep bringing it up—but because they’re worried about you getting hurt in this relationship. ”
“And they are… right to do so,” I sigh.
“That’s why I’m not mad at them. I don’t trust myself… It’s only natural they don’t either.”
Still, I like his friends more than his mom, Greta Phoenix, who treats her huge bear of a son as if he were still five. Whenever we visit her, she makes him his favorite dishes and pastries—and pinches his face the way annoying aunts usually do.
She is a piece of work. A bad piece at that.
Her hair is rock-hard from all the hairspray, her makeup is too much for her age, and she smokes nonstop, exhaling smoke right under our noses. The only good thing is that we only visit her in Tulsa once every two months.
“What do I always say about others and their opinions?”
“That they can kiss your hairy white ass.”
“You are important to me, Grace.” He links our fingers and kisses my hand.
This kindness is what causes physical pain in my chest. If he were mad at me, shouting at me…
maybe my psyche would come to its senses and be capable of opening up to him.
But while he keeps telling me, emphatically, that it’s all okay, that I’m okay…
I don’t say a word. I push down all the anger, frustration, and sadness and just keep nodding.
So many things changed while I was locked in an underground room.
Even though I’ve been free for four years now, the changes still surprise me.
The town where I grew up. The streets I used to walk…
They’re nothing like I remember—nothing has remained the same.
The storefronts, the bars, the malls, the school, the park…
Everything has undergone huge changes. Huge and painful ones.
The worst was the missing bench—the bench that had held the memory of my parents’ love for decades.
Now my parents are dead, their memories faded, worn away by time—and not even those carvings could bring them back to life for a short moment any more.
All that’s left of them is that cold, dark tombstone.
Many buildings have been renovated or repainted, and many businesses have closed, only to reopen as restaurants or cafés—in modern, supposedly unique buildings that lack the charm of the older, more classical ones they replaced.
Office blocks have turned into uniformly gray walls, all sharp edges and rough, boastful lines.
People dress differently now, wear their hair differently—bolder, more colorful. Discmans have been replaced by MP3 players, videotapes by DVDs. The internet took the world by storm, burning down the quiet, peaceful years of the past in its wake.
Dad always said the internet would be both our future and our destruction.
The world is digital now—human connections fall apart, while you can send an email to someone on the other side of the world with a single click.
And the internet is now full of lies, misinformation, and scams—and criminals, who no longer have to set foot outside their homes to swindle their victims out of their money.
Like flies caught in a sticky spiderweb, we know there’s no way out. The spider is coming to eat us alive. We’ve become slaves to our own tools.
Maybe I still haven’t gotten over the technological advancements of the past few years—or how fast our lives have become.
We usually do our shopping together, but sometimes Cyrus stops by the grocery store alone after work. Neither of us is a kitchen whiz, so we often just order pizza or something Chinese and eat it straight from the box. Or we go through the drive-through at McDonald's and get a Big Mac meal.
The last time we visited Cyrus’s mom, Greta, in Tulsa, she gave us so much food that it could have fed an army.
She can be a bit difficult, but she’s an amazing cook.
And her pastries are out of this world. Since she retired, she’s been taking baking and cooking courses—Cyrus says she mostly goes for the company, because she’s always been a good cook.
Whenever we visit her, we have to listen to her never-ending stories about her bridge parties—or about how we should get on with producing a grandchild for her. When that happens, Cyrus kisses her on the forehead and tactfully tells her to stop pushing.