Chapter 19 Grayson #2
"How does she know I've changed if she doesn't witness it?"
"Maybe she doesn't need to know right away. Maybe it's not about proving something to her. Maybe it's about becoming someone different, whether she sees it or not."
"That sounds like giving up."
"That sounds like growing up."
"I love her."
"I know you do."
"I never stopped loving her. Not for one day."
"Loving someone and being good for someone aren't always the same thing."
"I'm trying to be good for her."
"By doing what? By telling her you're trying? By making her listen to your guilt? By showing up with your feelings and expecting her to manage them?"
"I haven't—"
"You have. Every speech you've made since you started talking again has been about you. Your regrets. Your changes. Your intentions. Do you know how exhausting that is? To have someone constantly hand you their guilt and expect you to do something with it?"
"I didn't think of it that way."
"No. You didn't."
"I don’t want to keep doing that to her."
"Show her. With actions, not words. Not grand gestures that make you feel better about yourself; small things that make her life easier without asking for anything back." She turns back to the stove. "And don't smother her. She's not a houseplant."
"A houseplant."
"You heard me." She adds something to the pan that sizzles loudly.
"You over-water a plant, it dies. You under-water it, same thing.
But you give it exactly what it needs, when it needs it, without constantly checking if it loves you back?
" She glances over her shoulder at me. "That's how things grow. "
Through dinner, I think about what she said. Exactly what she needs. Without asking for anything back. I start a list. I already know the lesson well enough to repeat it in therapy. This time the list starts with a question for Abbie, not an order for someone else.
* * *
On the second Monday after Topanga, before ordering anything, I text: Would coffee be welcome, or would you rather I leave it alone? Her answer comes that evening: Coffee, yes. Twice a week, maximum. No surprises at work. I order the first one for the next morning, with two words on a sticky note:
Tuesday coffee.
I don't sign it. I don't need to. The second delivery happens on Thursday. Same coffee, same timing. Two-word note:
Thursday too.
I never make it three times a week. Twice is what she asked for. That is the limit, whether she smiles at the notes or not.
By the end of the third week after Topanga, I’ve sent four coffees.
I don’t use them as an excuse to ask for anything else.
The font license comes next. A custom typeface she fell in love with at twenty-five, before she could afford it.
I ask whether she wants me to look into buying her a personal license as a gift.
Her reply is specific: The license, yes.
No favors to clients. No deal I can’t walk away from.
It takes my lawyers three days to untangle it. Worth every billable hour. I have the license sent to her business address with documentation making clear it's hers permanently, no strings attached. Two-word note:
As agreed.
The desk lamp is harder to source. The model she used to steal from empty offices at VTG is discontinued. I find one through a dealer in San Diego. I send her a photo. Want it? Her answer: Desperately. Leave it with Maya Thursday; I’m in meetings.
When I bring it to Halo Thursday, Maya accepts the lamp and its two-word note (Still works). I leave it with her and go, even when I hear Abbie laughing down the hall. She asked for a delivery, not a visit.
I offer lunch from the taqueria downstairs. She agrees on one condition: she buys next time. Roberto puts the first order on my card under my own name. No hidden tab, no surprise subsidy for her business.
The texts start in the third week after Topanga. Short. Funny. Nothing that requires a response.
Marguerite says the hummingbird is back.
Two days later: It built a nest. She's named it Ricardo.
The next evening: Ricardo has a girlfriend. Marguerite is jealous.
She doesn't respond to the first three. Or the fourth. On the fifth, a photo of Ricardo's increasingly elaborate nest with the caption Overachiever, my phone buzzes thirty seconds later.
You're insufferable.
I grin so wide my face hurts.
And yet.
Three dots appear, then vanish, then come back, then go still. I put down the phone before I can send something stupid.
* * *
On Thursday, after a meeting nearby, I see her just inside Halo’s glass door with the coffee. She spots me on the sidewalk and lifts the sticky note toward the window.
Still Thursday.
She smiles. I wave and keep walking. A smile isn’t an invitation to interrupt her day.
* * *
The parking lot happens in the fourth week after Topanga. Outside a Culver City studio, I see her walking toward her car, phone at her ear. She sees me when she hangs up. Freezes for a second. Then, deliberately, she crosses the distance between us.
"You're everywhere," she says. "It's like you've implanted a tracker."
"Just good timing."
"Uh-huh." She tilts her head, studying me. "The font license was too much."
"You asked me to find it."
"You paid lawyers to track down a dead designer's estate for a typeface I mentioned once in passing seven years ago. That’s more than finding it. That’s..."
"What?"
She searches for the word. Can't seem to find it. "Ridiculous. It's ridiculous."
"You're welcome."
"I didn't say thank you."
"And yet." I lean back against my car, keeping my body language casual even though my heart is trying to exit through my throat. "You're using it. The font. I saw the mock-ups your team posted on Instagram."
Her eyes narrow. "You're following Halo's Instagram?"
"I follow a lot of industry accounts."
"You follow seventeen accounts total. I've seen your profile."
"Stalker."
She laughs, then presses her lips together.
"I should go," she says.
"Okay."
"I have a meeting."
"At eight p.m.?"
"A dinner meeting."
"With who?"
She raises an eyebrow. "That's not really your business, is it?"
"No." I straighten up from my car, hands in my pockets, making myself stay right where I am instead of closing the distance between us. "It's not. But I'm asking anyway."
"Grayson—"
"Just curious. You don't have to answer."
She studies me, exasperation in her green eyes.
"Potential client," she finally says. "Emerging director. She's got a film at Sundance and no idea how to market it."
"Sounds like she's in good hands."
"She is." Abbie starts walking toward her car, then pauses, looking back over her shoulder. "The lamp was a nice touch. I missed that lamp."
"I know."
"I used to steal it from the empty office specifically because no one else used it."
"I know that too."
She shakes her head, but she's almost smiling again. "You're impossible."
"And insufferable. You mentioned."
"I'm going now."
"Okay."
She walks away. Fast, like she's trying to outpace something. But halfway to her car, she glances back one more time. I wave.
She doesn't wave back. But she doesn't flip me off either, which feels like meaningful progress. I whistle on the drive home. Marguerite is going to give me so much shit. I don't care.
At 2:14 a.m., my phone lights up. I’m awake when her name lights the phone. I answer on the second ring.
"Abbie?"
I hear her retching.
"Abbie, what's happening? Are you okay?"
"I don't—" Her voice comes out wrecked, thick with tears. "I don't know why I called you."
I'm already out of bed, grabbing the jeans I threw over the chair, the keys on my nightstand. "Where are you?"
"Home. I'm at home. I just—" More retching. A sob that sounds like it's being ripped out of her. "I've been throwing up for hours and I don't know what's wrong with me and I didn't know who else to—"
"I'm coming."
"Gray, you don't have to—"
"I'm already in the car." It's not true yet, but it will be in thirty seconds. "Stay on the phone with me."
"I don't need you to rescue me."
"I know." I hurry down the hall, bare feet slapping against hardwood. "I'm coming anyway."
She starts crying.
"I don't know why I called you," she says again.
I slide into the driver's seat, engine starting before the door is even closed.
"I do," I say quietly. And then I drive.