35. Annabelle
Annabelle
It’s somewhere around five in the morning when I realize I’ve made a huge mistake. A six-foot, hard-muscled, Grant Neverly-shaped mistake.
His bed has a down comforter, and high-quality sheets, and plenty of pillows. The mattress is a cloud. I’ve appreciated this bed on numerous occasions, but as a place for activities, not as a place for rest. I never knew how comfortable it was.
It’s not just the bed that’s comfortable. It’s living across the hall from Grant, being able to see him whenever I want. It’s passing each other on the stairs. It’s teasing each other about the laundry room. It’s being welcomed by his huge, loving family.
It’s whatever happened last night, when suddenly I felt more for Grant than I should have. Something that my heart doesn’t dare name.
We’re spooned together, with Grant’s arm around me. His breathing is slow and steady. I’m wearing his lucky shirt, on purpose, with permission. He wants me to wear it. He wants me, period.
But he doesn’t love me.
He made that clear last night at dinner, when I gave him all the openings in the world and he didn’t take them. He won’t follow me. He won’t chase me. He won’t be the man I need him to be.
That’s not his fault. It’s mine. I somehow let all his positive qualities stand in for the one quality that’s non-negotiable. I told myself it didn’t matter.
But it does.
The sun is up now, but you’d barely notice it, since it’s another overcast day. I’ve turned on every light in my apartment, trying to combat the gray dimness.
They have sunshine in Los Angeles, even in March. In California, they live outdoors all year. You can drink coffee in the open air. You can get lunch from a food truck. You can go barefoot on the beach. I wonder what that’s like?
I can’t wait to find out.
I’m putting tank tops into my suitcase when Grant knocks on my door. I look through the burglar hole. A rattling warning shakes in my stomach when I see that he’s carrying a breakfast tray. He’s made bacon, a little cup of berries, and in the center, a huge stack of pancakes.
I crack the door and the warm buttery scent hits my nose. I glance from his face to the tray and back again, as if one of them is going to explain this. “You made me pancakes?”
He clears his throat, lifting the tray higher. “I didn’t want you to pack on an empty stomach.”
“You don’t do pancakes. Or mornings. Or people in the morning. This is very confusing.”
“Yeah.” His eyes flick past me to the apartment, like he’s looking for a way in. “That’s kind of where I’m at.”
“Is this because I’m leaving?”
“It’s breakfast,” he says. “I’m showing you I can do that.”
I open the door wider. “I’ll make coffee.”
“I made some.” He puts the tray down on my kitchen counter. “That was going to be my second trip. I’ll be right back.”
He’s gone and back in a flash, carrying the carafe from his coffee maker. I’ve already got the mugs out—the pink one for me and the souvenir one from Seul Choix Pointe Lighthouse that he always uses.
“I shouldn’t know this,” I whisper as he pours.
“Know what?” He gets two plates and opens the drawer with the forks. He’s at ease in my kitchen. That shouldn’t happen either.
“I shouldn’t know which coffee mug is your favorite,” I say. “I shouldn’t know how much you hate olives, or why you always fill up your truck at the Kwik Trip on US-2 instead of the Marathon station closer to town.”
I step away from the kitchen table. I end up in the living room, pacing around the card table packing station.
I touch the handle of my suitcase. Roll it a few inches.
Roll it back. All I can think of is, Thank goodness for Western Greetings.
I’m flying across the country, away from here, just in the nick of time, before this goes any further.
Grant plates up the food, arranging it carefully, placing the syrup on the table with a flourish. “Don’t you want to eat?” he asks. “It’s getting cold.”
“I can’t do this,” I say.
Grant deflates in front of me. “It’s just pancakes.”
“It’s not,” I say miserably. “We both know it’s breakfast with an agenda.”
“Is that so bad?”
“I don’t think we’re looking for the same thing.” I pull a breath into my lungs. I’m going to say it. I’m going to come right out and say it. “I’m looking for love.”
I wait. Silence. Stillness that speaks louder than anything. It’s everything I need to know. It’s over.
Grant follows me into the living room. He stands in front of me and takes both of my hands. “I like spending time with you, and I think we’re good together. But—”
“You don’t believe in this,” I finish for him. “Any of this.”
“I’m trying to show you—”
“Please, stop.” I put a hand on his chest, look up at his hopeful, earnest face, his rumpled hair and barely-there beard scruff. I almost lose my nerve. But I can’t let that happen. I’ve already tried being with a man who doesn’t love me. I can’t be with one who doesn’t love at all.
I cross my arms in front of myself, putting both hands on my neck. “There’s nothing more important than loving someone and being loved in return. It’s the most powerful force in the world. And I need to be with someone who believes in love as much as I do.”
Grant grunts and backs away from me, stalking back to the kitchen. “Nobody believes in love as much as you do.”
“That’s not true.” I’ve seen it, up close. Lots of times. It’s what Nana had with Stan. It took her almost her whole life to find true love, and maybe it will take me most of mine, but I’m going to keep looking until I find it.
Grant gestures to the table. “I’m trying to give you what you want.”
“I know. But if your heart isn’t in it, breakfast doesn’t matter.
You could cook me a thousand pancakes and it would never be enough.
” I go back to my suitcase and grip the handle.
I don’t know why I keep touching it. “I used to believe that love conquered everything, but I can’t love you enough to change you, and it’s selfish of me to try. ”
“So that’s it.” Grant straightens the silverware at my place setting, lining up the fork and knife. He lifts his chin and meets my eyes. There’s disappointment there, but also a brief flash of relief. He nods once. “You’re right. If I’m only going through the motions, that’s not fair to you.”
Heaviness tumbles in on me. I step closer to Grant and he knows what I need before I do. He folds me into a warm hug. It’s not sexy. It doesn’t make my heart race. It’s not leading anywhere. It’s a hug of sadness and parting and maybe never meeting again.
“It was good while it was good,” Grant says into my hair.
“It was,” I say into his shirt. I breathe deep, trying to memorize the smell of him. “It was very good. But I have to go.”
“I know.”
We’re still hugging. It’s getting too long now, too awkward. We pull apart and suddenly, I can’t meet his eyes. “I’m not hungry,” I tell him.
“Me either. It’s too early.”
Or too late. I don’t say it out loud. Instead I say, “I’ll go get your euchre shirt.”
“Keep it,” he says as he gathers up the breakfast tray. “It doesn’t seem so lucky anymore.”
I expected the sadness. I expected the heartbreak. I expected the disappointment.
I never expected the anger. But it’s there, and it’s fierce. It thrums through my veins, hot and jagged, making my thoughts run in loops. What I did. What he did. Why this happened.
I’m not mad at Grant. None of this is his fault. He showed me who he was right up front. He showed me over and over, daring me to believe him. And what did I do instead? I tried to make him into something he’s not. How could I do that?
I’m furious, but it’s me I’m mad at. Why do I give my heart away so easily? Why do I spend time with men that aren’t suitable for me? Why do I keep doing this?
Instead of working, I’m brooding. Instead of getting on social media and riding the bit of fame I’ve found, I’m stomping around my apartment, cleaning every surface, taking out my frustration on the dusty baseboards and that one stain on the shower pan that I can’t ever get out.
I try to change the throw pillow covers, but one corner is stuck in the zipper, and I pull too hard, ripping stuffing loose.
I hurl it across the room, making a cotton snowstorm that matches the chaos inside of me.
I grab the other throw pillow and bury my face in it to muffle my frustrated screams. It doesn’t help.
When I can’t take any more, I ask June to open the back half of The Break for me. I request the girl power playlist that Grant used the first time I used the rage room. I suit up and get a five-pound sledgehammer—light enough to lift, big enough to do some real damage.
“Are you sure about this?” June asks when I set my tiered tray on a pedestal, ready to clobber it. “We have dishes and office equipment you can smash. I’ll give you a set of wedding china for free.”
“I don’t want to smash wedding china,” I tell her. “I want to smash this.”
“But you worked so hard on it.”
“I worked hard on a lot of things.” I don’t like where my thoughts are going. I push them away. “This was only ever meant to be temporary.”
“I saw you make this.” June stands between me and the tray. “You made it so carefully. Like you wanted to keep it.”
“I can’t,” I say, and my voice wobbles a bit. I breathe in hard through my nose. “I can’t pack it in a suitcase and take it to California.”
“Is this job a done deal? Like, is it for real, for real?”
“We’re still in talks, but it’s getting realer all the time.”
I haven’t spoken to Grant since yesterday. No texts. No sound from his apartment. I’m not sure he’s even in there.
I’m wobbling again. June pulls me into a tight hug, one I can feel through the padding of the safety gear. “I’m going to miss you, bestie.”
“I’ll miss you too,” I say. “But you’ll be fine.”
Of course she will. June has everything. She has a loving husband, a job she likes, good friends, and the best family. She has it all.
She has what I want. But I’m not going to find it in Echo Creek. Now that I know that, it makes it easier to say goodbye.
June backs out of the room. She closes the door.
I take a few practice swings, testing the weight of the sledgehammer, then I wind up and bring it down onto my beautiful tiered tray. The plates break first. A few more swings and the supports are goners. I kick the pieces into the corner and leave the room.
The next twenty-four hours speed by. Sophie and I get church lady pasties and eat them in her Jeep while listening to Taylor Swift on repeat.
I ask Lia to recommend a realtor who can help me sell my building.
I make Dove a card with dancing croissants on it.
I hug each of the ROMEOs, while they tell me how proud they are of me.
They tell me they can see my Nana in me.
I tell them I can see Stan’s friendship in each of them.
I make sure to get their addresses so I can send them birthday cards.
Lia drives me to Marquette, and I don’t cry even once.
I stay dry-eyed as I board the plane to Chicago, and from there, make my connection for my flight to L.A.
That’s when the tears well up. But they don’t overflow until I look out the window and see Lake Michigan disappearing behind me as I soar toward the unknown.