6. #2
"My day was uninteresting," I say carefully.
Grant hums. "Okay. Then give me an uninteresting detail."
I hesitate, stalling. I can hear him smiling through the line.
When I don't answer fast enough, he adds, "Or a random fact. I'll go first to buy you time."
I roll onto my side, phone tucked against my cheek.
"I hate flying," Grant says. "Motion sickness. Every time. Doesn't matter how short the flight is."
"That's..." I pause. "That's unfortunate."
He laughs softly. "It's embarrassing. Especially as a grown man losing a battle with turbulence."
"Okay," he says. "Your turn."
I stare at the dark.
"I'm not sure this is interesting," I admit.
"Anything will be interesting, Mrs. Clarke."
The words land strange.
My body stills.
Mrs. Clarke.
No one says that. No one ever says that.
Not Vivian. Not staff. Not strangers. Not even Reese unless she's being cruel on purpose.
It's been years since I've heard my maiden name spoken like it still belongs to me.
Grant doesn't say it like a jab, but he's never addressed me as anything but Naomi before.
I clear my throat, buying myself a second. "Naomi is fine."
"Okay," he says easily. "Naomi."
A beat.
I exhale. "I love driving," I say.
"Yeah?" Grant's voice perks slightly, like he's genuinely curious.
And that's the thing—curiosity does something to me. It pulls me out of the careful scripts.
"It's stupid," I add quickly, because I don't know how to share something without insulting it first.
"Tell me anyway," he says.
I swallow. "I have a car," I begin, then stop because that sounds like the most ridiculous sentence I've ever said. "I mean—I have a specific car."
Grant doesn't laugh at me. He just waits.
"It's a Porsche," I say, the words coming faster now, like if I say them quickly they'll matter less. "A 911 Targa 4 GTS."
There's a pause on the line.
Then Grant's voice shifts—subtle, amused. "Okay, Naomi."
I can hear it.
The smile.
The of course you do.
I hate that it makes me feel... giddy.
"It's not a big deal," I say.
"It sounds like it's a big deal to you," he replies.
I stare at the ceiling, and I can't stop the small smile that creeps onto my mouth like it belongs there.
"I like late-night drives," I admit. "Sunroof down. No music."
"No music," Grant repeats.
"That's the most important part," I say, suddenly firm. "Absolutely no music."
"Why?" he asks.
Because I like hearing the noise of the city.
Because it's the only time my life feels like it belongs to me.
Because it's the only place I can breathe without someone monitoring the breath.
I don't say any of that.
I keep it simple.
"Because the point is... the drive," I say. "The road. The sound of the tires. The air."
Grant makes a small sound like he understands more than I'm saying.
"Where do you drive?" he asks.
"All around DC," I answer. "It basically closes at ten. After that the roads are clear."
"How long do you usually go for?" Grant asks.
I shrug even though he can't see me. "I've never timed it."
"Give me an estimate."
"Sometimes I leave at eleven and come back at one," I say. "Sometimes..." I hesitate, then add, quieter, "there have been times I've driven until five in the morning."
Grant is quiet for a beat.
Not judgmental. Not impressed.
Just taking it in.
"That sounds..." he starts.
"Peaceful," I supply quickly, even though that's not always true.
"Necessary," Grant corrects softly.
I would've loved to been able to go out for a drive tonight.
My throat tightens. I press my face into the pillow, annoyed at my own body for reacting.
"There was one time when—"
My phone buzzes.
Once.
Then again.
The screen lights up on the nightstand, bright in the dark.
Rodney's name.
My stomach drops before I even read the message.
My thumb goes cold.
Of course.
Of course it slipped my mind. Of course it did.
On the other end of the line, Grant doesn't fill the quiet right away. He waits a beat, then says, gently, "You were saying?"
My throat tightens. I swallow hard.
"Sorry," I say, voice too even. Too controlled. "Um. Yeah. There was this time..."
I stare at the text again until it blurs.
Then I force my eyes away.
I force my voice back into place.
My poker face—over the phone.
"I think..." I exhale through my nose like I'm irritated at myself more than anything. "Sleep just hit me all at once. Sorry. My mind is a little jumbled."
Grant's voice softens. "That's okay."
A beat.
Then, careful "Do you want me to stay on the line for a few minutes until you fall asleep?"
"No," I say immediately. Too fast. "It's fine."
Grant doesn't argue. He just says, "Okay. I'm going to stay for five."
I frown into the dark. "You don't have to do that."
"I know," he replies simply. "Five minutes."
"I'll schedule a session when I'm back in D.C." I whisper.
"Good," Grant says. "Call the office tomorrow. If Isabel answers, tell her I said to fit you in."
"I will," I say.
"And Naomi?" he adds.
"Yes?"
"You did good tonight," he says, steady. "You called before it got worse. That was the right choice."
My throat tightens again.
I ignore it.
"Okay," I whisper, like it's not a big deal.
I should hang up.
I don't.
I let the silence stretch between us while my breathing starts to slow, while the edges of the room soften, while the ache in my chest dulls into something manageable.
Grant stays there like a steady weight—nothing asked of me, nothing required, just presence.
Somewhere between one minute and five, my eyelids get heavy.
My grip on the phone loosens.
The last thing I hear is Grant's voice, low and calm, like he's speaking to the part of me that never gets to rest.
"Goodnight, Naomi."
And this time, I don't fight the sleep when it comes.