34. Grant
THIRTY-FOUR
GRANT
Dave picks up on the second ring. Seven AM on a Thursday. He told me any time.
"You all right?" he says immediately. He knows from the time and the silence what kind of call this is.
"I didn't use," I say.
"Okay. What happened?"
“I think I’m in love. She lives here," I say. "We live here. If this doesn’t work out.”
"If it doesn't work out, a small county gets complicated," Dave says. "Yes. I know. Grant." His voice is patient, the patience of a man who has had versions of this conversation with me before. "What are you actually afraid of?"
I look at the parking lot.
"That I'll make her into something that costs her," I say.
"Like you cost everyone who gets close to you?"
"Something like that."
"You've been telling yourself that story for years," Dave says. "You wrecked things before sobriety. You've been rebuilding for six years. The story doesn't apply the same way anymore and you know it."
"I still—I'm still—" I stop. "I'm still Grant Vance from Briar County. I'm still the thing this county thinks I am."
"What does Jessika think you are?"
I'm quiet.
"She's a smart woman," Dave says. "She gets to decide. Let her."
I sit with that.
"All right," I say.
"Call me if you need anything," he says. "I mean that. Any time."
I know he means it. That's what makes it worth something.
I go back to the ranch. We spend the morning with the horses and the fire damage and calling insurance and talking to the fire chief about cause, no determination yet, but the chief's face when he told me that had a particular quality I'm familiar with: the face of someone who knows what they think and is not yet ready to say it officially.
Arson.
The barn was set.
Collins, I think immediately. And then I think: no, Collins is scared. Collins is calculating. Collins doesn't burn barns.
Who does?
Someone who wanted to send a message. Someone who calculated that damage without injury was a warning they could walk away from.
I know who calculates like that.