Chapter Four
Kiyah
Grant Baker’s “I love you, Kiyah” has evolved over the years.
I was fifteen when his love changed from brotherly to something else.
He’d received his acceptance letter to Harvard, and our parents made a whole thing about it as if his acceptance was unexpected.
We piled into two SUVs and made the journey to our grandparents’ estate, where the insanely wealthy folks lived and where we celebrated all our milestones—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays, first place in a spelling bee, you name it.
Granddad damn near shoved a cigar down Grant’s throat upon seeing him and clapped him on the back so hard that I thought he’d dislocated the teenager’s shoulder.
Dad quickly confiscated the cigar before Granddad could break out the lighter and foisted Grant to Grandma, who painted Grant’s cheeks red from her never-ending lipstick-stained kisses.
Papa and Mimi volunteered to take Grant shopping for all his dorm and school supplies.
Uncle Ant congratulated Grant profusely and said they’d take the yacht out one weekend to celebrate, and Ms. Simone promised to bake gingerbread cookies and send them to him in a bi-monthly care package.
It was plain as day that Grant wasn’t as ecstatic about getting accepted to Harvard as our family; at least, it was obvious to me.
Everyone was conditioned to believe Grant’s face was stuck in a perpetual scowl, but I knew better.
Grant was very expressive when he wanted to be, which seemed to be when he was with me.
When he was truly happy, his eyes would shine brighter than the highest clarity peridot, and his soft smile made my heart do somersaults in my underdeveloped chest.
That night, Grant did the unthinkable as Dad made a speech at the dinner table about how proud he was of him and how bright his future was.
Grant stood from the table and plainly said, “I’m not going,” before walking away.
The decibel of the gasps that flooded the dining room could not be quantified.
After the initial shock wore off, the look of disappointment on Dad’s face was tough to ignore.
Let’s be honest, Harvard isn’t the end-all, be-all when it comes to universities, but wouldn’t you want to brag about your genius kid with your golf buddies around the 9th hole?
Later that night, after all the adults tried “talking some sense into the boy,” I joined him in the movie theater, where I found him chowing down on buttery popcorn while watching a Nat Geo documentary on fungi.
“Do you know how many species of fungi exist?” he asked without his eyes leaving the projector screen.
“That’s a trick question.”
“How so?”
“Because there are 150,000 scientifically identified species; however, it’s believed there are millions more.”
“Is that your final answer?” he queried.
“That’s my final answer, and I’m sticking to it.”
“Smart girl.”
“Let’s stop pussyfooting around, Grant. You know why I’m here.”
“You’re here to convince me to go to Harvard like everyone else,” he replied with a sigh before offering me the bucket of freshly popped popcorn.
“No, I just want to understand why you don’t want to go.”
“No bullshit?”
“No bullshit,” I repeated.
“Very well. I will not attend Harvard in the fall because it’s approximately 2,032 miles from you.”
My eyes grew wide with shock and enlarged even wider when he leaned over the console and kissed me. It was my first kiss, and I later learned it was his first, too. That kiss ignited a fuse of longing and desire for my older stepbrother that I shamefully hid for years.
“I love you, Kiyah, and I won’t let 2,032 miles keep us apart.”
Now, Grant’s “I love you, Kiyah” holds a note of sadness and trepidation as if every time he tells me will be his fucking last.
Getting married to Grant wasn’t some run-of-the-mill, drunk in Las Vegas, and oops, we woke up wearing wedding rings situation.
Grant proposed to me on Valentine’s Day when I was sick as a dog from the flu.
Daisy opted to stay with Nori until our apartment was germ-free, and Grant saw it as his opportunity to move in with me for a week.
He cared for me around his demanding school schedule and internship.
He’d call frequently throughout the day, reminding me to drink water and that he’d left a new book on the nightstand.
Chicken soup from my favorite Thai restaurant was delivered for lunch daily, and despite my protests, he’d cuddle with me every night.
Valentine’s Day arrived, and celebrating was simply out of the question.
I spent it curled up beside him in bed—stuffy nose, chest congestion, pounding head—while we watched The Fly and tried to pretend we weren’t both miserable.
I asked him to pass me the tissues from the nightstand on his side of the bed.
I stuck my hand in the hole and was puzzled when my fingers smoothed against velvet.
I pulled out the object and was stunned speechless to find a ring in the box that was the exact replica of the heirloom ring Dad had given to Mom when he proposed to her.
Grant knew how much I adored that ring and wished by some miracle that it’d be mine one day.
Grant’s proposal was short, simple, and direct to the point.
“In sickness and in health, Kiyah.”
I snapped out of my reverie when I felt an elbow in my side. Nori frantically signed at me, forcing me to sign back.
Kiyah: I’m not doing this with you. You’re wearing your hearing aids. You can hear perfectly fine.
Nori: Perfectly? That’s debatable.
Kiyah: You know what I mean. You just want to be messy in silence.
Nori: What do you think?
Kiyah: About what?
Nori: Don’t play dumb, Kiyah. About Grant and Layla?
My eyes shifted over to Grant and Layla.
Mom thought inviting her to eat with us was a great idea because Layla was new in town and felt terrible that she planned on dining alone.
My poor husband winced every time Layla spoke to him—she was grating his nerves, and I’d bet my Harley he’d bail before dessert just to get away from her.
Do I want Grant to move on? Yes, it’s only fair, but it still stings.
Grant hadn’t been serious with anyone else because he was waiting for me to change my mind and stick around.
Still, no matter how often I broached the subject, he would shut me down.
In the past, we’d slept with other people because we were separated and had needs.
When it came to sex, we essentially had a “Don’t ask, don’t tell” policy, but I hadn’t slept with anyone besides Grant in three years.
I stopped having sex with other men because they could never satisfy me like Grant could.
So, for the past three years, we’d been hooking up whenever it was public knowledge that I was in town.
It was the same dog and pony show: I’d try to convince him to sign the divorce papers, he’d refuse, we’d end up in bed, play house for the remainder of my visit, and then I was gone.
But if I’m 1000% honest with myself, I’ll die if he does move on.
But he has to because he deserves to be loved, even if it isn’t me.
Why? Because I have too much baggage and unhealed trauma that I don’t want to dump in his lap.
I’m self-sabotaging because of my guilt and because I disregarded in sickness and in health.