I don’t know why I hesitate before knocking on the front door. Maybe it’s the ten or so texts I’ve sent Grayson that have gone unanswered.
Maybe it’s my overthinking everything about us since Zoey left yesterday.
Maybe it’s my not wanting to admit I miss him after only six days of being apart.
He’s canceled on me every time we’ve set to meet because Luke has been sick, so I’ve attempted to do something nice and bring them some dinner.
Okay, so I have ulterior motives for doing it. I wanted to talk to him. To see him. To just be with him even if it’s only to drop the food off at the door for five minutes.
Just as I go to knock, the front door opens. The man facing me freezes at the same time I do. The bag of food rattles in my hand.
“Hello there, young lady, what can I do for you?” He’s Grayson in thirty years. That’s my first thought when I see the kind but hardened eyes and the smile that turns up just like his.
“I was coming to see Grayson?”
“You say that like it’s a question.” He laughs, and the rumble of it makes me smile. “I’m Grayson’s dad. Everyone calls me Chief.”
“Nice to meet you. I’m Sidney Thorton.” I reach out and shake the hand he offers.
“I knew your dad well before he left town. How is he doing? Well, I hope.”
“Yes. He is.”
“I’m ready, Poppy!” Luke’s voice screeches as he skids to a halt right behind Chief, and then his eyes widen when he sees me. Maybe not as much as mine, though. “Miss Sidney!”
“Wow, you look like you’re feeling better! That’s so good to hear.”
Luke’s little brow furrows as he brushes his hair off his forehead. “What do you mean? I wasn’t sick.” He shakes his head as if I’m being silly, but I catch the confused look on Chief’s face. “Did you come to play Creepers with me?” And before I can even respond, Luke’s arms are around my waist.
My body wars with emotions, and I do my best to hide them. I just don’t understand how my heart can swell for this little boy and feel broken in half by his father at the same time.
“Hey, Luke. I’m sorry, maybe later. I stopped by to talk to your dad about the contest.” It’s a little white lie, but at least it allows me to save face.
“What’s in the bag?” he asks.
Chicken noodle soup. Oyster crackers. Brownies. “Nothing. I just stopped by the store and didn’t want the food to spoil in my car.”
“Cool. Did my dad win?”
“Not yet. We’re almost ready to announce the top five,” I say and give him a wink. “Then the voting for that round will start soon after . . . and then we’ll be done. We’ll have a winner.”
“He’s gonna win,” Luke says right before his hand finds mine as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Chief takes notice of the action but doesn’t say anything about it.
“I think he’s gonna win, too,” I whisper. “But I’m not allowed to say things like that.”
Chief and I hold each other’s gazes for a brief but awkward moment as questions flicker through his eyes but don’t manifest on his lips.
“Are you ready to head out, Luke-ster?” Chief asks.
“Poppy is taking me to the car races in Millville.”
“Car races, huh?” My voice breaks. He definitely is not sick.
“They even have a demolition derby.” There is so much excitement in Luke’s voice that I manage a halfway genuine smile in response.
“It’s something we do once a month,” Chief says.
“It’s our thing.” Luke gives a nonchalant shrug and drops my hand.
“It’s very cool.” I hold the smile as I look from Luke to Chief. “It was very nice to meet you.”
“Likewise. Tell your father hi for me.”
“I will.”
“Gray’s out back. I’ll assume you know where to go.” He points through the house to the back door and then walks down the pathway, Luke following on his heels. I enter and shut the door behind me.
I stand there and take in a deep breath.
I will not cry.
I repeat the words to myself as I walk through the familiar living room. Past the signs of a life well lived—photos of the two of them here and there, a half-built tower of Legos on the floor. Past dishes drying in the rack beside the sink—a coffee cup half-filled, an apple half-eaten.
After setting the bag of food on the counter, I stand there for the briefest of seconds to gather my scattered thoughts currently tinged by hurt.
I should just leave.
Grayson’s made it clear he’s done with me—the lies say that.
I should stay.
I want to go out there and confront him because he has no right to make me . . . want something, only to slam the door in my face.
The sound of the lawnmower pulls me to the back door when every part of my pride tells me I shouldn’t be where I’m not wanted.
When I open it, my breath catches. There is Grayson, shirtless, sweaty, and pushing the lawnmower from one side of the yard to the other. He moves slowly over the small patch of grass, his biceps flexing with each turn of the corner.
Domesticity has never been sexier.
The sight of him has never been more painful.
Eventually, he notices me, but even after he does, he keeps going until he’s finished with the yard.
“Hi.”
“Hey.” Head down, eyes focused on cleaning the mower.
“You aren’t working at the station,” I finally say, when he doesn’t say anything more.
“Nope.”
Okay. What’s going on here?
“You haven’t answered my texts, so I thought maybe you were on shift.”
“Nope. Just busy.”
I hate the dread that slowly trickles into my belly. He isn’t looking at me. He’s not really talking to me.
“Looks like Luke made a full recovery.” Now that? That puts a hitch in his step, but he still doesn’t say anything more. “You lied to me, Grayson. Luke said he hasn’t been sick.”
He grunts in response but still refuses to look my way as he fiddles with this and that on the lawnmower.
“Have I done something wrong?”
“Nothing you can help.”
He hoses off the mower and moves it to a shed in the far corner of the yard, then rolls the trashcans to the side of the house without another word.
I try not to take it personally. I try not to overthink what exactly has caused this shift in him—that he’s done with me and has moved on to the next person in line. When he finally walks my way, I try to engage him again.
Things just aren’t adding up, and every single one of them is making my stomach churn and chest constrict.
“I saw you the other day.”
His steps falter. “I see you a lot of days.”
“But you saw me and acted like you didn’t.” It’s stupid to be hurt by it, but I am. I had spent all afternoon talking to Zoey about him, acknowledged out loud for the first time that I had feelings for him. Then when I waved to him, hoping he would come out so I could introduce him to Zoey, he looked at me as if I had done something to him or, even worse, as if he didn’t even know me, and damn it if it didn’t really hurt my feelings.
His only response is to grunt again.
“Did I do something wrong, Grayson?”
“Nope.”
Sick of being ignored, I walk over to where he is busying himself snapping cushions onto the chairs of the patio furniture. “What’s your problem?”
For the first time, he straightens and turns to look at me. I see confusion. Hurt. Uncertainty. And when he speaks, his voice is a low, even tone. “You just reminded me of someone I used to know.”
Past tense? Reminded?
“We’re back to this again?” I throw my hands up in frustration.
“You don’t know the half of it, Princess.” His derisive chuckle forewarning of a storm waging beneath the surface.
“Grayson, what in the ever-loving hell are you talking about?”
“You don’t fit in here.” Confused, I reach out to touch his arm, and he steps back so I can’t. He can spew any words at me—I have tough skin—but that action hurts more than I want to admit. “You and your friend in your designer clothes and loaded shopping bags . . . you don’t fit in here. Isn’t there some fancy party you need to attend or something?”
“You aren’t making any sense.” But he is. He’s making perfect sense. He saw me with Zoey last week, and instead of seeing two ladies having fun, he saw Claire. He saw what he thinks is my getting bored of Sunnyville and preparing to move on. I know exactly what he saw, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.
“Sid.” He hangs his head for the briefest of seconds and sighs, defeat in every part of his posture. “It’s probably best if you just go. I’m in a shitty mood, and I’m dealing with crap that makes no sense to you and . . .” His words fade as he turns from me, laces his hands on the back of his head, and paces to the end of the yard.
“I’m not Claire.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Goddammit, Grayson! I’m not Claire!”
“Aren’t you, though?”
“Fuck. You.” Every part of me screams the words that my lips speak in such an even tone.
When he turns to face me, his expression is stoic, at best, emotionless at worst, and I scramble for how to fight with someone who looks like the fight has already been taken out of them.
Then my thoughts click into place. The lie. The lack of communication after we’d been talking daily. Nightly. Every moment in between. It all makes sense. He wasn’t? Was he?
“You were testing me, weren’t you?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You lied about Luke being sick and canceled our dates to see how I’d react.”
His chuckle is condescending. “Well, your little tantrum right now pretty much proves my theory right.”
“Your theory?” I yell as rage riots within. It all makes sense. The sudden disappearance of Grayson and him blaming it on Luke. His accusations that I’m like Claire. He wanted to see if I’d bail on him like she did.
When he was the reason he couldn’t see me.
“Yeah. Your little tantrum because I haven’t been at your beck and call proves me right. You only think about you. You only care about you. You’ll get mad if I have to cancel because something happens with Luke.”
“I wasn’t mad at you at all until now! Until you lied to me to try to prove I was like Claire. Until you didn’t trust me.” I scream. “You can take your theory and shove it up your ass. You can take the homemade soup that I made two different times because the first batch was horrible that’s sitting on the counter in your house and shove it right along with your theory. I was worried about the two of you because Luke had been sick for so long that I tried really hard to make something for you when I don’t cook.”
Tears burn as they well in my eyes, but I blink them away. I will not give Grayson the satisfaction of seeing me cry over him.
It’s my turn to move. To pace. To abate every ounce of anger I have vibrating within.
“This is my life, Sidney.” He throws his arms out to his sides and matches me shout for shout. “Luke gets sick. I have to cancel things. Luke’s needs aren’t always first, but they are a lot of the goddamn time. Can you handle that? Can you handle being second place in your first-class world?”
I stare at him. He’s so fucking gorgeous I don’t want to look away, yet the sight of him makes me want to scream and yell and tell him to go to hell.
“Screw you.”
“Apparently, that’s the one thing we’re good at.” His nonchalance only serves to enrage me. The way he just cast aside, with those few words, how close we’ve become hurts more than expected.
“What the fuck is this, Grayson? What are we doing here? Because I can’t figure you out. One minute, you want me, and the next minute, you don’t. One minute, you’re lying to me, and the next minute, you’re giving me some kind of fucked-up test to see if I’m good enough to be a part of your life. Is this just sex? Is this more? Because you send so many goddamn mixed signals that I don’t know which way is up anymore. Do me a favor and make up your mind and quit playing with mine.” I fight the tears that threaten as he stares, the muscle in his jaw pulsing and tension radiating off him.
“Sid . . .”
“I’m fighting for you, Grayson. Is that what you want? I’m fighting for you when she wouldn’t, but I sure as hell won’t compete against your ghosts.”
“I’ve never asked you for anything.”
I feel like every part of my body has been wrapped as tightly as possible in barbed wire. Like I’m suffocating although I’m in the open air.
Fuck you.
I hate you.
Screw you.
I don’t say any of those things because as much as I tell myself that I don’t care, that this is just a fling like he says, I know I feel more from him. I know there is more between us than this.
I love you.
Oh. God.
“We never talked parameters, Sid. All I can offer you is fun and done. I never promised you more.”
“I never asked for more,” I whisper to save face when every part of me is reeling from those three words that never grace my lips.
“Good,” he says and turns back to the cushions on the damn chairs as if we didn’t just close the door on whatever this was between us.
“Good.”
Without another word, I turn on my heel, walk inside, pull the brownies from the bag on the counter, and leave.