Bend (37 page)

Bending down so my mouth is close to her ear and I can feel wayward tendrils of her hair against my cheek, I tell her, “I’m sorry, Mia.”

She goes more rigid at that, keeping herself so still that I can tell she’s holding her breath.

I slide one hand across her front until it finds the bare skin of her upper arm, locking her in my embrace, hugging her tightly as I repeat near her ear, “I’m so sorry.”

Her breath hitches, and then it escapes with a whoosh and a gasp. A whimper erupts from deep in her throat, and her shoulders sag and her knees buckle. It’s like she collapses, caving in on herself, and the only thing stopping her from sinking to the floor is me holding her up.

Gently and slowly, I let her sit down on the floor, and then I join her there. Her body half turned toward me, I wrap her up in my arms again, keeping her as close and tight as I can. She cries mostly in silence, holding her breath as shudders are racking through her in waves, and only when she’s forced to take a breath does she make any sound.

And it’s a heartbreaking noise that wrenches itself out of her then, a kind of hiccupping moan that cuts me and rips me open. I’d give anything right now to take all this misery away from her, to carry it for her so she doesn’t have to.

“Please tell me this isn’t real,” she gulps out between sobs, her voice thick with disbelief and despair. “It’s not actually happening, right?”

I can’t answer, not in a way she wants or is helpful. So I just squeeze her harder, and as I rest my forehead against her head, my face buried in her hair, my own eyes and nose start to water as well.

At my sniffle, she twists toward me and throws her arms around my waist. Eventually her breathing slows, and she relaxes against me, going soft and boneless in my arms. We sit there for a long while, saying nothing. And the whole time it’s thrumming at the back of my mind, the knowledge that being able to comfort her like this is a privilege and I’m a lucky son of a bitch, while I’m wishing this wasn’t necessary at all.

I’m also trying to keep her from accidentally touching me anywhere near my crotch, because I’m holding her and she feels so soft in my arms and smells so good, and my dick apparently doesn’t give a shit that this is a seriously inappropriate time for a semi.

I know suddenly that I’m not getting laid tonight—which, no, is not in any way disappointing or upsetting, because I’m not an insensitive douche.

I won’t be telling her any of the stuff Frank and Gwen’s investigator discovered about me, either. Not tonight.

I also know that I won’t be sleeping on the floor. Because there’s no way I can let Mia lie in that bed by herself all night, alone with her shock and grief and misery.

And the reason I can’t let her do that is because I love her.

I fucking love her, and not just as a friend.

I’m in love with Mia Waters. And somehow, that’s both the best and the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.

The idea that I need to end things now? It starts to feel like a joke. Because it might already be too late.

I
have no idea what time it is when I wake up, but I’m pretty sure it’s much earlier than I want it to be. The light that filters in through the blinds is dim, so either it’s barely dawn or the sky outside is dark with clouds.

That’s the first thing I notice.

The second is that my mouth feels dry, my throat scratchy, and my head is pounding. Guess after a horrible evening and restless night, it was too much to hope that I wouldn’t wake up feeling like crap.

The third thing I become aware of is Jay, lying next to me.

Sprawled on his stomach, he’s facing away from me, arms buried under his bunched-up pillow. He’s wearing a white T-shirt, his hair is rumpled, and he’s breathing the steady, shallow breaths of deep sleep.

It’s both weird and wonderful to wake up next to him like this. When I got into bed last night after brushing my teeth and while waiting for him to do the same, I wasn’t sure he would. But not only did he, as soon as he crawled under the blankets, he wrapped his arms around me again. And that’s how I fell asleep. With Jay holding me.

I don’t even want to think about how I would’ve gotten through the past twelve hours without him. The way he was there for me and how much closer it brought us proves how wrong he was that sex would ruin our relationship. If anything, I’m stronger now—stronger and happier. He probably is, too. I can’t be alone in feeling that way, right?

Grandma.

It still feels so surreal. Memories of last night are fuzzy and hazy, like a dream. It’s as if the part of my brain that knows it’s true and real and unalterable is hidden behind a door, and I know it’s there, but if I open the door, it’s all going to come rushing out at me, submerge me and drown me. So I’m keeping the door shut. Until I’m ready to open it.

Scooting down to the foot of the bed, I manage to slip out of it and get up without waking Jay. With rocks in my stomach and my limbs leaden and sluggish, I shrug into the first clothes I can find in my luggage: black leggings and a thin, thigh-length, wine-red top. Then I unzip the top pocket of the suitcase and grab the pink and sparkly gift-wrapped package I put in there while packing in a rush before going to Angie’s party Thursday night. Was that really less than three days ago? It feels like an eternity.

Glancing back, I see that Jay doesn’t even stir at the squeak of the bedroom door opening.

The house is silent, which makes the slight creaking of the stairs sound all the louder as I descend. I go straight to the kitchen, where I fill myself a glass of water before digging into the cabinet where Mom keeps her stash of over-the-counter meds. Finding an oversize bottle of generic painkiller, I toss down a double dosage, and then I turn on the single-cup coffee and espresso maker. With a long and tiring day ahead, I need to attack this headache on two fronts.

The water tank is empty, and I’m at the sink in the middle of filling my cup with water when movement catches my eye through the kitchen window. Someone’s in the gazebo, and when I bend over the sink and crane my neck for a better look, I recognize the black robe with its printed pattern of pink-and-purple roses immediately. It’s Grandma.

I pour the water into the coffeemaker and hit the button for it to start brewing. When I pulled my shit back together last night after crying in Jay’s arms on the bedroom floor, we went back downstairs. First thing I did was find my grandmother and give her a hug. I didn’t say anything—I couldn’t; what had happened was so big and incomprehensible, and all the words that came to mind were too small—and neither did she.

I helped with the rest of cleanup after dinner, and then Jay and I went to bed. After which I lay there for a long time, wondering if I should’ve just forced myself to talk to her after all. And imagining a dozen different ways that conversation might’ve played out. So right now I’m pretty grateful to have found Grandma alone and to have a second chance at not leaving this house with that regret hanging over me.

When my coffee is done, I pour a dash of milk into it, and then I head to the patio door with the steaming mug in my hand and the gift tucked under my arm.

The grass rustles as I cross it, and the brick steps up the small slope to the white, wooden gazebo feel cold and hard under my bare feet. Hands folded in her lap, Grandma sits in the wicker love seat with its rust-colored pillows. Her face lights up when she catches sight of me.

“Morning, honey,” she says as I draw near.

“Hey. You want some coffee?” I hold out my mug to her, ready to pop back in the house and make myself another cup if I need to.

“No, thank you,” Grandma replies with a shake of her head. She pats the cushion beside her.

I accept the invitation without a word, taking a seat next to her. Tucking my feet up on the seat and crossing my arms, I hug myself against the brisk morning air. It’s damp and chilly out here, and the grass glistens with raindrops that apparently fell during the night.

“I got you a little birthday present.” Picking the gift off my lap, I offer it to my grandmother. “I know I wasn’t supposed to, and I didn’t know if I’d get a chance to give it to you in private, so I was just going to leave it in your room this morning. Didn’t want anyone yelling at me for it. But now I don’t care anymore.”

Eyeing me sideways with her brows arched, Grandma accepts the thin, rectangular package.

“I donated money, too,” I reassure her hastily.

“Okay,” she says, sounding amused, and with her age-spotted but still dexterous hands, she starts to tear off the paper.

I lift the mug up to my lips, tentatively testing the temperature before taking a slurping sip.

“Oh, my…” Grandma has pushed away the wrapping paper, unfolded the protective tissue paper, and flipped over the picture frame to reveal the painting made from the photo of us that’s on my fridge. The artist did a good job, and I’m very happy with the result.

“I know you’ve said it’s your favorite picture of us,” I explain, watching her run her thumb down the edge of the embellished silver frame while gazing at the image behind the glass. “There are artists you can hire through the Internet to do paintings out of photographs. I thought you might like it.”

“Well, you thought right.” She puts a hand on my arm, squeezing it through my sweatshirt. “Thank you, honey. It’s beautiful.”

After one last, admiring look at the painting, she re-wraps it in the tissue paper and tucks it in between her hip and the armrest. Almost offhandedly, she says, “I’ll make sure it’ll be yours when I’m gone.”

A lightning bolt of pain strikes my gut. The door hiding the ugly truth starts to inch open. Tightening my grip on my mug, I say in a strangled whisper, “Please, don’t talk like that, Grandma.”

She throws me an impatient look. “It’s never a bad time to be practical about things that need to be done. Anyway, I’m going to give you my lily brooch, too. Next time I see you.”

I stare at her, my eyes stinging and blurring. In my hands, my coffee is quickly cooling. Behind the gazebo, in the trees by the wooden fence, birds are chirping and tweeting, singing songs that to human ears sound merry and pretty. When in fact it’s mostly male birds who are trying to get laid. And I guess that works for them, or they wouldn’t do it, right? I mean, millions of years of evolution, slowly morphing from dinosaur to bird, and you’d think if all that noise didn’t make the girl birds come flapping over to get some, the males would’ve figured out a different strategy by now?

Fighting the lump that’s growing big and hard and aching in my throat, I say, “I’m just not ready. This wasn’t supposed to happen for a long time.”

With a small snort, my grandma shoves her hands into the pockets of her robe. “I beat average life expectancy. That’s pretty good.”

“Stop it.” I’ve gone past pleading now. At least with this spark of anger, it’s easier to suppress the tears.

Grandma heaves a sigh and flashes a contrite smile. “I’m being unfair, aren’t I? I’ve had weeks to come to terms with it. You’ve only had one night.”

I give a short nod of agreement before taking another drink of my now-lukewarm coffee, swallowing it with difficulty.

“And it’s always harder for those who are left behind, isn’t it?” she muses. “I should know.”

Biting the inside of my cheek, I keep quiet and let her talk.

“Eighteen years without your grandfather. They were supposed to be our best years. Retirement, travel, great grandchildren. Just enjoying life. And I had to do it all without him.”