The Second Chance (Inferno Falls Book Three) (13 page)

I could be indignant.
 

I could, if I were brave, be cordial. I certainly don’t feel affable, but it’s an option. It’s a bland middle: not affectionate, but not furious, either. Cordiality, to me, feels like greeting him with a pat on the hand and a kiss on each cheek. Then we can sip tea with our pinkies out and talk respectfully about old times.
 

I could be heartsick.
 

I could be happy.
 

I could be true to how I so often feel about Grady when he crosses my mind, and simply
desire
him. Not in the way I desired Chadd the other day and not the way I once very,
very
badly desired Tommy Finch — but in a way of simple wanting. I could desire his hand in mine. Our arms linked. His warmth at my side. His presence here, now, for however long it lasts.
 

But desire is just as bad a trap as any other emotion. What’s done between us is done, and the only reason to let any feeling get the most of me is if I expect it to
not
stay
done.
 

Why should I feel angry? If what we had is in the past, then anger only pulls it back into the present.
 

I’ve lived for nearly a decade without Grady. I’m used to the idea that I’ll live without him forever. If I hop-to the minute he decides to grace me with his presence, that says worse things about me than my lack of sexual willpower. Going to Chadd when he called, that first day, makes me feel like a whore. But responding to Grady would be even worse.
 

Forget how I felt when I heard he was coming back, and forget my little crying episode over old memories last night. I wasn’t crying over today’s Grady; I was weeping over who he used to be. Who
we
used to be. There was a time when we shared something special, but that version of things is gone forever. No matter how much I pine and struggle and fight and scream and cry today, I’ll never change the past. I’ll never get carefree, sweet, naive Maya together with cool, handsome, young, loyal Grady. I’ll never know what those two kids might have turned out like, if things had been different.
 

Nothing I do will change that.
 

No matter what happens today, in the Hungry Bear, what’s done is done. No matter what, he’s now the man who left me, and I’m the girl who …
 

But I won’t accept blame. It’s not my fault. No matter how sure I am to blame the more I consider things, I won’t accept it. He left me. He should have stayed. I didn’t cause this.
 

Except that I’m sure I did. On the walk over, that felt more and more obvious. It was my action, in the heat of the moment, that broke us up.
I
started balls rolling.

It doesn’t matter.
 

What happened happened.
 

I don’t need this man in my life.
 

I don’t
want
this man in my life.
 

And I don’t want this man in Mackenzie’s. He’s never been her father before, and he won’t be her father now. There’s a chance he might ask about her — maybe even want to meet her. But who does that help? What does that serve, other than my fantasies?
 

I won’t indulge in make-believe.
 

I won’t let myself imagine a future where he’s changed. Where he’ll stay. Where he’ll be an anchor to me and arrest what I’m afraid might be my slippery downhill slide. I won’t indulge in a fantasy where we’re a family, where Grady is the one who takes Mackenzie to Brownie meetings when I can’t. Where, if she slips and skins her knee, it’s Grady kissing the wound to make it all better.
 

He wants to meet me? Fine. We’ll meet.
 

Grady was once an old friend. I’ll let him be that: an old friend, compartmentalized in the past. And I’ll greet him as such. We can talk. Chat about the days when I climbed through my bedroom window to see him. About the times we watched the stars from a blanket, and how we learned the best nights to do it, and avoid the dew.
 

I won’t meet him with an open heart.
 

I won’t meet him as someone wounded.
 

I won’t meet him as a girl with a flame to rekindle or a debt to settle.
 

But when I see him, everything changes.
 

He’s wearing his black leather jacket. It was his prize possession back then — one of the few things his uncle let him keep nice. It’s all straps and buckles — the sort of thing that should look corny but doesn’t. His dark hair is a semi-styled mess, as if he combed it, but then drove with an open sunroof. I can see his face without him seeing me enter, because he’s peering at the menu, and it’s exactly as I remember.
 

No time has passed. My lips tingle like sabotage, recalling his kiss.
 

I want to go to him. Sit beside rather than across from him. I want to pretend that time hasn’t left us, say nothing at all, and lean against him. I want Grady to put one arm around me the way he used to. When I was seventeen, that arm was enough to solve the world’s problems. I believed he’d protect me because he was tough like a fighter. I believed he’d take me exciting places because he broke the rules I pretended to follow. I believed that one day we’d leave Inferno together. He was hungry to roam, and I longed to see the world. I want to feel that way again — that sense of nothing holding me down, nothing to intrude on my mind.
 

I crave that feeling, even if it’s fleeting.
 

There would be no job I hate. No boss I hate. No head waitress I hate.
 

There would be no clock to punch. No rent to pay. No obligations to promise then fall short on.
 

There would be no Chadd. No Chadd and Tommy, with their tantalizing, terrible, reluctantly tempting proposals.
 

No torment. No torture. No damage. No pain.
 

Nothing but bliss, like there was when I had room for nothing but Grady.
 

I walk to him, unsure what I’ll do when he sees me. But he
doesn’t
see me, and I’m standing inches away, terrified, when he finally seems to notice a presence at his side. And he must, even then, think I’m the waitress because he orders coffee.
 

And when he looks up and sees me, I see his fear, deep down, like a boiling lake of fire.
 

I can’t help the way it makes me feel, seeing those familiar eyes.

My resolve drains like dye from a soaking cloth, and suddenly I’m standing in front of him vulnerable and naked.

CHAPTER 16

God help me, part of me is still in love with this man.
 

But unlike the last time I loved him, there’s a new storm of emotions swirling within me. I think I’ve idealized our early days, and they’ve taken on the saccharine sweet flavor of puppy love — virginal, naive, vulnerable, wondering. I feel that uncertainty as if it’s new — because as I once wondered if Grady would kiss me, I find myself wondering the same thing all over again. There are seconds, as I watch him stand and greet me with a hug that feels like paper-thin glass, that I think he might lean in. My heart beats harder. I try to control my breath, but I’m preoccupied. My eyes want to sigh closed. I want to tip forward and let him catch me. I want our hug to last too long, and become something else. Something I haven’t felt in a very long time.
 

It’s clear he has no idea what to do.
 

If I were gullible, I’d see his posture full of regret. I’d believe — because I
want
to — that he’s sorry. His text was the most personal thing I’ve heard from him since he left, and it wasn’t hard to read between the lines.
 

He wants to make it right. But in what way?
 

He wants to talk to me. But
why
?
 

I won’t let myself believe this is what my foolish girl’s heart wants to think it is. Because it’s not, and I don’t want to feel that way again. I was crushed once, and I can’t stand the thought of being crushed again.
 

“How are you?”
 

With effort, I find my voice. “I’ve been okay.”
 

“And … Mackenzie?”
 

I don’t want to give away how pleased I am that he knows her name. It makes me a fool. Of course he should know her name. He should have been here all along, to know it intimately, to have written it on thousands of forms. But it’s hard for me to pry self-righteousness from selfishness, and at the same time as I’m trying to keep my distance, I know I might be demanding too much.
 

“She’s good. Healthy. Happy.”
 

“I saw your photos on LiveLyfe. She’s beautiful.”

“Thanks.”
 

“She looks like you.”
 

“She looks like her father,” I say.
 

I don’t know why I say it. I guess I just want to see his reaction. Maybe I say it because it’s a way of saying sorry and offering a hand. A way of saying that I’m not innocent here, either.

He looks away. A short exhale leaves him. Then he picks up the menu. When I don’t do the same, he lowers it and says, “Have you eaten yet? Do you want dinner?”
 

“Are you offering to buy me dinner?”
 

“If you haven’t eaten, sure.”
 

I watch his brown eyes for a long moment. I try to find the truth inside them. I try to find his intentions in them. I try to find the reason he got in touch, and what he expects. But they’re only eyes, inviting me to break bread and nothing more.
 

“I had something before I left work.” It’s a lie, but my stomach is in knots and I don’t want him to see me hungry but unable to eat.

“Oh.”
 

But now he looks almost sad. I consider letting him stay that way for all those old grudges, but I promised myself not to react if I can help it.
 

“I’ll have coffee.”
 

I see a ghost of his old smile. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and the stubble gives him an uncouth, disobedient look that none of the other men around me have.
 

“You always had coffee at night,” he says.
 

“I still do.”
 

“Isn’t it hard to sleep?”

“I’m so tired these days, I sleep no matter what.”
 

The smile leaves Grady’s lips as tidily as if I’ve smacked it away, which I basically have.
 

“My dad and I used to come here all the time,” he says. “What does it say that I remember my usual order, right down to the strange half-and-half way they do the fries?”
 

“Half-and-half how?”
 

“Half-straight. Half-curly.”
 

“Sounds interesting.”
 

“With vinegar. You have to have vinegar.” He touches the brown bottle beside the sugar packets and salt and pepper shakers.
 

“Gross. I remember how you always used to put vinegar on fries. And at the fair?”
 

“You
have
to put a lot of vinegar on fair fries. You have to drown them. At the bottom of the cup, you want those last few scraps to be almost unbearable.”
 

I laugh a little, and Grady smiles. But then I stifle myself and let the laugh peter out. A slight-looking waiter arrives, and Grady orders so businesslike, it’s as if he’s requesting a stockbroker’s portfolio. When the server is gone, we look awkwardly across the table at each other, both of us with hands folded on the tabletop. There’s maybe six inches between my fingertips and his.
 

“You said you wanted to talk to me,” I finally say into the awkward silence. My heartbeat doubles. My fingers twitch.
 

“Actually, I said I wanted to
see
you.”
 

“I guess you’re seeing me now.”

“I am.”
 

“How’s it going for you? Seeing me?” I don’t know if I sound playful or stupid. I know I
feel
stupid, but coming here in the first place, with no agenda, was stupid enough for us both. I won’t trust my judgment on these things for a while.
 

“It’s nice,” he says.
 

We sit for another thirty seconds or so in silence.
 

“I have a cat now.”
 

It’s such a non sequitur that I blink.
 

“What?”
 

“A cat. He’s back at my uncle’s old house. His name is Carl.” There’s a pause, and then Grady says, “He’s an asshole.”
 

“Why did you get a cat?”
 

“The cat got me.”