“In a way. It lit a fuse in me, sure. And so did my grandparents. They said, ‘You’d make a great activist. Maybe this is your moment.’”
A smile takes over my face. “You took something hurtful and turned it around.”
“But, Declan, if you think about it, we both did that. We both took these situations we didn’t ask for and used them for good.”
“To become the men we are today,” I say, buzzed that Grant Blackwood and I are finding new common ground on Christmas morning. It’s like an extra gift in my stocking, especially since I want this conversation to be the start of a much deeper one we have soon.
With that in mind, I ask if he’ll be at an upcoming awards event in San Francisco in February.
“I will,” he says, a note of hope in his voice.
“Me too.”
In the background on his end of the line, a woman calls his name, laughing.
“I’ll be inside in a minute, Sierra. I’m just on the phone.”
I hear her ask, “Who are you talking to?”
Grant pauses, maybe wondering who I could be to him. All the titles I could have.
“Someone,” he finally replies, and I don’t mind that. I do, after all, want to be someone to Grant.
I, too, like that he returns to the topic of the event. “So, you’ll be here in February, Declan?”
“I will. Will I see you there?” I ask, a note of hope in my voice this time.
“Yes, you will.”
It’s not a plan per se. But it’s damn close.
When I land in San Francisco in February, my first instinct is to message Grant.
It’s a good instinct.
When he writes back, I’m pretty damn sure I’m going to be changing my flight and staying an extra day.
And, more to the point, an extra night.
Present Day
22
Grant
I’m naked in bed, under the covers, chilling and listening to a thriller when the text arrives.
It’s a Thursday morning in February, and I pause the book as soon as the message pops up.
* * *
Declan: Holy fuck. I just landed. It’s fuck-all cold in San Francisco.
* * *
Smiling, I stretch out on the bed and type:
* * *
Grant: Don’t you know what Mark Twain said? The coldest winter I ever spent was a summer in San Francisco.
* * *
Declan: It’s not summer. It’s February, and it’s colder than New York.
* * *
Grant: Not here in my house. I have a fireplace in my bedroom.
* * *
Declan: Showoff.
* * *
I snap a photo of the fireplace—it’s electric, but still. The end of my bed is visible in the shot, and I don’t crop it out. I add one word and send it to him.
* * *
Grant: Toasty.
* * *
Declan: That’s not the word I’d use for the shot of your bedroom.
* * *
Maybe I should stop. But after the World Series, and after talking at Christmas, this text exchange feels natural. It feels like what Declan and I should be doing today.
* * *
Grant: What word would you use, then?
* * *
Declan: HOT.
* * *
Grant: True. Maybe I should take off the covers.
* * *
Declan: Don’t let me stop you.
* * *
Grant: Oh, I wasn’t. I definitely wasn’t.
* * *
Declan: Is there a picture coming my way?
* * *
Grant: Damn, I send you one pic, and you’re angling for another?
* * *
Declan: You’ve always been good at sending me selfies that made me want more.
* * *
Grant: True. One of my many skills. Here you go.
* * *
I send him a pic of me in bed. It’s from the waist down, but the covers are on, showing only the shape of my legs under the white duvet.
* * *
Declan: *groans* Such a tease.
* * *
Grant: But are you warmer now?
* * *
Declan: Yes. I definitely am. Much warmer. Also, will I still see you tonight at the awards?
* * *
I stare at Declan’s note for a few seconds. I kinda like that he’s not assuming he’ll run into me. That he’s not simply saying catch ya later.
* * *
Grant: Yes. You still will.
* * *
Declan: Good. I look forward to it.
* * *
I lock my phone and stretch out, my hands behind my head, and think about tonight.
When I look at the clock, a new countdown begins.
That afternoon, I get ready for The Sports Network award gala, which means it’s tux time.
I fiddle with my bow tie, slide on my jacket, then turn to my plus one. “Need help, Pops?”
Rolling his eyes, my grandpa chuckles. “I knew how to tie a bow tie before you were born.”
“I should hope so,” I say, deadpan.
A few minutes later, he’s dapper AF, and I tell him as much.
“Dapper AF. It’s everything I ever wanted,” he says.
We leave my place and head to the limo waiting outside. The driver opens the door for my pops, and I slide in next, thanking the chauffeur as I do.