Luke returns, taking slow and cautious steps our way, this month’s issue of the New Yorker tucked beneath one arm as he waits for Claire to give him the all-clear.
“I have to go. We can finish this talk later though, okay?” She rises. “But seriously. Think about it. You’re finally free.”
I don’t tell her I disagree.
I’m not free.
I’ll never be free until I can make her mine.
And making her mine will never be an option.
23
Brie
“Hey, babe.” Grant greets me with a kiss Wednesday night as I step across the threshold of his front door.
I tense at his touch.
The time has come.
I’m ending this.
My throat constricts, and my mouth is dry. The words are there, on the tip of my tongue, ready when I am.
We landed late Saturday evening and went our separate ways from Sky Harbor. The last few days we’ve been catching up at work, too busy to send more than a handful of scattered texts throughout the day.
I take a seat on his sofa as he opens a bottle of pinot noir in the kitchen, pouring two glasses almost to the top.
After that comment he made at brunch last weekend—about me having second thoughts, I excused myself to make a call, hoping the topic of conversation would be diverted by the time I came back. And it was. On the plane ride home, Grant slipped his headphones on and crashed for four straight hours.
“I’ve missed you.” He hands me a glass and takes the cushion beside me. “Work’s been insane this week, playing catch up. It’s like they’re incapable of functioning without me telling them exactly what to do twenty-four-freaking-seven.”
There are circles under his eyes that weren’t there ten days ago—before his dad died, before he missed a week of work, before he got so hammered at a party that he made an ass of himself and showed his true colors the next morning.
“You’re quiet.” He rubs my shoulder. “And tense. Jeez, babe. What’s wrong?”
I place my untouched wine glass on a coaster and clear my throat. “There’s no easy way to say this, so I’m just going to—”
I don’t get to finish my sentence before Grant pops up, dragging a hand through his hair and pacing the spot between the coffee table and fireplace.
“I knew it,” he says under his breath. “I knew you were going to do this.”
He stops pacing and turns to me.
“Brie … babe … please. Don’t …” His glassy eyes are darker than I’ve ever seen before.
“I’m sorry.” I rise. “I think we rushed this, we got carried away … but I don’t want to get married. And not just to you—to anyone. It’s not something I want. I don’t even know if I want kids.”
“You’re scared.” He comes around the coffee table and clasps my hands in his, peering so intensely it feels as if he can penetrate my soul. “It’s normal. Everyone gets scared. Cold feet. Whatever. We can do counseling. We can talk through this.”
He’s speaking so fast it’s a wonder his mouth can keep up.
“I don’t think counseling can change my mind about wanting to get married …”
“I thought we were in love? Isn’t that what you do when you love someone? You take it to the next level? You commit?” His eyes search mine. “We can postpone it. How much time do you want? A year? Two? Whatever makes you comfortable. The last thing I want to do is scare you into walking away because I’m so damned crazy about you.”
“Grant …”
“I’ve never felt this way about anyone.” He swallows, his gaze glassy. “I know … if you walk out of my life, there will never be another you. I swear to you, I’ll do whatever it takes to make you happy. Tell me what you want and it’s yours.”
“You do make me happy. You’re a good man. And you’ve always been wonderful to me …” Save for him completely ignoring me at Cainan’s party last weekend. “This isn’t about you. This isn’t about anything you’ve done. It’s just the way I feel.”
“Seriously, Brie? You’re going to pull this shit right after my fucking dad died?” His tone changes. The glassy eyes turn dry. The painful wince on his face is replaced with scowling lips and ruddy cheeks.
Grant releases my hand. He scoffs and steps back.
Suddenly it’s as if I’m arguing with a teenager and not a thirty-year-old, self-made man.
“I don’t think it’s fair for you to use that card.” On instinct, I fold my hands across my chest, but I keep my shoulders pulled back as I maintain my composure. “Would you have preferred that I strung you along?”
He tries to speak but nothing comes out.
“There was never going to be a perfect time to do this. I’m sorry,” I say. “I really am. I hate that I’m hurting you. But I want you to know that I adore you as a person. I think you’re an amazing human being, and I have nothing but respect for you.”