CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Clare, you have a visitor,” Drew yells from downstairs.
I sigh and snuggle back under the covers. Over the last two days I’ve found myself in bed any moment I wasn’t at the center trying to calm the fears of everyone there. My idea of hiding under the covers seemed the reasonable choice for dealing with my own insecurities and sadness. Saturday morning is my time to lie in bed and wallow. Everyone should get a good wallow period after a breakup, right? I haven’t had a chance to really wallow.
Footsteps pound on the stairs, the walls shaking. I hold my breath and wait to find out if it’s one RDA girl who showed up or if they came with the whole crew. I didn’t make the breakup public knowledge, but I’m sure it’s made the rounds by now. They have alarm devices implanted on them that light up whenever anyone’s in trouble. Although, if I’m honest, having girlfriends right now isn’t so bad. There’s a chance they brought ice cream. Please let them have ice cream.
And liquor.
Drew’s head clears my doorway, but he stops before entering my room. Which is suspicious. “You need to go downstairs and talk to him.”
I sit up in bed. “You did not?” My best friend in the entire world is not stupid enough to let Grant Moore III in our house.
“What was I supposed to do, Clare? He’s taken up station on our front porch.”
He did. I can’t believe he did. “I have nothing else to say to him.”
“Well then let him talk,” Drew says and then his head disappears. His door shuts across the hall a few seconds later.
There’s nothing more either of us should have to say to one another. Grant had his chance to explain Thursday. I’ve watched what happens to a woman when she loses herself for a man and I’m determined to never let it happen to me.
I throw back the covers and slide my sock-covered feet out of bed. I’ve been unable to get warm since Thursday night. The rain seeped into my skin reducing my core temperature. I tug on my red flannel pajama pants pulling them up so I look a bit put together. The Giants t-shirt I stole from Grant after the baseball game is another matter. I’m unwilling to let him see me wearing it so I hurry to throw on a clean sweatshirt. The San Francisco Youth Center’s logo is prominently displayed on the left side as another reminder to Grant of his actions. I have to live with them every day. So should he.
My feet are slow going down the steps. Grant stands in the entryway and I stop before I make it to him. There are dark circles under his eyes and he hasn’t put gel in his hair this morning. The strands cling to the side more from his fingers than the style. He’s wearing his normal Grant gear — a pair of jeans and a dark blue polo shirt — but the shirt is at least two sizes too big. Frankly he looks like hell. Which is hard for Grant.
It’s nice to know he’s as affected by our breakup as I am. As soon as the words crawl into my brain space, I mentally slap myself. I’m not ready to hit the angry phase of this breakup. I’m still in the middle of sadness. I haven’t had the wallow yet.
“Clare,” he says my name and takes a step forward, but I raise a hand out to block the path.
I’m not strong enough for Grant to touch me. If I allow that, we’ll end up in a hug, and then I’ll cry and get snot all over his shirt. It will be horrible and in the end it won’t change anything.
He lowers his hands and turns back to the open front door. On the porch sit two large brown boxes stacked on top of one another. In front of them a large vase of lilies. The clear crystal vase is like the one I threw away last night when I came down for dinner. I don’t need any more reminders of Grant in my house.
“I brought gifts.”
I huff at whatever he’s collected out there. “I don’t want gifts.”
“I need to say I’m sorry.”
The empty cavity in my chest where I used to store a heart hurts. Physical pain travels through my body. The pain has to stop. I’ll do anything to make it stop and get back to my pre-Grant life. “And what gifts did you bring to say you’re sorry?”
Grant smiles, probably because he thinks I’m going to love his apology. More proof he doesn’t get me at all. He walks to the front door and steps over the threshold stopping on the other side of the porch.
My steps follow him, but not completely out. A hand lands on the door handle and I meet his eyes for a second before I say, “I’m sorry.” The door shuts, my hand refusing to let go right away.
He knocks on the wood. “Clare, don’t be this way.”
Slower, because I’m a little more dead inside, I latch the deadbolt and turn, walk up the stairs, and crawl into bed. The blankets cover my face and block out the light. I prefer to live in darkness for the time being.
“That was shitty.” Drew rips the covers off my body and deposits them at my feet.
I grab at the pile and try to pull them up but he sits on the end of my bed. “It’s funny how you want to tell me what’s shitty. How about the person I thought was my best friend who let him in to begin with?”
“So this is how you plan to go on for the rest your life? You run away whenever there’s a problem.”
“It’s worked for me so far.” I make one last ditch attempt to reach the covers and tug as hard as possible, but Drew doesn’t budge. I sit up, agitated that not only am I cold again, but my best friend is a moron.
He shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re supposed to be the smart one.”
