Thomas set down his newspaper. "Work?"
"Yeah."
"I'm sorry, son."
Grant shrugged, heading for the kitchen. He needed water. Or maybe something stronger, but he had chores in the morning.
Thomas followed him. "You want to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"Grant—"
"What do you want me to say, Dad?" Grant pulled a glass from the cabinet, filled it at the sink. "She promised she'd be here. She wasn't. End of story."
"It's not that simple."
"Isn't it?" Grant drank half the glass in one go. "She had a choice. Her boss asked her to stay, and she said yes. Same choice she's been making for ten years."
"That's not fair. You know how demanding her job is?—"
"I know she always chooses it over everything else." Grant set the glass down harder than he meant to. "Over her family. Over her friends. Over me."
Thomas was quiet for a long moment. "She'll come back. When she's ready."
"Maybe I don't want her to."
The words came out harsher than Grant intended, but he didn't take them back.
Thomas studied him. "You don't mean that."
"Don't I?" Grant set down his glass. "She made a choice today, Dad. Same choice she's been making since she left forcollege. Work over everything else. Over her family, over her friends, over—" He stopped.
"Over you."
Grant's jaw tightened. "Yeah."
"Son, I know you're hurt. You have every right to be. But don't make this bigger than it is in your head. One missed event doesn't?—"
"It's not one event. It's a pattern." Grant ran a hand through his hair. "Every time I think maybe things are different, maybe she's changed, she proves me wrong."
Thomas sighed. "I think you need to actually talk to her before you decide what this means."
"I'm going to the barn." Grant headed for the door. "Got some work to finish."
"Grant—"
But Grant was already gone, letting the screen door bang shut behind him.
Grant couldn't go upstairs. Couldn't lie in that bed that still smelled like Riley. Couldn't sit in the quiet and let his thoughts eat him alive.
So he went to the barn.
The cold air bit at him as he crossed the yard, but he barely felt it. He flipped on the work lights and grabbed a project he'd been putting off—fixing the hinges on one of the stall doors. Something that required his hands and his focus and didn't leave room for thinking.
He worked in silence, the only sounds the scrape of metal on metal and his own breathing. Every few minutes, his phone would buzz in his pocket. He ignored it.
The work helped. A little. Enough to keep the worst of the hurt at bay.
