He just walks beside me with his hands in his pockets, pointing out the bookstore across the street like this is fine, like I didn't just mentally abandon our date mid-conversation. Inside it's cooler but not by much, and Grant picks up a sci-fi novel with a spaceship on the cover. "Have you read this? It's incredible."
"Not yet."
"I'll lend it to you. If you, you know, if you want." He's still trying, still being nice about this disaster.
"Sure. Thanks."
We drift next door to the thrift shop and bells chime over the door, dust motes floating in the slanted light, and he points out a vintage typewriter in the window. Black and cream, keys worn smooth from decades of use. "You seem like someone who'd appreciate this."
He's right. I do. Old things that still work, that carry stories in their dents and scratches. But I'm looking at it and there's nothing—no spark, no flutter. Grant's close enough that I ought to notice his cologne or his warmth or something, but I don't. There's just pleasant company and the crushing awareness that pleasant isn't enough.
We pass more shops—art galleries, a boutique with dresses in the window I can't afford—and Grant keeps the conversation going, filling all the silence I'm leaving, and god, I'm grateful he's making this easy, but that's the whole fucking problem.
The sun's dipping lower when Grant drives me back. His truck pulls up in front of Ward & Weller and the shop looks dark, and my first thought is Holt left and my second thought is why do you care, he's not waiting for you, why would he wait, it's not like he's said anything or done anything.
"I had a really good time today," Grant says, and he sounds genuine, like maybe he didn't clock how checked out I was.
"Me too." The lie sits bitter on my tongue, not because it was bad but because it was fine, and fine is somehow worse. "Thanks. For coffee and everything."
"Can I see you again?"
I hesitate. Just a second, maybe two, but it stretches between us like miles. He reads it immediately because of course he does. "Sorry, was that too—"
"No, I just—"
He shifts in his seat, turns to face me, and I watch him make a decision, see it happen in real time. He leans in. Slow. Giving me every opportunity to stop him, to pull back, to say no thank you, and I want to want this, he's cute and interested and patient, everything a guy should be, this is what first dates lead to, this is normal. His face gets closer and I can see his eyes arelight brown with little gold flecks and—wrong. Everything about this is wrong.
It hits my body first, before my brain catches up. Nausea rolling through me and my skin crawls like something's touching me that shouldn't be, every nerve ending screaming abort abort abort, and I'm pulling back before I understand why, just knowing that I can't, I can't do this.
Grant stops immediately. Doesn't look offended, doesn't push. "Sorry. Too fast?"
"No, it's—" I can't catch my breath and my skin feels too tight. "I'm not ready."
"The complicated thing."
"Yeah."
He sits back and drums his fingers on the steering wheel once, twice, studies me. "The offer stands. If you change your mind. But I'm not gonna push."
"Thank you." He's being so nice and I feel like garbage, complete garbage. "I'm sorry, you're really great, Grant, this isn't about—"
"I know." His smile's soft, understanding.
I don't answer because what's the point?
"For what it's worth? I hope he figures his shit out. You seem like someone worth figuring it out for."
I get out of the truck before I cry, before I apologize again for being a disaster, for wasting his afternoon, for not being able to feel the right things for the right person. "Thanks, Grant."
"Anytime."
His truck pulls away—clean and quiet and everything mine isn't—and I stand in the parking lot watching it disappear, and the hollow feeling in my chest spreads like water through cracks, filling all the empty spaces I didn't know were there.
Holt's truck is parked around back. I see it and this rush hits me—adrenaline flooding my system, pulse spiking inmy throat and my hands and every single place blood moves through my body. All the reactions that didn't happen with Grant, all the ones that should've happened.
I need to go upstairs. Need to avoid this. Need to figure out what's wrong with me that I can't appreciate someone nice and normal and easy. My feet walk toward the garage.
The bay door's open. Floor fan rattling. Music playing low—just bass and rhythm, no words. He's at the workbench with his back to me, one hand braced against the surface like he's holding himself upright, and I ought to turn around, ought to leave him alone, ought to not do this to myself right now. "Didn't know you were still here."
