“Thank you,” I practically whisper as I return the jar to the center of the table. “I love them.”
He nods, and I force myself to avert my gaze, grabbing my fork to take an oversized bite of macaroni. My eyes roll back once I taste it. “Oh my god.” I place a hand over my mouth as I chew. “Sorry for talking with a mouthful, but this is incredible.”
Once my eyes have rolled back in my head, I look forward, and my stomach clenches when I see the look on Grayson’s face.
His nostrils flare once, and a slight pink tinges his cheeks before he uses his fork to scoop up a heaping pile of macaroni and cheese. “Never knew watching someone eat my food could be so hot.”
“Thank you for letting me invite myself over, by the way.”
He smirks at that. “Baby, you can invite yourself over any day of the week. I’d never get sick of it.”
I try and fail to stifle a smile. This is new for me—being around someone who is so open about their feelings and their thoughts. Growing up, it felt like a trick sometimes, trying to figure out what my parents expected of me. The pressure was always there to do the right thing. Say the right thing. Don’t say too much. Don’t say too little. Don’t embarrass yourself, or worse, don’t embarrassthem. When I’d inevitably mess up, and my mom would give me the silent treatment, I’d spend hours, sometimes days, dissecting myself, wondering what I did wrong.
When you grow up in a household that prioritizes appearance and vanity over feelings, it can be confusing when you meet someone who is so openly honest like Grayson. He seems to like me for, well, me, and a big part of me is still learning how to accept that.
Sometimes, I think that’s why I was with Geoff in the first place. He resembles my parents, in some ways. An outsider would say he was present in our relationship, always by my side for the special occasion or holiday party. We shared the same circle of friends. We may have looked picture perfect, but he always kept me at arm’s length. Never one to have that difficult conversation, and never one to want to help me work through my anxiety. Six years together and I can’t say I truly know who he is as a person. And he likely doesn’t know me.
“What’s on your mind?” Grayson's soft question cuts through my spiral.
“Thinking about my parents, weirdly.”
He nods at that, bringing his sandwich to his mouth for a bite. “I’ve been meaning to ask you about your mom.” He chews slowly, as if carefully planning his words withhis gaze focused on his plate. “That night in February, you had tried to call her, and she…”
“Was a bitch?”
He chuckles, tilting his head back as he laughs. “I didn’t want to say the word, but sure.” He swallows his bite before speaking again. “Did she ever apologize for that? Once she found out what had happened? Why you were calling her?”
It’s my turn to stare at my plate. With half my sandwich gone and most of my macaroni sitting comfortably in my belly, I squish a lonely noodle between the tines of my fork, mashing it to pieces.
“Holly.” Grayson’s voice is still soft, but a little stern, commanding my attention.
I shrug a shoulder before dropping my fork, letting it clammer on my plate. I sit back, turning my head to face the front door. Grayson had left the screen door open for dinner, and a soft summer breeze filters through. I take a deep breath, filling my lungs with fresh air. “She never apologized, but…” I turn my gaze back toward him.
There’s that trained part of me that doesn’t want to tell him. Telling him might make him feel bad, and I’m accustomed to keeping it all in so that I don’t upset anyone. But when I look at his sweet face, his sparkling blue eyes, and the tilt in his brows that shows his concern, I realize I’msick of not speaking my mind. Of not telling the world when I’m sad, or angry, or when I simply disagree.
“I had expected her to call me in the few days following that.” I reach for the napkin next to my plate, unfolding it to swipe at the corners of my mouth. “It might sound selfish, but I had expected her to call me back after she was feeling better. I thought she’d be curious about why I was so upset.”
“That’s completely normal to think that.”
“Except, she didn’t. I normally give in first. I'm always the one to break the silence, but this time…I guess I wanted her to care, to feel some sort of guilt for how she spoke to me.”
"That's valid," he whispers, waiting for a beat before realization hits. “So, you haven’t spoken to your mom in almost four months?"
I shrug my shoulder again. “Wouldn’t be the first time. We’ll not talk for a while, then I’ll give in, call her up, and we’ll make small talk, have a shallow conversation about whatever is going on in her life and pretend that she didn’t hurt me. Life will go back to normal.”
He pushes his chair back, scraping the wooden legs against the floor. And then he’s up, taking one step to close the distance between us before he reaches for my forearms, pulling me up to stand. I can barely registerwhat he’s doing, and no words make it out of my mouth before he envelopes me in a hug.
I squeeze him back, gripping my arms tighter around his waist the longer he holds me. He doesn’t say anything—he doesn’t need to. His body does the talking. His long arms are wrapped around me with his cheek resting on the top of my head. We stand like that in a beautiful silence. And for the first time in as long as I can remember, I let myself be cared for by someone.
“It doesn't seem like you've ever had anyone you can count on," he mumbles against my hair. "I won’t blame you if it takes time for you to trust me.” His arms clench tighter around me, and I nuzzle in. “Believing that I won’t hurt you likely won’t come overnight. But I’d like the chance, Holly. Let me prove that I'm not like them, let me prove that I can help you put all the broken parts back together.”
Tears well in my eyes at his words. I can put myself back together—I know that. But it feels goddamn good to hear that someone else wants to help.
The sound of country music echoes through the trees, and Grayson loosens his hold on me at the same time I lift my head from his chest and look out the door. I can hear her before I see her, but soon, there’s a cloud of dust as acherry red Jeep rushes by with a hand out the window as Harper waves toward the house, honking twice.
With his arms on my shoulders, Grayson pulls me back to face him. He swipes his palm over my cheek, moving my loose hair behind my ear and down the back of my shoulder. “We don’t have to talk more about this now, if it upsets you.” He swipes the pad of his thumb underneath my eye, catching the tear before it falls. “But that doesn’t mean we’re going to ignore it. Wanting to be your friend means I want to hear about everything, even if it won’t feel good to talk about.”
“Friend?” I tease, sliding my hands down to rest on his waist as I fist his shirt. “Didn’t know we put a firm label on things.”
