His smile is so broad you would’ve thought I just handed him a one way ticket to the NBA and suddenly, my fouettés are the last thing on my mind.
21
Grant
There’s a car waiting for us when we land, and I glance down at Gen, wondering if it’s too much. Anders is holding up a name sign, like the blacked out SUV isn’t the eye sore it is amongst the middle class vehicles picking up travelers at this end of Hartsfield-Jackson. But she’s unfazed, and the ease with which she slides into the back bench reminds me that she’sveryused to this, reminds me that she spent years with Will, one of two heirs to his grandfather’s dairy dynasty.
But as the car slows and we pull into the long, meandering drive that leads to my parent’s oversized, historic home, I hear her short intake of breath.
“Yougrew uphere?” she asks, not taking her eyes off the structure.
“I did,” I exhale, a nervous chuckle escaping me. “If it makes you feel better, it was inherited.”
“Because old money isn’tmoreintimidating than new money,” she jokes, anxiety pooling in her eyes. “And you told them I’m coming?”
“Of course I told them. They can’t wait to meet you.”
She pulls a deep breath in through her nose and I move off the bench, taking her hand to help her step out. “I’ve never done well with these people.” Real concern flashes in her gaze. “I need, like, a run down. What should Inotdo?”
“Gen.” I pull her to me, brushing a curly wisp out of her face, my hand scooping behind her head to tilt it up to face me. “There’s nothing. You’re perfect…please be you. I don’t want you to be anything else.”
A deep blush forms across her cheeks, blooms over her chest. She bites down on her bottom lip and I have to kiss her. I barely even think as I press my lips to hers, the sudden flick of her tongue against mine amplifying the desire that’s always thrumming just beneath the surface for her.
“Maybe bitin’ that lip.” I drag my thumb across said lip, loving the feel of it beneath my touch. “It drives me crazy. Can’t think straight when you do it.”
“I’ve been doing it for as long as I can remember. I do it all the time,” she says, her eyes narrowing in slight challenge. I grip her waist, my thumb running over her ribcage, and her eyes heat in real time.
“It’s been a long few months,” I admit.
“Then Ithinkyou can handle yourself for a weekend.” She smiles a little bigger than before as we hear the front door shut in the distance, and I turn to see Evie Fielder—blowout visible from here—in the distance, her eyes crinkling, her excitement palpable.
We make our way up to the porch and, wordlessly, my mom wraps her arms around me, squeezing tightly, and I catch something like longing flash in Gen’s gaze.
“I did just see you a few weeks ago,” I chuckle, pulling back to look down at her as she playfully smacks my arm.
“Just you wait. There’s nothin’ like seein’ your babies back home. If only I could get your sister to leave her fancy new job for even aday,” she says with a dainty huff, turning to Gen. Curiosity laces her expression, a subtle smile softening intensity of her assessing gaze. “Genevieve,” she says like she’s known her since she was in diapers, her gaze shifting to one of acceptance in a millisecond as she grabs and squeezes her hand. “What a pleasure to have you here this weekend.”
Something unfurls in my chest; I knew she would love Gen, and even if she hadn’t, it wouldn’t have changed anything. But the look in Gen’s eyes as she’s accepted the way my mom is accepting her has me feeling like pieces are clicking into place.
“It’s so wonderful to meet you. I know it was last minute…” Gen starts to say, her earlier worry peering through.
“Nonsense! I love having guests. The more the merrier! Not that Grant ever has guests. In fact, you’re the first girl he’severbrought here. Well…not that he’s neverbroughta girl here but?—”
“Andthat’senough, I think. Should we go in?” A blush burns on my cheeks as I rest my hand on the small of Gen’s back, ushering her and my mother inside.
“Oh,pish posh,” my mom says, her drawl slightly more pronounced. “You know what I meant. And so does Genevieve.” She leans forward, tossing a conspiratorial wink at the suddenly shy ballerina trying her hardest to melt away into my touch.
The house is a breath of fresh air, the way it always is: a sea of pinks, greens, yellows, and cream. I remember thinking it felt like one of those home and garden magazines, with big bundles of flowers on every table, napkins atevery chair of the dining table. Sunlight streams into each room, hardly a dark corner in sight. We all ascend the grand staircase, Gen falling back to meet my ear.
“You have to know this house is insane,” she whispers, her eyes lit up with amazement. “The doors?” Her gaze sweeps over the intricately foiled doors that line the perimeter of the second floor, completely ignoring the small spiral staircase that leads to the third floor.
“Anders brought your bags up and I think…” my mom thinks for a moment, finally pointing to one of the doors when she remembers, opening it with dramatic flair. “Yes! I put you in here, Gen. It’s my favorite one.”
The massive, four poster bed could almost require a step stool to climb on top of. The room is decorated in shades of cream and the mid morning sun pours in through the french doors that lead to the balcony.
“This is so beautiful. Did you design it?” Gen asks, glancing around.
“Sloane did.” Mom’s mouth curves in happy remembrance, a fleeting, far away look on her face; it pulls the slightest thread of sadness into this moment. “Years ago. But she did so well, didn’t she?”
