“I’m sorry,” he says, brows furrowing. “Sloane Fielder? Are you in there?”
A laugh pulls from deep within me. “Entirely. It’s not his faultentirely.I should’ve known better than to let a man be anythin’ at all.”
“Well, he’s officially on my shit list. Where do these old ass men get off abusing their power like that? Trying, butfailing, to derail a woman like you?” He rolls his eyes, taking another sip of coffee.
I snap my head towards him. “I’m not derailed.”
“Failing,” he says pointedly and his lips quirk in a knowing grin.
“Speaking of men—” I sigh, tilting my head. A natural point to resteer the conversation away from myself.
“What?” he moans, knowing what's coming as he sets his iced coffee back on the counter.
“Do you want to tell me about Ian bein’ at your house this mornin’?” I raise my eyebrows pressing my lips together.
He pulls in a deep breath. “You know, it’s not even that I don’t love him. Cause I do.”
“Sure,” I tell him, tilting my head. “But?”
“He’s my person, like, ninety percent of the time. But what he does with the paper is just…we always fight about it. And then that turns into fights about other things but its values, right? That’s what any fight’s about?” He flicks his gaze up from where it’s been resting on the counter, and I wish I could tell him that wasn’t true. That some confrontations were superficial, could easily be solved by a quick concession. But I knew, more than most, that fault lines run deep.
“Yeah,” I concede, my lips shrugging, and I grab his hands. “But I also think sometimes we’re arguin’ the same thing. That our principles are really the same, but principles in practice can be more complicated.” I say it for myself as much as him, because it reminds me that Grant’s the same, that his heart is in the right place when it comes to the whole Connie thing, just in a different place than mine.
Every time I’ve brought it up, he balks, and I just shelve it for later. If he can love our adoptive parents enough to join the family company, to give up his basketball dreams, then he can muster the strength to go see his birth mother. I know he can; know that in principle making amends with Connie would be important to him. But he’s scared. And instead of saying that, he’s just an asshole but maybe I am too.
Jean nods, checking the time on his phone. “So—what are we doing about our third troubled soul?”
“Well,” I start, thankful for the pivot. “First, I need to call in a favor. You have Andrew’s number?” I fan out my palm, only for him to contort his face in disbelief.
“Why doesSpellmanowe you a favor?”
“That’s between him and I,” I say, keeping my expression steady, implicitly knowing that his sister and her wornbackpack are not common knowledge. “But I need him to bring Grant out tonight.”
“Cause they’re thick as thieves,” he shakes his head, huffing a laugh.
“Well Will’s out of commission and apparently, so is Ben. And I don’t know anyone else on that team.”
“You just keep bringing him up. Youdancedwith him at that art show.” I roll my eyes, but I know my cheeks are a powdery pink giveaway. “Sloane,” he chides, like we’re kids on the playground spying my crush on the monkey bars. “He’s gorgeous. You could do worse. And maybe…you need to get under someone new.” His eyes twinkle, his trademark mischievousness on full display.
Rolling my eyes, I turn my back toward him, eager not to have to strain myself into a mask of ambivalence. “The last thing either of us needs is another man to tangle our lives,” I say, but he’s not wrong. I could domuchworse. Grant’s well on his way to a quiet happiness with Gen, courtesy ofme, and I think that, maybe, someone new and unserious is exactly what the doctor ordered.
12
Andy
The restaurant door bell chimes for the tenth time since I got here and, I swear, my head might crack open, right on this table. I squint past the rows of cookie cutter booths, their sleek sage green benches the opposite vibe of Vida’s, whose weekend endless mimosas would probably cure my hangover.
Clutching the ice water I’m committed to finishing I finally spot Will saunter in. Even behind his shades, I can see where Ben attempted to obliterate his eye socket. The closer he gets, the more I can see the intensity of the bruising. I’m confident it’s throbbing with pain, if the harsh set of his already strong jaw is any indication. He slides into the bench across from me, wincing, and I remember that Ben got way more than one shot in.
There was only one persontrulyto blame for what went down last night, but at this point it doesn’t matter that Ben should’ve stayed away from Liv. That he shouldn’t have poured salt into whatever wounds were already festering between them. Because he did…and Will took the fucking bait.
Before I get a chance at a good look, he props the menu up—an additional layer of armor beyond the sunglasses and the hoodie pulled up around his head. I gently pull it down, grimacing.
“You…look like shit.” I watch carefully for a sign of life. I know that Will really only has two roads he tends to go down: the dark, emotionally volatile one from last night or the shallow one buffered by his humor and feigned ignorance.
When he lets the menu fall, I’m shocked to find he’s not half way down either road. There’s a stoicism in his gaze that freaks me out. He swallows hard, shooting his gaze down at the table.
“Yeah,” he says on an exhale that feels years in the making.
