“Well, it does to me. I want to know how you’re feeling.”
I grasp his chin and turn his face toward me. “You’re being really sweet.” I eye him. “You said you did a lot of therapy, but what honestly changed you so much in ten years? You’re at least seventy-five percent less awful.”
He links his hand behind his head and reclines back on my bed. “I started to feel more secure in college. That’s all it was in high school—insecurity. I was worried about my social status. Igot more comfortable with failure, with not being the best, as I got older.” He scratches his cheek. He’s not looking at me. “I met a girl in med school who talked about her experiences being bullied when she was younger. I recognized more and more that I was that person, the one who did that to others. And you got the worst of it.” Now he turns toward me. “I was insecure because I came from a good family, and you were still better than me at every subject.”
“My family’s not good?”
He winces. “Shit. I know how that sounds. I mean, that was my thought process at the time. I know now how wrong I was.”
“Thank you for helping my mom,” I say quietly.
It’s easier to say with only the soft glow of my bedside lamp. With the starless night sky outside my large window and the soft comforter at my back, I could pretend this whole conversation isn’t a huge deal.
“I’m surprised you didn’t kick up even more of a fuss,” he says. His accent’s a tiny bit thicker when he’s relaxed, I notice. He tries to cover it, just like I do.
“I wanted to, but then I thought about it.” I roll toward him. “My mom needs the money. And the groceries were a nice touch. She won’t take any from me or Blaine.”
“Is she still working?” He’s watching me again, studying me like he wants to get inside my head.
I nod. “She had to quit for a period of time after Blaine’s accident, and she’s had some health issues over the years. She got a better job recently, though. At the nursing home. It’s even got benefits. I still worry about her, but not as much now.”
“I’m glad, then. I hate that you guys struggled so hard.”
I turn my head away from him. My eyes trace over some of the items on and around my desk—a new laptop, a stack of books, a cushy rolling chair I spent too much on. All things I wouldn’t have owned as a kid. Thank God for public libraries, at least.
“I was hungry some, as a kid,” I say, almost whispering. I can’t believe I’m being this vulnerable with him. “I know you had lots to say about that?—”
“Kendall. I’m aware of what food insecurity looks like. You don’t have to explain anything.”
“Yeah, well, it sticks with you. It’s why I will never intentionally restrict myself. I have a fridge full of food and sometimes I still find myself getting nervous.”
He winces. “I’m so sorry.” His face takes on a solemn cast. “I would do anything to go back in time. I would have asked my parents to help you guys. I would have stopped being such an unconscionable dick.”
“I know. I do believe you now. It still hurts, but I believe you.” I throw one leg over his, and he traps it between his own. “Mom grew up with even less than I did, if you can believe it. And my granny with less than her.”
“Is she still alive? Your grandmother?”
“She’s my only living grandparent,” I say. “She’s ninety. Lives at the same facility where my mom works. She was the youngest of fourteen kids. She talks about how when she was growing up, the bathwater was always dirty by the time they got to her because she had to go last.”
He grimaces. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. So sometimes I think it wasn’t so bad, how I had it. And I’m okay now.” I blow out a breath. “I think I’m done feeling exposed. Let’s talk about you.”
“What do you want to know?” Grant’s expression is a little more relaxed, like he’s not quite so tortured anymore. Pity. He has that self-assured air about him, like he knows he belongs in every space.
“Why orthopedics?”
He shrugs. “It makes the most sense to me. That’s the easiest answer. I like how you can usually draw a straight line from the problem to the solution.”
“Ah. No messy conditions for you, huh?”
“Ha.” He smiles at me. “It’s a stereotype for a reason.” He sits up, and the light from my lamp illuminates his skin, making him look like a damn Greek God. “So why nursing?”
“I meant it when I said I couldn’t afford med school. I needed a job where I could come out of school pretty quickly making decent money.”
“I understand.” He leans closer to me. He avoids looking at my naked body, and I drag a white throw over myself to put him out of his misery. “What about singing? I’ve gotta say, I knew this when we were younger, but your voice, is, ah . . .” He looks up, searching. “It’s amazing.”
“You look like you wanted a different word there,” I tell him.
