Dad
Good. Make sure you aren't sitting near the door. Every time it opens, it's a risk.
Emmy
I'm in a very safe, warm booth. How about a nice cup of tea?
Dad
It's too hot. I'm waiting for it to reach room temperature.
Emmy set the phone face down on the table, offering Grant an apologetic smile.
"Sorry. You know how Dad is about barometric pressure changes."
"I do," Grant said, a flicker of warmth softening his expression. "How are they doing?"
"He's bored. Mom has retreated into her study again—she's working on another book proposal that connects Edward de Vere to the lost library of Alexandria."
Grant snorted, picking up a fry. "Of course she is. And let me guess—John is convinced the dust from her old manuscripts is compromising the air quality?"
"It is a 'respiratory hazard of the highest order,'" Emmy quoted, laughing. "I'm heading over there Sunday to mediate the?—"
"Holy shit."
A shadow fell over the table. Emmy looked up to find a guy in his thirties, wearing a Patagonia vest and holding a beer. His ruddy cheeks suggested it wasn't his first, and his eyes were wide with excitement. Beer at 2PM,impressive.
"You're Grant Knight."
Grant didn't flinch. He didn't sigh. In the space of a nanosecond, he shifted—shoulders opened, chin lifted, and a warm, gracious smile appeared on his face. Like a suit he kept in the car.
"Guilty," Grant said, extending a hand.
"Man, that fourth-quarter comeback last week? Insane," the guy gushed, shaking Grant's hand a little too hard. "That throw to Davis on the sideline? How did you even see him?"
"Davis ran a great route," Grant said smoothly. "I just put it where he could get it. Appreciate the support, man."
"Can I get a quick pic? My dad won't believe this."
"Sure." Grant leaned in, smiled for the selfie, signed a napkin the guy produced from his pocket, and gave a final nod. "Take it easy."
The fan walked away, looking like he'd just met the Pope.
Grant's posture relaxed back into the slouch. He picked up his water glass. "Sorry. Where were we?"
Emmy had watched the entire exchange the way she'd watch a first date from across the restaurant—noting every micro-shift. The suit went on. The suit came off. Seamless. Patient, generous with his time—but the Grant who'd just signed that napkin and the Grant now stealing fries off her plate were not the same frequency.
"We were talking about Juliana," Emmy said. "And that right there is why I think she could be good for you. Not because she can handle the spotlight—though she can. But because shewon't need you to perform for her. She has her own life, her own success. She'd get that you need space to just... be Grant."
She wanted to believe it. On paper, Juliana read like someone who'd optimized the joy out of her own life—but that Rothko paragraph was a crack in the spreadsheet. Forty minutes of tears she couldn't explain. That was someone who still let the world in, even if she scheduled when.
There had to be warmth underneath the macro tracking and the 4:45 AM wake-ups.
She meant it. Grant wanted sanctuary. Juliana could give him that.
Probably.
Grant looked at the closed folder. "We'll see."
