Would he stand here one day, announcing his own wife's pregnancy? Would Emmy be watching from across the table, applauding on cue?
She handed him a dripping plate. "So. I've been thinking about your matches."
"Oh?" Grant's voice was carefully neutral.
"I'm going back to the drawing board. Juliana was wrong. Thea was—well. Thea was a disaster." She scrubbed at a stubborn bit of sauce. "I'm going to do this differently. Actually meet the candidates myself before I send you on any more bad dates."
"You're personally screening them now?"
"I should've been doing it from the beginning." She rinsed a serving bowl, studiously avoiding his gaze. "You deserve better than what I've been giving you."
A pause. Then: "You don't have to?—"
"I want to." The words came out harder than she'd intended. Emmy looked up at him. "You're trusting me with this. The least I can do is take it seriously."
The corner of his mouth pulled, just slightly. His eyes didn't leave hers.
"Okay, Em." He took the bowl from her. "Whatever you think is best."
They finished the dishes in silence. From the living room, Emmy could hear her father explaining the importance of prenatal DHA supplementation while West made increasingly desperate sounds of agreement.
When she handed Grant the last plate, their fingers brushed. She pulled back faster than she needed to.
Grant dried the plate, set it on the stack. Folded the towel over the oven handle with the precision of someone Serle had trained before his voice changed.
"Well," Emmy said. "At least now we know why West was acting like that."
"The man couldn't lie his way out of a paper bag."
"He once told Mom he hadn't eaten the last brownie while he still had chocolate on his face."
"He told Coach Henderson his hamstring was fine while visibly limping."
"A gift," Emmy said. "Truly."
Grant's mouth curved. Then it settled, and what was left was the look he'd had at the pregnancy announcement—warmth with a door shut behind it.
“Next Thursday," she said. "The golf tournament."
"I'll be there."
CHAPTER NINE
Grant had never understood the appeal of golf.
Four hours of walking through manicured grass, chasing a ball you'd just hit away from yourself, wearing clothes that made you look like an accountant on vacation. You couldn't run. You couldn't tackle anyone. You had to bequiet, which was somehow considered a feature rather than a bug. The whole sport felt like a punishment designed by someone who found regular punishments too exciting.
But Fairway for Kids raised half a million dollars for Boston Children's Hospital every year, and the team sent a group, and Grant showed up in the male equivalent of stretchy pants and an obnoxiously loud polo because that's what you did when you were the face of a franchise. You smiled. You signed autographs. You pretended to be fascinated by some hedge fund manager's swing analysis while he shanked balls into the rough and blamed the wind.
There was never any wind. There was never not an excuse.
"You're making that face again," Boozy said as one of the team's blacked-out SUVs pulled into the Brookline Country Club parking lot.
"What face?"
"The one where you look like you're already counting down the hours until you can leave." Boozy cut the engine and checked his reflection in the rearview mirror. "Dude, I'm nervous enough. Don't bring the energy down."
Grant summoned something that felt approximately like a smile. "You'll be fine. Shake hands, make eye contact, don't mention your fantasy league."
