“I love you too,” she says. “But I don’t know if I’ll love living in Maine full-time.”
“Are you willing to give it a shot?” My heart feels like it’s holding its breath, like my lungs are, as I wait for her response.
She purses her lips. “I’m here, aren’t I?”
Okay… I guess that’s a yes? I squeeze her hand in mine. “I love you, and I know how hard this is on you. You’re my California girl. And my rock.”
“You’re my rock too. But I sometimes wonder if we’re sinking each other.”
My heart drops into my stomach. I swear I hear the splash as it lands in my gut. She blinks, and her big brown eyes look so sincere and fearful. “I mean, we were so young and we never really got to experience life… I mean, you were my first boyfriend. My first, and only… everything. We were struggling before the cancer. We both know it.”
“Are you… Do you want out?” I can’t believe the words leaving my mouth. My throat feels dry, and my eyes are wet. My chest is tight, filled with emotions that are so tangled together I can’t identify them.
“No. I don’t think so.” She says it fast and with a firmness that should be reassuring. But the words are still, I don’t think so. That’s not exactly oozing confidence. She sniffs again and blinks. “I just… I don’t know. I mean I made it through the cancer, and I just didn’t think we’d be tested again.”
Me being traded is a test? For her? And she made it through the cancer? I don’t recall her being the one with the chemicals being pumped into her system daily for six months while she fought endless nausea and feelings of being hit by a bus, all while battling waves of anxiety over potentially losing her career and full-on panic over possibly dying. I swallow the annoyance I feel because, honestly, she did go through a lot. “What can I do to make you more comfortable with this change?”
I vow in my head, to myself, that if she really wants to move into the city immediately, I’ll ask my dad for a loan. I’ll do whatever it takes. She sighs, drops her eyes to the sand for a moment, and then, when she looks at me again, she says, “Show me a good time. Take me out and show me what this place has to offer. We really haven’t had a fun night out since you went back to work.”
She’s right about that, sort of. I dropped back into the league in the playoffs, and a Cup run isn’t the time to party. But we did have fun once the Quake won. Lots of partying then. She organized my Day with the Cup, too, which she loved doing. But now is not the time to nitpick points. Now’s the time to try. So I nod and smile and find myself in Grady’s room two hours later.
“Where?” I ask, the pleading tone of my voice should be embarrassing, but I’m too panicked to let it register. “I mean, I don’t really party when I’m here. My idea of a good time is clambakes on the beach or body surfing until I’m numb from the cold water. Naps in the hammock on the porch. Maybe a pile of fried clams from Hawkins. But none of that is impressive.”
“Sounds like a dream to me,” Grady replies as he stretches. His feet hang off the end of the oak bed frame. Thank God this room doesn’t have a footboard or he’d be all scrunched up. This room was my parents’ when we visited. Angie and I are staying in the main bedroom, which my gram used when she visited. She died a couple years ago. Worst day of my life until the cancer diagnosis.
“Not Angie. I mean, she likes it enough when we’re vacationing here, but it’s not going to woo her into loving this city as a new hometown. She loves the star quality of Los Angeles. The fancy restaurants and the nightlife,” I explain and put my elbows on my knees and drop my face into my hands to muffle the grunt of frustration. She’s in our bedroom getting ready. It’s on the main floor, so I don’t have to worry she’ll hear, but still.
“Okay, okay.” The bed shifts so I know he’s moving. I feel bad I barged in here while he was napping and woke him up with this. I don’t feel bad about what I saw, though. Grady was sprawled out on top of the sheets, in boxer-briefs and nothing else. His hair was askew. His eyes hooded with sleep. He looked adorable. I feel weird admitting that, even to myself, but it’s true. Man, how is this guy single? Why aren’t chicks all over him?
I sneak a peek through my fingers. All I see is a nipple and the smooth, rounded pec muscle on his left side. He doesn’t have a ton of freckles on his skin like most redheads—only a few around his shoulders and sternum. He’s got just the right amount of hair on his chest, too. Subtle but thick. I’ve always been jealous of chest hair. It’s something I failed to have much of, and since the chemo, what little I had fell off and didn’t come back.
Grady’s sitting beside me now, and our thighs bump. “How about taking her to the Old Port. There’s a shit ton of shops there that women love. Candles and trinkets and home design crap.”
I nod, failing to mention I kind of dig that stuff too. I know Grady does. I hung out at his place in West Hollywood a couple of times. He had some really cool decorative pieces he found at a store on Labrea that has a mix of antiques and movie props.
“Okay. I can do that. What about dinner?”
“Is she a seafood fan?”
“I mean, she eats it, but she’s… I don’t think the lobster roll is the way to go tonight.” I rub the back of my neck.
“No biggie. The lobsters are probably thrilled with that news.” He winks at me as he grins, and as usual, his jokes relax me a little. Also, his winking, which he does all the time and used to throw me for a loop, now comforts me. It’s a Grady Glitch, as I like to call it—along with his other habits and quirks. I haven’t told him that. Or anyone.
He reaches for his phone on his bedside table, the lean has his thigh push harder into mine, and I get a weird, uncomfortable-comfortable feeling. Again. I get it a lot with Grady, and I don’t know what to do about it. Or think about it. So I inch to the foot of the bed. He doesn’t react, simply pulls up something on his phone, and aims the screen at me. “Try this place. Central Provisions. You can walk there from the stores, and I recommend the spicy beef salad.”
I nod, unlock my phone, and type the name into my notes. “Thanks. Truly. Thanks.”
“Landon?” Angie calls, and then she appears in the doorway. She looks amazing in a pretty strapless sundress and heels. Her blonde hair is slightly curled and pulled up in something fancier than a ponytail. She smiles at the two of us. “Am I interrupting?”
“Nah, just talking shop,” Grady says and leans over to drop his phone back on the charging pad on the night table.
She watches his mostly naked body move with rapt attention. I don’t know how I feel about that. I kind of think… I think I should be more annoyed than I am. But I do stand up and turn to face her, blocking her view. Grady must catch on because when I glance over my shoulder to thank him for the date recommendation, he’s pulled the throw at the end of the bed over his legs and torso.
He nods at my thanks and tells us to have a good time. I hope to God we do.
Chapter 8
Landon
