It’s a lifeline. An easy out. Grace gives him an appreciative nod. “Good to know.”
Boone lets out a heavy sigh from his place on the couch—all their yammering is disrupting his nap. At the sound, Crew’s head swings around to look at the dog, and he rolls his eyes.
“He’s become very dramatic in his old age.”
Boone’s eyes dart to Crew, and Grace doesn’t know if it’s possible, but it looks like Boone then rollshiseyes in response. A beat of silence passes between Grace and Crew, both staring lovingly at the dog as he drifts back to sleep.
Then Crew faces her again, and he must have some want or need to level the playing field, because he asks, “Was your family from Texas originally?”
She knows he isn’t asking about Bellamy. And though he’s just being kind and offering the same curiosity she’s badgered him with all evening, Grace can’t help the physical reaction thatcomes when anyone asks or talks about her family. A crater-size hole in her gut throbs; the back of her neck begins to feel warm.
“Yeah,” she says, her eyes falling to the floor, to the supremely dirty boots that she should’ve taken off at the door.
He doesn’t say anything in response, but he keeps his eyes on her, patiently waiting for more. Grace clears her throat, figuring she owes him at least a morsel of detail after everything he’s supplied. Grace swallows, and her saliva tastes like battery acid. She has to stop herself from recoiling as it stings her throat.
“Bellamy is my mom’s older brother. She grew up at Braxton. My dad was from somewhere close to Lubbock.” She can only hope Crew doesn’t probe that statement further; the last thing Grace wants to talk about right now is her father.
Crew must sense it, because he pivots with an earnest, unexpected follow-up question: “Were you ever happy there? At Braxton?” Grace can feel the lines of her face hardening. A rush of cold envelops her heart. With his voice rawer than before, Crew adds, “There had to be something to live for, right?”
Like an old friend, grief waves at her as it settles beside, around, and within her. It must’ve missed her, for how strongly it’s attaching itself to every fiber of her being right now. Grace takes a deep breath, psyching herself up to broach this topic. If she doesn’t say something to Crew now, she’s worried the grief will lodge itself in her throat.
“I had a horse. A palomino. She was my birthday present when I turned seventeen, when my uncle was still parading around like some saint, like he was the most benevolent, generous person in the world for taking me in. Her name was Vesta.”
Crew listens without comment, and he keeps his eyes intentlyfocused on her. When he doesn’t say anything in response, Grace finds herself needing to clarify something.
“He sold her to the first buyer willing to take her off his hands. To punish me. I—” Grace’s throat seizes, that painful grief finally moving in. “I don’t know where she is now. I would’ve taken her with me if I could’ve.”
His face falls, his brows pulling together. Suddenly, he’s standing, walking into her space, and he looks devastated. As though, somehow, he can feel the sadness that is coursing through her, and he’s taking some of it into himself. Helping her carry it. “Grace,” he says, his voice painfully soft. “I’m sorry.”
Instinctively, she takes a step back. It’s easier to be farther away, and it’s definitely easier to put this topic to rest sooner rather than later. “It’s fine,” Grace says quickly, unconvincingly. “Really.” She looks toward the front door, thinking it looks like a beacon, a port in a storm. “I should probably get going,” she says, already walking. She only takes about four steps before Crew says something that stops her in her tracks.
“I know Cooper didn’t trip.”
Grace looks over her shoulder at him. There’s no anger or frustration in his expression—he maintains the evenness he’s had for their whole conversation, tapping his fingers rhythmically against his jean-clad thigh. “I also get why you lied about it.”
Slowly, Grace turns around. Better to face the judgment head-on, chin high.
But his next words aren’t punitive or derisive; his next words surprise her. “Is Waylon okay?”
Grace blinks, schooling her face into something neutral. “He’ll be fine,” she replies, then tilts her head in consideration.“I’ll give him extra cookies tomorrow for not kicking anyone in the face.”
Crew smiles softly. “Charitable bastard.”
“He handled it better than I would have.”
His head tilts slightly. “And Duke?”
Grace can’t help the little smile that tugs at her lips. “He seemed pretty pissed, too. Think he’s become a little protective of Waylon.”
Crew huffs. “That right?”
Grace shrugs, still smiling. “Sure seemed like it.”
Then there’s another lull, quiet and deeper now that there’s more space between them.
Grace tries again. “I’m gonna head back—”
“You missed your shower slot.”
