Ugh. I might prefer talking about Jeff.
“You first this time,” he said.
He was offering me a little respite from being under the microscope, and I was ready for it. It was his turn to be analyzed and prodded for information. I finished chewing. “What scares you most in life?”
“You mean beyond paying twenty-five dollars for a beet salad?”
“Stalling much?”
“I learned from the best.” He flicked the end of my donut, and I pulled it out of his reach.
“What’s the real answer?” I prompted. I was determined not to let him put me off or give me any boring half-truths.
“What scares me most,” he repeated, staring ahead as one of the little kids slid down the firepole in jerky slips and squeaks.
I set down my unfinished donut and watched him, impatient to hear his answer.
Whatwouldscare someone like Grant Wilder? He seemed unflappable. What fears did the world hold for someone whose default was deep skepticism? For a man who had a near-obsessionwith truth and made a living of uncovering things people tried to hide?
“Believing a lie again.”
My pulse flickered. It was a real answer—maybe even a fresh one. A newly scarred wound.
Given his interest in the truth, the answer made sense too. But I had so many more questions now.
“Again?” I repeated.
His head turned, and his gaze met mine.
“I’m afraid you’re out of questions for the day,” he said with false sympathy. “My turn.”
“And you accusemeof being too brief,” I muttered.
I’d asked him a fairly invasive question, and now it was time to pay the piper. I wasn’t ready—for more than one reason. His answer was still taking all my mental bandwidth. I wanted to sit with it until I figured out what was behind it.
What lie had he believed the first time? And who had told it to him? A friend? A family member? The government? A girlfriend?
I stared at him like I might be able to figure it out if I just looked into his hazel eyes for long enough. They were the most expressive part of him.
“What’s your favorite flower?”
It took me a second to register the question. I’d been anticipating one like mine—or at least as deep as the one he’d asked yesterday.
“And don’t say succulents,” he said.
I thought of the little note he’d left for me in shorthand and how long Katie and I had spent decoding it. We hadn’t discussed it since, but I had no doubt he knew I’d read it.
Grant just knew things.
I was relieved but also wary that this was the question he’d chosen. It felt too good to be true. Too easy.
“I don’t have a favorite flower,” I responded.
“That’s a cop out.”
“It’snot,” I argued. “I have no attachment to flowers, so I don’t have an opinion on them.”
His eyes narrowed as he looked at me. I must seem like some sort of freak to him. Every woman had a favorite flower. Women swooned over a dozen roses. They spent hundreds on bridal bouquets. What was wrong with me?
