I opened the text from Chase, holding my phone so it was shielded from Grant’s view.
I stared at the words. I’d always felt a strange mixture of hurt and determination looking at them, but this time, I only felt disappointment.
With all the hurt I’d gone through after the breakup withChase, I’d held onto the promise I’d made to myself that the pain wouldn’t be in vain. I’d never let it happen again. Never let myself be swept away on a tsunami of emotion, then left alone in the wreckage with nothing but my brain saying,You should’ve listened.
I’d managed to keep that promise for the past few years. Until now.
Until Grant.
And here I was, falling right back into the same trap, like a dog chasing its tail.
When we pulled up to my building, Grant got out to open my door. He probably intended to walk me upstairs. But I couldn’t do the whole door-after-the-date thing with him. I had no idea whether he’d try to kiss me—the somber look on his face made me think not—but I was too weak to give the possibility the time of day.
“I can walk myself up,” I said.
I half-expected him to fight me on it. But he didn’t.
“Okay,” he said, his voice calm. “Thanks for the date, Vivian.”
“Thankyou,” I said, offering a smile. “See you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.”
As I went through the door into the elevator lobby, I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to let myself look back.
I fumbled to unlock my apartment and, once inside, I shut my eyes and let out a long sigh. I hated that I’d ended the date early. I’d waved a gigantic white flag. But the alternative would’ve been even more disastrous.
I set down my keys and noted the cardboard box with the dead plant Grant had given me. I wanted to shove it in a garbage can, but I was too tired. Instead, I went to my closet, pulled off my shoes and skirt, and traded them for my soft, black lounge set. I should probably have gone to the gym and worked off some of these emotions, gotten some endorphins running in my system.
But I just wanted to veg out. I’d been lying about not beinghungry. Resisting Grant Wilder was hard, deep work, and I was starving.
I pulled my hair out of its half-up do and clipped it back with a claw on my way to the kitchen, where I pulled stuff out of the fridge to make simple pasta.
I opened my laptop and set it on the counter with two spreadsheets side-by-side. Seeing numbers and neat lines always calmed me down. It restored needed order to the world.
The water reached a boil, and I poured an entire pound of penne pasta into it.
I’d been lying alotwhen I’d said I wasn’t hungry.
The doorbell rang, and I froze.
I’d forgotten Ihada doorbell. That was how often I had visitors.
Tucking the hair behind my ears, I walked over and cursed the lack of a peep hole. “Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s me.”
My heart shot into my throat at the sound of his voice. What was he doing here? I shut my eyes, took a slow breath, and opened the door.
Grant stood on my doorstep, a plastic bag in one hand, a brown bag in the other.
“I brought you dinner,” he said.
“Grant…”
“I planned out a date for us, Vivian, and part of that was dinner. So, I’m bringing it to you to enjoy. If you’ll give me ten seconds to clean off my pants and let me borrow a rag, I’ll get out of your hair.” His eyes swept to it like he’d said it without thinking.
I glanced at his pants, which had a generous smear across the thigh. It looked and smelled like tikka masala.
