He deserves to have someone fight for his peace the way he’s fought through this story.
“We can find a way in,” I say, determination welling up in me. No inbox-guarding assistant is going to gatekeep our livesfrom us. “Come on. There’s got to be a window or an air vent we can sneak into, right? Or we can disguise ourselves as waitstaff and get in that way.”
“Okay, first of all: that’s a sitcom you’re thinking of,” he says, rubbing his forehead. “That’s, like, a sitcom take on a spy mission. Second, this is an author discussion at an independent bookstore. I don’t think there will be waitstaff. I don’t even think there are refreshments.”
“Well, a back door, then,” I say, marching desperately toward the store.
“Roxie,” he says.
“Down this alley. There has to be a way to—”
“Roxie.” His hand closes on my arm. I turn around to face him, my heart pounding somewhere up near my throat. “Let it go,” he says, his voice as soft as it is resolute.
“But—”
“Let’s go for a walk,” he says, and it’s so unexpected that at first I’m not sure I’m hearing him correctly. But he lets go of my arm and, with an exhausted kind of decisiveness, says, “That’s all I want to do. I want to walk around and look at London and have a normal, quiet night. Can we just do that? Please?”
I don’t know what to say. Awalk, of all things. I so badly wish I could do more for him, find some way to fix everything. But for now, one ordinary, low-stakes night is the best I can do. So I nod. And together, without another word, we turn away from the shop and head down the street.
• • •
WE FOLLOW THEroad past closed shops and bustling restaurants, through cool air and warm lights and Grant’s unbearable silence. I’ve never known him to be like this. I keep trying to catch his eye, hoping for a hint to his state of mind—to figureout if quiet Grant is broken Grant or if this is the calm before the storm. But with his focus on the road ahead, I’m only seeing him in profile—his jaw set, his lips pressed in thought.
After six or seven blocks, he draws a deep, steady breath, the way someone might take in the cleansing sea air. I wouldn’t accuse him of being relaxed—I doubt anyone ever has—but he seems reflective. What I wouldn’t give to know what’s going on behind that lightly scrunched brow.
He doesn’t speak at all until we reach the cobbled brick walkways of Covent Garden, where he turns to me with a serious expression.
“Are you hungry?”
I study his face, looking for signs of an imminent doom spiral, a hint of a breakdown, even a single anxious what-if. Nothing.
“I could eat,” I say.
And so we find ourselves drawn to the amber glow of a Greek restaurant, and our walk turns into a walk and dinner.
Settling in over a tray of pita and tzatziki, I’m about to cut to the chase and ask Grant if he’s really okay when he fixes me with a curious look.
“What would be your death row meal?”
I swallow a sharp bite. “Are you thinking this isyourdeath row meal?”
“No,” he says. “I was just wondering what your favorite food is.”
There really is something a little more settled about him. Maybe he’s forgotten why we’re here or is simply too tired to panic anymore. In any case, I find it mystifying and also kind of nice.
“Churros,” I answer him. “Churros and Coke.”
“The soda or the drug?”
“Yes.”
He chuffs out his nose in a way that could almost be mistaken for a real laugh. “Not very nutritious,” he says.
“I’m dying. What do I need with nutrition?”
“Fair point.”
His initial choice is his mom’s chicken pot pie, but then he decides it wouldn’t be fair to ask her to cook when her son’s about to die, so he opts for an Italian sub from the deli near his apartment.
