He looks up at me, his silence stretching longer this time. Even in the darkness, I can feel how his eyes are fixed on mine, like he’s choosing his next words carefully.
Finally, he looks away and says, “I think it’s been good for me, being here. I kind of think I needed it.”
He has that face again, like there’s more to say. This time, I wait.
“My dad liked to sayThose who can’t do, teach,” he finally says. “Specifically, about me. My mom always claimed he was joking, but there was more to it than that. He had other plans for me and I disappointed him.
“But I wanted to prove him wrong. I thought I could, if I just landed on an achievement that was impressive enough. Getting into a good college, or getting hired with my so-called useless degree. Writing the Great American Novel. Eventually, he’d have to admit that I wasn’t a failure.”
Even in the dark, I can see the pain lining his face. The tightness of his jaw. The weight he carries.
“Anyway, then he had a heart attack, and that was it. And I had never changed his mind. It was like the clock ran out and everything he thought of me got locked in. I couldn’t remember why I was doing anything, why I was writing. So I stopped, and then he was right. I was just … there. Barely participating in my own life, like everything was grayed out.”
I think of the anguished, exhausted Grant I met in Boston, word-vomiting his life at me from the back seat. A cry for help that I didn’t really understand. Maybe he didn’t either just yet.
He meets my eyes again. “The past ten days have been the most terrifying of my life. But at a certain point, I found myself asking which was scarier—staying here or going back to the way things were.”
“And?” I ask. My voice feels small, a marble in my throat.
He shrugs. “I have no idea. But I think the fact that I even have to ask says a lot. And I do know that for the past ten days, at least, I’ve finally beendoingsomething.”
I wish I knew what to say. I’m glad to have heard it all, tohave this color-by-numbers picture of Grant painted in bit by bit. There’s an ache in my chest for his loss, and a flicker of anger at how unfair it all is. To think that anyone could consider him a disappointment.Those who can’t do, teach.Those words had to cut deep if they pushed him this far.
“It’s bullshit, you know,” I finally say. “Teachingisdoing. And it’s hard, and terrifying. Uri’s been trying to talk me into teaching at the gym for years now. At least once a week he asks me to get certified, and every week I give him a new reason why I can’t. Honestly, it just freaks me out.”
“And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything,” Grant says.
Fearless, I recall from his email to Anna, warmth tingling in my cheeks again. If only he knew.
“I love learning self-defense,” I say. “And if teaching it doesn’t work out … I don’t want to ruin a good thing.” I smile at him. “Maybe those who can’t teach, temp.”
I say it with a forced laugh, but it does nothing to dispel the uncomfortable sensation of oversharing, or the thoughtful look on Grant’s face.
“You’re a good teacher,” he says. “I’m still alive, right? That has to count for something.”
It means a lot, hearing him say that. I’m just not quite surewhatit means. I have a precarious kind of feeling, like I’ve said and heard too much and this all needs to be walked back several steps until he stops looking at me like that.
“So your dad wanted you to do things,” I say. “Do you think this is what he had in mind?”
He snorts. “I’m pretty sure he was thinking more along the lines of me joining my brother Ted in the family business.”
“Ah,” I say, nodding. “So it was aMafiastory he wanted.”
“Sure, if that’s what you want to call a hardware store where the most dramatic thing to ever happen was Ted accidentally nail-gunning himself to a wall.” He huffs out a breath, that suppressed half chortle of his again. I wonder what it’s like when he really laughs.
“Still,” he says, “I think he might’ve liked this story. And if I’m completely honest … God, I am going to regret saying this, but—” He looks hesitantly at me, then lets out a sigh. “It’s possible that I haven’t hatedeverysecond, as of late.”
It’s like a weighted blanket has slipped off my shoulders. “I’m really glad you said that,” I say. “Because I’m sorry, but ifI’mbeing honest—I think I’ve kind of been loving this.”
It still feels a little terrible to admit, and I half expect him to glare at me with a new furrow of betrayal. But he just nods. “Yeah. I know.”
“You know? How?”
“Because every time we’re in mortal danger, you get this glimmer in your eye. To the point that I now instantly go all fight-or-flight whenever you smile.”
A grin fights its way to my lips, and I clamp them between my teeth.
“So, what now?” I ask. “If we’re both not hating this, do we stick around? Danger and all?”
