“Of course,” I say. “Boy calls Uber, girl steals Uber, boy’s life flashes before his eyes and he scream-narrates the whole thing. Classic meet-cute.”
“I’d call it more of a meet-horrifying.”
“Well, it was a meet-cool, at least.”
“All right, a meet-cool,” he concedes.
There’s no way around it now; this is going to hurt when it’s over. But I can’t think about that. I’ve made my bed, and Grant and I have messed it all up again, and right now I’m thinking a hopeless tangle of sheets is a nice place to be, if it’s with him.
And at least there’s an element of certainty. This may have to end when the book does, but it’s a romance; he isn’t going to just stop liking me. We aren’t going to slowly drift apart until we don’t recognize each other anymore. We’ll be happy until theend, and then it’ll be one clean break rather than a thousand tiny cracks.
He rests a hand on my arm, sweeping his thumb in mindless crescents over my skin, and all thoughts of plot and story arc evaporate from my mind. Love interest, romance hero, book boyfriend—all those titles fade away, leaving only Grant behind. Grant, whose touch sets my blood shimmering like oil in a hot pan. Who I could talk to about anything. He makes me wonder why we refer to romance asmore than friendship, when the two can coexist so beautifully in the same person.
“Tell me about your life before,” I say.
He makes a face. “It wasn’t real,” he says. “It doesn’t matter now.”
“Yes, it does,” I say. “If it was real to you, it’s real to me. I want to know things about you.”
A small smile tugs at his mouth, and he exhales any remaining protest. “What do you have in mind?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe how you became a champion sword fighter and why you didn’t tell me before?”
Groaning, he buries his head in his pillow. I smack him with mine. “Grant, come on!”
“I’m hardly a champion,” he says, muffled. “If anything I’m pretty rusty. It’s just that Alistair kind of sucks.”
“Enough with the false modesty, Captain Hook. You were positively swashbuckling.”
He turns his head just enough to fix one narrowed eye on me. “Captain Hook? That’s who you’re going with? I mean, you could at least say Jack Sparrow.”
“No. You’re not an eyeliner kind of guy.”
“I’m a hook-hand kind of guy, though?”
“Come on,” I say. “How did you learn to fight like that? You have to tell me or I’ll assume the worst, like that you’re an actualpirate. Or a serial killer, like Alistair. Or a witch cursed you with an anachronistic talent, or—”
“Fine,” he says, raising up on his elbows with that trying-not-to-smile look. He hesitates just a moment, like he’s already regretting what he’s about to tell me. “I got into it via LARPing in high school. Are you happy?”
I can’t speak at first. The delight is all-consuming.
“Grant,” I say. “I am so,sohappy.” I picture him as a scrawny teen, decked out in soda-tab chain mail and cardboard weaponry, and it’s impossible not to giggle with joy. He face-plants back into his pillow. “Wow, LARPing. I just figured you were on the fencing team or something.”
He’s silent for a moment. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “That … would’ve been a really normal alternative explanation.”
“Who wants normal? I want to hear about LARPing.” I turn onto my stomach, my feet kicked up behind me, and nudge him to roll over. “What was it like being a LARPer? Were you the LARPest kid in school?”
He sighs heavily, facing me. “First of all, LARP is a noun or a verb. Which I know you know, because you said it right at first.”
“LARPdammit,” I say, snapping my fingers in mock irritation. He cracks a smile. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because,” he says. “It’s nerdy. It’s not exactly the stuff of crime-thriller heroes.”
“Okay,” I say. “Leaving aside, for a moment, the fact that your nerdiness saved our livesandthat being passionate about something is the sexiest thing in the world. Why would you be ashamed of being a nerd? This isn’t the nineties. Nerds are basically the cool kids now.”
“Tell that to my dad,” he says. He’s quiet for a moment, then gives a faint harrumph of a laugh. “Hey, there’s one nice thing. If he never existed, I guess he’s not technically dead anymore.” He flashes me a sardonic look, and I just wait until he’s ready togo on. After a moment, his eyes drop and he becomes very interested in the hem of his pillowcase.
“I think I embarrassed him,” he finally says, pulling at a rogue thread. “He wanted a football son and he got one who spent his weekends running around the woods with his friends, looking like low-budget extras fromMonty Python and the Holy Grail.”
