Page 36 of Grant’s Heat

I spent the next few days being shuffled from one pitying embrace to another. Friends and family did their best to make sure I ate, slept, and took care of myself in the most basic ways. Other than that, they gave me a pretty wide berth to grieve as I saw fit.

Abbigail was doing only marginally better. The rest of the Gibson clan had flown to California from the East Coast and was camped out at Casa Shark. This was the second loss their family had endured, and they gathered together to weep, share, and grieve like a group of mental health professionals. It was all neat and orderly, very much by the textbook standards.

I’d never felt more like an outsider.

After an hour of the group hug-it-out ordeal, my skin felt like I had live bugs crawling under it. I bolted from Abbi and Sebastian’s Calabasas home, obsessed with thoughts of starting a fire. As fast as I could, I asked Grant to take me back to his place. Once we were there, I made every excuse I could think of for Grant to leave me alone, but the damn man wouldn’t leave my side.

After finding me at the construction site the night of Sean’s accident, the bastard was on to me and my unhealthy way of coping with the tough stuff. Although he hadn’t brought it up yet, I knew he eventually would. Grant Twombley wasn’t the kind of man who left stones unturned, and this was a damn boulder. It sat, big and bulky, in the middle of every conversation we had.

Today, we were on our way to the Central Area Police Station to hear about the official accident investigation findings.

Oh, goodie.

But that wasn’t exactly fair. These men were just doing their jobs, and what had happened to my husband—whose name I still couldn’t bring myself to vocalize—was truly just an accident. But while all that logic sounded good on paper, it made no sense in the depths of my heart.

When I woke up that morning, I had to fight with myself just to get out of bed. I promised myself I’d have a better attitude when I did. And I was really trying.

“Did that really just say get off on the 101? Why would you choose a route that involves the 101?” I bitched at Grant, who was hunched over in the passenger side of Kendall. He squinted at my phone’s screen, shielding the image from the bright sunlight blasting in from the moonroof. “Have you really lived in Los Angeles your entire life?”

He crudely pointed up toward the roof and asked, “Can you close this? I can’t see the screen for shit. And listening for the instructions is impossible over this…this…miserable excuse for music.”

The man was in a foul mood today—matching where I’d already been for the past few days. Neither of us was sleeping well. I knew part of it had to do with me insisting on sleeping in his bed with him—but I wasn’t about to feel sorry for that. I was feeling very alone in the world, and I was scared—evidenced by the awful night terror I’d had on night one. That, of course, triggered Grant’s paranoid fear that he’d accidentally come into contact with my body in some way, spurring a fresh episode. I was pretty certain he was petrified of even breathing the wrong way. As a result, we were both exhausted and cranky.

“Linkin Park is an extremely talented band,” I protested, but I turned down the volume after hitting the switch to make the roof shade close.

“Uh-huh,” he mumbled.

“I think I should go to my own house tonight,” I blurted. “I don’t think this is healthy for either of us.”

“Are you sure?” Grant finally said. “I mean, are you ready to be alone? I don’t want you to…”

“Just say it. Say what you’re afraid of, Grant.”

“I’m not afraid of anything, Blaze,” he retorted quietly.

“Bullshit. You think I’m going to torch something again. Admit it.”

“Well…” He looked out the window, glowering at a wall graffitied with Be Happy in bubble letters, and sighed. “The thought crossed my mind.”

I tapped my fingers on the wheel in a nervous rhythm while waiting for his next comment. I was sure one was percolating in that busy mind of his.

“So…how often do you do it?”

“You really want to know?”

“We just never really talked about it. I mean, I saw you that one day in the kitchen, but never again after. I just don’t know much about it.”

As he spoke, his posture seemed to wilt into the seat—leaving me beyond confused. What was going on here? Did he feel like he’d failed me somehow? Like my hobby was somehow his responsibility?

“Grant,” I said calmly. “You can’t fix me. I’ve tried explaining this to you before.”

He pushed his hair back off his forehead and clasped his hands on top of his head afterward. “If you won’t tell me how often, will you tell me how long you’ve been doing it? When did you start coping with your problems this way?”

“Wait. Is that what you think I’m doing?” A wide grin spread across my lips. Why did this amuse me so much? Hearing his take on the situation?

“Isn’t it?”

“No,” I snapped. “I mean, it’s not like that. That’s not how I see it, at least.” I thought about it a little longer. Really considered the thrill from lighting things on fire. The rush I got from it. “Yeah, no. It’s not like that. Not at all, actually.”