I wish I would have brought the piece of paper with Grant’s phone number, I hate showing up early without calling first.
I take my time trudging up the large steps to Grant’s house. They have either grown since the last time I was here, or my equilibrium is seriously off. Through the glass panel, I can see Julie making her way to the door.
“Hi, Sydney,” Julie says. “Grant’s upstairs, you can go on up.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m about to ask which room is his, but she’s already run off somewhere.
I slowly make my way up the staircase and down the long hallway. This is way out of my comfort zone. I pass several closed doors and then come to a half-open one. The room is dimly lit and there’s faint music playing. The gray walls and sleek, modern furniture are a stark contrast to the antique formal furnishings in the rest of the house.
“Sydney?” Grant says. I nearly jump out of my skin at the sound of his voice. I spin around and he’s right next to me. His thick hair is wet and disheveled, and so help me, he is wearing nothing but a towel around his waist.
“Oh, gosh. Um. I’m so sorry. I should have called to say I’d be early. I just … um … Julie told me to come up, and…” I can’t shut up. I try to avert my eyes from his chest. His abs.
He laughs and I officially feel like the dumbest person alive.
“It’s fine. Come on in.” He leads me into the gray room. His room. He picks up a stack of clothes off of the foot of his bed and heads out of the room. “Let me just throw these on.”
I nod.
Because the sight of Grant.
Dripping.
In a towel.
Has left me speechless.
I survey the room while I wait. It’s spotless. What teenage guy has a room this clean? One with a chief of household-staff, I reason. My mind flashes back to the sight of his well-toned abs and I immediately feel my face burn. Stop it, I scold myself. I pull out the desk chair and readjust my position repeatedly, trying not to look as self-conscious as I feel.
“Sorry about that,” Grant says coming back. His hair is still damp and wild. And his jeans and fitted white t-shirt aren’t making it any easier to fight the urge to ogle him.
“My fault,” I say, waving my hand around nonchalantly.
“So, how are you feeling? Better?”
“Much better,” I lie.
He narrows his eyes at me as if he’s about to call me out on it, just as Julie knocks on the half-open door.
She’s holding a small tray, which she quickly sets down at the end of the long birch desk that takes up the entire length of one side of the room and walks out.
“Thanks, Jules,” Grant calls after her.
He stands up and grabs the back of the chair I’m sitting in and wheels me over to the side of the desk with the tray.
I stare up at him and his lips twitch upward in a small smirk.
“What’s all this?” I ask.
“You aren’t feeling any better, admit it,” he says. “Try to eat something. Trust me, if anything can help, it’s this. Jules makes the best chicken soup on the planet.”
“Seriously? You had her do this for me?” I say.
“It’s nothing,” he says, waving me off. “Look, if it’s cool we can just work up here. I’ll run downstairs and get the stuff we started last week. You eat.”
I do what I’m told and eat every last bite of the delicious homemade soup. Times like these make me miss my mom. She should be making me soup and taking care of me. Since she died, I’ve sort of been on my own in that regard. Sure Dad is physically there, but he’s still hurting. Most days, he’s just going through the motions.
“Good girl,” Grant reappears and says, pointing toward the empty dish.
“Thank you for this. I really do feel a lot better now.”
“Glad to hear it,” he beams. “Here, relax while I set everything up.” He’s suddenly behind me, wrapping a warm, ivory-colored blanket around my shoulders and leading me over to the small loveseat on the opposite side of the room. Being taken care of is a totally foreign feeling.
I pipe in with my two-cents sporadically, but mostly, Grant does the majority of the work while I lay under the plush quilt. I’m not typically this at ease in other peoples’ homes, but things with Grant are easy. And I’m exhausted.
I remember closing my eyes for just a split second. But now, I’m cradled in someone’s arms. I half crack my eyes to try to make sense of what’s happening. Who’s strong arms are these wrapped around me? Mmmm, who cares, I just want to stay like this. I finally open my eyes, and look up at Grant, carrying me down the winding staircase.
I frantically try to maneuver my way out of his grip.
“What’s going on? I fell asleep?” I say.
“Shhh…” he whispers. “I’m going to drive you home, Syd. You’re exhausted.” I start to wriggle again, but he grips me tighter.
“It’s okay. I’m fine to drive,” I say. I still fidget, but I’d be lying if I said I’m fighting as hard as I should be.
“Sydney, seriously. Not open for debate. I’ll drive you home. Jules will follow in your car.” His face is so close to mine, I can now see the short stubble on his chin and cheeks. The small cleft in his chin that I hadn’t notice before. And the clean, soapy smell still lingers from his shower earlier. The way his arms feel around me is unreal. I give up my half-hearted attempt at a struggle and flop my head back down on to his chest. I know it’s wrong. I know I should argue. But the truth is, I really don’t feel up to driving home, and having someone take care of me feels flipping amazing. Especially someone that doesn’t have to.
Grant effortlessly carries me through the house and out into the garage, then sets me down gently in the passenger seat of his car. The interior is impeccable, just like his room, and smells of rich leather. He starts the car and soft music that I don’t recognize drifts me back to sleep.
I know immediately when I wake up that I’ve overslept for gym. And for the first time that I can remember, I just don’t care. I’m still so tired. I wonder what Grant told my dad about bringing me home. I stumble over to my window overlooking the driveway and my car is parked in its usual place. I can’t believe I slept that hard. How embarrassing. Oh, God, the show. I was supposed to do another segment this morning and I didn’t even show up for gym. I pause at my door, not wanting to go downstairs and face the answering machine. There has to be a call from the producers wondering why I didn’t show. There has to be. What am I going to tell them? They paid me to do this thing and I’m ruining it.
What if they show up here instead? What if instead of the staged confessionals, they start following me through my house with a crew? Exposing the one place that is mine, that I can focus on my own things. I can’t let that happen. I have to do better from now on.
When I wander downstairs, I find the house deserted. The note on the counter from Dad says that he called Sam and the school—and the show. I’m off the hook for the day. Wow. I open the refrigerator and stare, uninterested at its contents. My stomach is grumbly, but nothing looks good, so I start back for the stairs.
I’ve almost made it to the top step when I hear a soft knock on the front door. Trevor, most likely. I haven’t even checked my cell phone, but I’m willing to bet there are a dozen missed calls from him. I don’t check the peep-hole and instead, fling the door open. But instead of Trevor, I find Grant standing on my porch, his messy brown hair blowing perfectly in the wind.
“Um, hi,” I say. I pull my sleeves down over my hands and clutch them near my throat nervously. Each gust of wind blows his hair and makes my breath catch.
“Hey. Sorry to come by without calling. I just wanted to make sure you were all right. You were pretty worn out last night,” he says.
“I’m doing okay,” I say. “Thanks for bringing me home. I feel really stupid about everything.”
I stare at a piece of chipped paint on the doorframe rather than make eye contact with him. Something that
I’ve discovered is increasingly difficult, both because he always seems to be looking directly at me, but also, because I really want to look at him.
“Don’t. I was happy to do it,” he says.
Another gust of wind. Another chance to try to catch my breath.
“Do you want to come in?” I ask.
“I’d better get back to school. I just wanted to bring this by.” He hands me a white paper bag with a small container inside.
My brows pull together in curiosity.
“It’s some of Jules’s soup.” Grant explains. My stomach grumbles again, but this time in thanks. Nothing sounds better than more of this soup.
“Thank you!” I say. “Wow, you’re pretty perfect, aren’t you?” I can’t help but gush before I have time to think about what I’m saying.
“Eh, I’m all right. You deserve it, though.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, and before I know it, he’s leaning in and kissing me lightly on my lips – just a peck – before he turns around and walks away. The spot where his warm lips touched mine is tingling with delight as I stand there half-dazed. Did that really just happen? In the same moment I’m contemplating whether or not I’m still actually asleep, I see the familiar Range Rover pull into the now vacant spot in the driveway. And that’s when it dawns on me. Grant has no idea I have a boyfriend. Have I been leading him on?
I don’t really have time to think much on it, because Trevor is walking up the drive. I quickly turn and set the bag on the counter, then plaster a big smile on my face. It’s not phony. I am happy to see him. Just a little more conflicted than usual.
“Hey, beauty,” Trevor says, wrapping his arms around my waist and leaning in to kiss me. I pull back abruptly.
“You don’t want to do that, I’m really sick,” I say, pulling farther away and covering my mouth.
“I don’t care,” he says, reaching for me again.
“Well, I do.” I frown. I pull a bar stool out and sit down. My head feels like it’s going to explode. I really do need to go back to bed.
“What are you doing out of school?” I ask, already anticipating the answer.
“What do you think?” he says. “You didn’t reply to any of my texts or calls. I came to check on you.”
“That’s really sweet,” I say. I rest my head on the cool marble counter top. It feels like anesthetic for my throbbing skull.
“So, since we’re alone, what do you want to do?” Trevor asks with a wink.
“Don’t even finish that thought. I’m so ill, Trevor, that’s the last thing on my mind.” I shake my head and swat him on the arm.
“You think maybe you should go to the doctor? You hear about those celebrities being treated for exhaustion. Maybe that’s what’s wrong with you.”
“Maybe.” I shrug. “After Nationals I’ll have a break.”
“Maybe you should think about dropping that reality show. You know, to give yourself a little break,” he says.
“It’s a documentary, not a reality show. And I can’t. I signed a contract.”
Trevor pushes a loud breath out.
“I love you,” I add.
He starts rubbing my shoulders gently and I let myself relax and close my eyes.
“Hey, what’s in the bag?” I open my eyes and he gestures to the white paper bag I’d tossed on to the counter. “Smells good.”
“Oh, that? Just some soup. Want some?” I wrap my words in innocence before letting them escape my mouth. My heart has lodged itself into my throat. Why am I so nervous? It’s just some totally innocent soup. Oh, yes, except for that mini-kiss from Grant.
“No, thanks. You should probably eat some though. Did your dad bring it by for you? You must really be laying it on thick, Syd, because he never takes a lunch, right?”
Why, today of all days is Trevor so ultra-observant?
“No, not Dad.” I could tell him that Quinn made it. That’s believable. She’s always cooking something. But what if he’d already seen Quinn today at school? Would he know I was lying? Did I really need to lie? Would he even care if he knew Grant brought it to me? I take a deep breath. “Actually, my partner from Oceanography brought it by,” I say harmlessly.
I stare at him, trying to gauge his reaction. His hand tightens on the back of the bar stool. His knuckles turn white from the stiffness of his grip and an unfamiliar flash of anger crosses his eyes. I’ve never really seen Trevor angry. Irritated, yes. Disappointed, sure. He isn’t a gracious loser when it comes to his lacrosse games. He usually has a tough time dealing with it, holding the rage in and staying quiet for a long time. I never knew what to say in those moments, and I feel the same way right now. He’s quiet. Motionless. For a long time.
“He came here?” he asks calmly, the sudden break from the silence startles me.
“Yeah, but just for a second. He didn’t even come in. Just dropped it off,” I say. It is the truth, but something in Trevor’s eyes has me doubting that honesty is going to make a difference.
His eyes lock on mine. We don’t have an intense relationship. This side of him is new.
“So, that was him leaving when I pulled up just now?” he asks. A sinister smirk fills his face.
“Yes,” I nod.
In one quick movement, he spins the barstool I’m sitting in toward him, so that we are face to face, his fierce eyes boring into mine.
“What the hell is going on, Sydney?”
“What do you mean?” I ask. I jerk back away from his face. “I just told you.”
“I mean, do you have feelings for this asshole, or what?”
“Are you joking?” I let out a nervous chuckle.
He continues to stare back at me. So, not joking.
“Trevor, there’s nothing going on,” I say firmly, cocking my head to the side. His penetrating stare is seriously starting to make me uncomfortable now. I straighten up and give him a quick kiss on his lips. Nothing. “No. No. No,” I say. “Of course I don’t have any feelings for him. Or anyone other than you. You know how much I love you.”
He finally blinks and breaks the stare.
“Seriously.” I pull Trevor’s face back toward me, but apparently he’s going to be stubborn, because now he’s refusing to make eye contact with me at all.
He walks around to the other side of the kitchen.
“I’m sorry, Syd. But how would you feel if some girl was stopping by my house to bring me things?” His tone is filled with spite.
My head is pounding. I just want the argument to be over so that I can go to bed. Besides, Trevor does have a point. I’m more than a little insecure in our relationship already. I can’t imagine if the situation were reversed.
“You’re right,” I concede. “I’m sorry. But please believe that it was completely innocent. Grant was just trying to be nice.” I wonder if he can hear the bit of untruth in my voice.
“I understand,” Trevor says. He takes the container out of the bag. “It’s just that it’s my job to take care of you. Not his.” He walks to the sink, and before I can protest, he dumps the soup down the garbage disposal. “Do you understand, Sydney?”
His warm smile doesn’t match his vengeful actions, so I just nod.
When I get to school the next morning, though I’m not feeling sick like yesterday, I can’t shake the uneasiness. Trevor’s lack of trust in me stung, but his anger was what really bothered me, it just seemed so out of character.
I park in my usual spot and pass Trevor’s car on my way onto campus. I walk to the quad contemplating what I’ll say to break the ice. Yesterday he left my house a few minutes after washing my lunch down the drain without saying much, and I can’t help but feel nervous that I don’t see him anywhere. He always waits for me in the quad before school. Always.
I stalk across campus alone toward Oceanography. While practicing pirouettes on beam this morning, I resolved to tell Grant about Trevor. I mean, even though the kiss could have meant nothing, I feel awkward that I haven’t been straightforward with
him. So I decided I should tell him that I have a boyfriend, just in case he does feel that way about me. Not that he does.
I’m not entirely sure how I’m going to start this conversation. But it’s the right thing. The mature thing. Right?
“There you are.” I hear Trevor’s voice behind me at the same time his muscular arms wrap around my waist. I spin toward him in confusion.
“There I am? You weren’t waiting for me,” I say.
He smiles apprehensively and kisses the tip of my nose.
“Yeah, sorry about that. I had something to take care of really quick. How are you feeling?”
“Much better.” I’m still wondering what he’s been up to, but decide against pressing him after our argument yesterday.
“Good. Don’t want you sick and changing your mind about things,” he says suggestively.
“Changing my mind about what ‘things’?” I laugh.
“Oh, you know, with prom coming up, I just want to make sure you’re feeling up to par,” he says with a smirk.
“All right, all right,” I say. I smack his shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch. “Get your mind out of the gutter and get to class,” I order.
He smiles broadly and then leans in and kisses me.
“Love you, Syd,” he says.
“Love you too.”
I watch Trevor walk away and then pause in the doorway to Oceanography. Grant is already at our table, with his head down and a book on his lap.
When I get to the table and set my things down, he doesn’t look up. Weird. Yesterday he brings me soup, today, he isn’t going to acknowledge I exist. Maybe he’s just engrossed in his book? I take out my text book and binder and organize them on the table. He still hasn’t acknowledged my presence.
“Morning,” I say quietly. He doesn’t respond.
Risk the Fall Page 4