Shattered Grace (Fallen from Grace)

by K Anne Raines

  She gestured to the feast that he had set out. “Hello? You’ve done more than enough bringing me this food and the tissues.”

  He handed her a wineglass full of liquid the color of sunshine and lifted his glass close to hers. “Here’s to new friendships.”

  “To new friendships.” She gently touched her glass to his before taking a tentative sip. The liquid was lemonade. Homemade lemonade. Her favorite. “How’d you know?”

  “Know what? That you’d like the lemonade?” He gave her a playful smile.

  “That too. But no, the tissues.”

  “Yesterday at the reception you continued to use that shredded-up tissue, and your nose looked more worn-out than the tissue. I figured there wasn’t anything softer in the house, or you would have found it. And Christophe told me about the lemonade.”

  Inside she was torn. She was happy her grandfather had talked about her favorite things, but sad he wouldn’t be talking about anything ever again. “Perceptive and observant,” she said instead, not wanting to need the tissue any more today.

  Quentin chuckled. “I’ve been accused of worse.”

  “Oh, really?” Grace’s brow pulled up. “Like what?”

  “That’s not a conversation for today. Eat. I don’t know about you, but I do not like cold Chinese.”

  “I don’t either.” She smiled, glad she’d made the phone call.

  They relaxed into an easy conversation while they ate. It didn’t take long for Grace to toss her chopsticks, however. She was done pretending to be fluent with them and dug a plastic fork out of the take-out bags. Easier to eat and easier to talk. Of course, Quentin managed to expertly wield his chopsticks, bringing his food to his mouth without dropping any. Some people are born with all the talent, she mused.

  Reminiscing about Christophe with Quentin made her feel better, smoothing out some of the rough edges of her mournful heart. Some of the stories they shared between them brought out her emotions, and Grace more than once had to fight against her compulsion to reach out and touch Quentin’s arm. She knew it wouldn’t be appropriate and imagined him bolting as soon as she did, thinking she was coming on to him.

  There were two things Grace knew without a doubt she couldn’t handle right now: A) his being mortified by thinking she was making a pass, and B) trying to explain the reason for the touch. She decided the best thing for both of them would be for her to keep her hands to herself, so she slid them underneath her thighs and pinned them beneath her.

  It was easy talking to Quentin. As she sat with him now, she understood why her grandfather had said she could trust him. She imagined pulling out her secret and sharing it with him. The thought of being able to trust someone with something she had only shared with one other soul made her a little giddy, but also somewhat anxious.

  When the shadows lengthened and the sky began to hint of twilight, Grace realized it was getting late. “Crap! Do you know what time it is?” she asked.

  Quentin looked at his watch. “It’s 7:05. Do you have a date?”

  “Kind of,” she said, hurrying about gathering the food and dishes from their picnic. “I’m supposed to meet Emily at Latté Da’s at seven thirty.” Her hands filled with paper containers, she paused and glanced down at Quentin, smiling with what she thought was a great idea.

  “What?” he asked, his voice not quite steady. “Why are you smiling like that?”

  “You wanna come with me? It’ll be fun and you get to listen to some awesome music.”

  Quentin looked away as he rubbed absently at his shirtsleeve. “Hmm, awesome music, huh?”

  “Actually, I can’t guarantee that, so don’t hold me to it. Em’s boyfriend is playing tonight and she said his band is great. She isn’t an unbiased spectator, though,” she said.

  “You sure you want me hanging around? I won’t cramp your style?” He chuckled in an adorable self-deprecating way.

  “Seriously, Quentin, my style? You dress better than any male or female at Woods Cross High.” As he stood, she let her eyes roam, taking inventory of his “style.” Not able to control the roaming, she noticed how his beige slacks fit just so, and how the ridges of muscle under his blue shirt continued stretching down the length of his forearms. “Trust me, if anything, you’ll help my style.”

  Quentin was standing in the foyer when she walked out of the kitchen. Grace stopped and leaned against the doorjamb, looking anywhere but into his eyes, and hesitated, wanting desperately to ask him once again to go with her to Latté Da’s. Instead, she bit her lower lip in indecision, reluctant to appear too desperate in his eyes.

  “Okay,” he said with a sigh. “I’ll go.”

  Grace felt a huge smile take over her face before she could stop it. “Great!” she said too fast. Hurrying to the table next to him, she put her cell in her purse and flung it over her shoulder.

  The smirk Quentin wore as she rushed past him toward the front door gave her pause, but his next words stopped her in her tracks. “On one condition.”

  She pivoted and cocked her head before asking tentatively, “What’s the condition?”

  He crossed his arms across his chest, tightening the shirt that hugged and defined his pecs, as his smirk widened into a Cheshire grin. “I get to drive.”

  “Simple. No problem.” She lifted her shoulders in a “fine by me” shrug.

  “I get to drive the Shelby,” he clarified.

  Oh no! Not so simple and not so fine. Reflexively, her stomach clenched at the thought of someone else driving her car. “I don’t usually let anyone drive it.” Grace prayed inside that he’d let it go.

  Quentin dropped his arms and took a step toward her, moving closer into her personal space. “Maybe we can work something out.”

  “Like what, me driving us in my car?” Grace’s eyes turned to slits as she glared at him. She knew she was a little irrational and selfish when it came to her car, but she couldn’t help it. With her grandfather’s recent passing, she felt even more possessive of it.

  His voice took on a cajoling tone. “You let me drive your car and I’ll let you drive my Jag any time you want.”

  She had to give him an A for effort. She’d noticed the late model top-of-the-line Jaguar in the circular driveway when Quentin first arrived. It was a sweet ride.

  She folded her arms over her chest, pushing her hip out. “How fast does it go?” Grace asked. One of the things she loved most about her car was its acceleration; she loved how quickly she could zip from zero to sixty.

  “It’ll school that Shelby of yours.” His chest puffed out in challenge and she mentally shook her head. Men.

  “That sounds like a bet,” Grace said, matching his puffed-out chest with her challenging tone.

  “It is.”

  Holding her keys tightly in her left hand, she held out her right to shake on it. “Not sure what the winner gets, but you can drive the Shelby tonight and I get to drive the Jag another time.”

  He stepped forward, taking her hand firmly in his. “Deal. Loser buys pizza.” Pizza? Well, that was easy, she thought.

  Since she was a little girl, she knew what others felt with a simple touch of her hands. She hated it, but times like this, it came in handy. Sensing nothing in his touch but honest-to-goodness excitement in the challenge, she shook back. “Deal.”

  Quentin grabbed his jacket from the coat closet and followed Grace out the front door toward her car. The key was still firmly in her grip. With her eyes, she implored him. “Please drive carefully.”

  “I promise.”

  The two words were spoken with a tenderness that touched the depths of her heart. In his eyes she saw understanding. Her grandfather gave her the car. He knew that.

  It had been almost a year since Grace had sat in the passenger seat. The last time was the night before her seventeenth birthday, the night the car became hers. Pain constricted her chest at the memory, making it difficult to breathe. When Quentin got in the driver’s side, she tried to discreetly wipe away an e
scaped tear.

  She wasn’t discreet enough. Quentin still saw it. Gently, Quentin grabbed her hand and held it until she relaxed and gave him a tentative smile. Finally, she was able to meet his eyes. “Thank you. Again.” They sat for a moment, locked in each other’s gaze, quietly drawing strength from the other.

  Quentin broke away first to rest his hands on the steering wheel, giving it a loving stroke before looking back at Grace, his eyes bright with anticipation. “Okay, let’s see what this baby can do!”

  Grace laughed at his excitement. She knew her Shelby would kick his Jag’s butt.

  Cars were parked on both sides of Orchard Street, so Grace didn’t have to mention parking in an area where the Shelby would be less likely to get a scratch. With this many cars, they had no choice but to park a couple of blocks from Latté Da’s. As they got out of the car, their ears were met with rhythmic drumbeats.

  “Sounds like we’re late,” Grace said as they hurried down the street.

  A few loiterers were gathered around the front door, talking. Grace and Quentin politely pushed their way through. Still a little uncertain, she turned to Quentin, pulling herself up on her toes in order to talk in his ear. “Whenever you’re ready to go, just let me know and we can go.”

  He leaned in, shouting loud enough so she could hear. The same smell of water and fresh night air from earlier surrounded her, pulling her toward him. “Don’t worry about me. Just try to have a good time. Alright?” His voice snapped her out of it, and she took a small step back.

  Worried he realized what she had done, she jammed her hands into the back pockets of her pants and scanned the dark street. She took a quick peek back at Quentin, and caught a glimpse of a smile and felt a little reassured. “Alright.” He opened the door, ushering her in with a hand at the small of her back.

  The place was packed, every table and seat taken. It seemed as though every square inch of the cinderblock shop was filled with loitering youth. Latté Da’s smelled of espresso, burnt milk, and sweat from too many packed-in bodies. The wafting aroma, she imagined, was probably much like that of a nightclub. Minus the espresso and milk, of course. Grace felt Quentin lean into her, the heat of his breath reaching her ear before his words. “If you want to go find your friends, I can get us something to drink. What do you want?”

  “I’ll just have a mocha, with two straws. Emily will be toward the stage in back.”

  “I’ll find you.”

  Taking his wink as her okay to go, she made her way through the crowd toward the stage. Some kids stood talking, others sat singing along to the music, while the braver ones danced. Even though Grace didn’t see any one dancer she thought who could dance particularly well, she still envied how carefree they all were with their movements. She’d always wanted to be able to dance like that, to be able to let loose in a crowded room and allow her body to react to the music. But she never could, not because she was clumsy or ungainly, but because she was different.

  Her difference had always kept her on the outside looking in, careful not to touch anyone with her hands. She knew that to everyone else but her grandfather, her lack of getting involved in crowded activities made her seem shy, when in fact, shyness had nothing to do with keeping her distance. She continued to watch the dancers, and tamped down the twinge she felt as she noticed a few of her friends were among them. Emily stood just beyond, watching Tommy get his rock star on.

  “He sounds great,” Grace shouted, once she got within earshot of her.

  “Doesn’t he?” Emily yelled back, bouncing up and down in time to the music. Her straight dark hair moved as if dancing too. “What took you so long? I thought you were going to be a no-show.”

  “Not a no-show, just late.”

  Too focused on Tommy, Emily uncharacteristically let her transgression go. Grace wondered if she was eagle-eying Tommy because she was in love, or because there were several girls lining the stage sending obvious groupie messages with their body language. They bounced a lot. And with the little they were wearing, it was a wonder how the members of Distant Echo could concentrate enough to sound so good.

  The band finished their song and announced a ten-minute break. Tommy jumped off the stage, wound his way through his little fan club, and headed for Emily. Grace watched as her eyes lit up and her smile widened. The groupies, on the other hand, weren’t smiling at all. Each took turns stabbing Emily with eye daggers. They weren’t worth the notice, so Grace turned back to Emily.

  “How’d we sound, babe?”

  “You guys were amazing!” Emily gushed, her eyes all wide as she clapped her hands with excitement before throwing her arms around Tommy’s neck.

  Grace rolled her eyes. “I think I’m going to puke.”

  Emily’s head quickly swiveled in her direction, her eyes narrowed. “Is that why you were late? You getting sick?”

  “Watching your PDA is making me sick. I was fine until I got here.”

  “Whatever.” Emily dismissed her disgust with a flick of her hand, then turned her fluttering eyes back to Tommy.

  It was strange seeing Tommy in his rock star garb. Usually he looked like he belonged somewhere on the beaches of California with nothing but a surfboard in hand. But tonight the only thing that looked like Tommy was his longer sandy-blond hair and brown eyes. However, the black eyeliner penciled around them was a little weird.

  A brush from someone’s touch sent heat shooting up Grace’s arm. Not a painful, burning heat. More of a butterflies fluttering in your tummy, heart-palpitating, “oh my gosh, what the heck was that” kind of heat. The flurry of sensations she’d never experienced together before made Grace’s heart race.

  When she turned toward the source of the heat, she found Quentin standing next to her, holding the mocha she’d asked for. His knuckles had barely grazed her. Odd, she thought. What the hell is going on?

  Afraid he might have felt it too, her cheeks heated to a self-conscious shade of dark red. Grace shook herself mentally, determined to get her blushing issues under control. Her complexion lately was bipolar—white or red. It couldn’t be some nice complementary shade in between.

  Successful at avoiding Quentin’s inquisitive gaze yet again, she took the drink and mumbled a thank-you. When she looked up, she noticed that Emily and Tommy were gaping at him. She swung her gaze to Quentin, taking in how the contrast between his gray eyes against his raven hair was startling in this lighting, amplifying his features. That’s right, she thought with an internal snicker, he is quite easy on the eyes.

  “Guys, this is Quentin. Quentin,” she said, swiveling back to them, “this is my friend, Emily. And that’s her boyfriend, Tommy.”

  Quentin smiled and reached out to shake Tommy’s hand. Emily’s face twisted conspiratorially, and Grace winced inside. Here we go!

  “So, this is your grandfather’s friend, huh?” Tommy paused with his hand in midair.

  “Uh, yep.”

  If Emily mentioned she’d told her that he was insanely hot, she would die on the spot.

  Her best friend’s face widened with a sly grin. From somewhere behind Emily’s back, Grace could practically feel a light breeze from the fluttering of Emily’s cupid wings. Her best friend was not only a drama queen, she was an incorrigible matchmaker.

  The only sure way to be certain that “hot” wasn’t in Emily’s next sentence was to divert attention elsewhere. “Tommy,” Grace interjected a little too enthusiastically. “Emily was right. You guys are great!”

  “You really think so?” Tommy’s eyes lit up and let his breath out in a whoosh.

  “Absolutely.”

  “Seriously, man,” Quentin said, finally shaking Tommy’s hand. “Your band is really good.”

  Quentin eyed Grace and gave her a private wink. Smiling on the outside but giggling on the inside, she was glad her non-promise of awesome music was delivered, and even more thankful she was able to divert Emily’s attention away from matchmaking.

  Before long, Tommy’s ban
d was due back onstage. He dropped a quick peck on Emily’s cheek, then made his way back to the stage to rejoin the band. Grace kept a watchful eye on the groupies as she felt her phone buzz. She pulled it from her purse and flinched at the name displayed on Caller ID. After avoiding her mom all day, Grace sighed, knowing she should probably bite the bullet and call her back.

  “My mom keeps texting and calling. I’m going to slip outside real quick and call her back,” she said to Quentin and Emily.

  Emily’s focus stayed on the stage. “I’ll be right here.”

  Like she’d be anywhere else?

  “Do you want me to go outside with you? It’s pretty dark out there now.” Quentin leaned in close, concern etched on his features.

  “No, I’ll only be a few minutes.”

  Grace made her way back through the crowd and ran the gauntlet through the front door loiterers, doing her best not to touch anyone as she passed. She pushed out the front door, thankful for the cool night air that met her overheated face. She turned down the sidewalk and walked briskly. Once she made it to the corner a couple of buildings down, it sounded like she might be far enough away from the throbbing music to be able to hear.

  “Grace?”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “Are you alright? I’ve been trying to get a hold of you all day. I was starting to really worry about you.”

  Worry? That would be a first.

  “I’m fine. Just hung out at Grandpa’s for a while. I’m at Latté Da’s listening to Tommy’s band now.”

  Laney paused. “What time will you be home?”

  “Not sure. Not too late, I have school in the morning.” Grace switched the phone to her other ear as she swept her gaze up and down the dark, deserted street.

  “Oh…alright.” Her mother sighed. “I’ll see you when you get home then.”

  “Okay. Bye.”

  “Bye, honey.”

  Honey? Grace pulled the phone from her ear to stare at it, her mouth open in disbelief. Has hell frozen over, she asked herself, and I just didn’t get the memo? She disconnected the call and dropped her phone back in her purse, then pivoted toward the coffee shop. A slight scraping noise caught her attention, and she was startled by someone perched against the building behind her—one foot propped on the brick wall, thumbs leisurely hooked in his belt loops. She gasped and slapped a hand to her chest, quietly trying to find the breath she’d lost.