by Britney King
Chapter Seventeen
Josie
I’m in the bath when Grant comes storming in. “I found these in your purse,” he says, holding up the bottle of pills. His expression is pained.
“Beth thinks I need them.”
“I know,” he tells me. “But they’re all accounted for. You haven’t touched them.”
“I’m not depressed, Grant.” I sink lower into the water. “We’ve discussed this.”
“I thought you said you’d try, though. I thought you were going to give this,” he says rattling the bottle, “a shot.”
“That was before,” I say, and he knows which before I’m referring to. Before the dining room incident. “I changed my mind.”
He doesn’t say anything in return. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his bad deeds. Not after he’s worked so hard to make them right. I’m still angry with him, and he knows it.
“How many times do I have to say I’m sorry?” he asks as he climbs in with me. I scoot to make room, and it’s so comfortable, this dance we do. Even though I want to be angry, and I am, I also want things to be normal again. There’s relief in normalcy. I don’t want to forgive him for what he’s done. But I also don’t want to walk on eggshells around him, either. I want a peaceful home for our children.
“It’s healing nicely,” he says, touching the torn skin on my back he has glued together.
“Yes,” I agree. “Thankfully, it’s only a surface wound.”
“Superficial,” he murmurs scratching the skin around it. It feels nice to have him touch me. Also, it itches like crazy as it heals.
“I don’t want to fight,” I tell him, peering up, my head on his chest. “The kids already sense something is wrong, and they have so much going on, us not speaking to one another, or worse, is the last thing they need.”
He frowns. “I don’t either.”
I sigh heavily. “I also don’t want to take antidepressants. I’m not depressed.”
He pats my back. “I know. You just need a break.”
“We both need a break.”
“Speaking of which,” he grins widely, “I’ve booked us a trip.”
I cock my head. “When?”
“When we get out.”
“What?”
“We’re taking a long weekend.”
“Where are we going?”
“That part,” he says, “is a surprise.”
“What about the kids?”
“They’re staying with Beth’s family.”
“They hate the Joneses.”
“They’ll manage,” he says convincingly. “It’s only three days.”
“But—”
“Josie—stop. I’ve packed you a bag. It’s done,” he pulls me closer. “Now, just enjoy it.”
The flight attendant brings two champagne flutes. I take a photo and post it to Instalook with the hashtags #surprisetrip #wherearewegoing #besthusbandever #blessedlife
I feel guilty for leaving the kids with the Joneses. They’re hardcore about daily prayer and ritual, and more than anything, I’m afraid that one or both of them will slip up. We’re not nearly as disciplined in our home—not that the Jones’s know that. But I guess they will now.
Grant pulls something from his carry-on. I’m checking the number of likes on my Instalook post when he slips something into my lap. I look down. A little blue box rests on my thighs. “For you,” he says. “I want this trip to set things right between us.”
My eyes light up. “I want that too,” I tell him, lifting the lid from the box.
I gasp when I see the diamond bracelet. It’s gorgeous. A woman from across the aisle stares. The flight attendant asks if she can take a peek. She asks if we’d like her to take a photo to mark the occasion. She thinks it’s our anniversary. “How many years now?” she asks.
“Eighteen,” I tell her.
“Well,” she smiles. “Aren’t you lucky?”
“I’m the lucky one,” Grant pipes in. I can see by the way she looks at him she’s enamored by his charm. His money doesn’t hurt. But his looks kill.
She snaps the photo, and I post it to Instalook. Caption: And there’s more. #hejustgetsbetter #blueboxlove
Grant places his hand on my thigh. “So you like it then?”
“I love it,” I promise. I lean over and kiss his cheek.
“Good,” he quips. “Now, I need to focus.” I look on as he pulls a book from his bag and opens it. I pull up Instalook. “Oh—” he says, pulling another book from his bag. This one I’d recognize anywhere. It’s my Bible. “Beth suggested you study Proverbs. I have several passages bookmarked.”
I put my phone away. We don’t speak for the rest of the flight.
Later, after we’re checked into our hotel, and I’ve snapped a few photos of the view from our balcony for Instalook, with the hashtag #scottsdaleitis, Grant takes my hand and leads me to the bed. I go willingly, because I can’t take one more minute of silence nor of staring at words I can’t find meaning in.
Ever since we’ve landed, he’s taken work call after work call. Something has blown up, and I can see that it has him on edge. I try to be understanding. When he steps out to take another call, I check on the kids. They don’t seem as annoyed as I’d figured they’d be.
After I end the call, I unpack both our suitcases. By the time I finish, and he still isn’t back, I check Instalook. I converse with fans for a bit about sights we should check out while in the area, and then I resume half-immersing myself in my required reading material. I don’t yet understand what I’m supposed to be looking for in the text, but I know it’s just a matter of time before it becomes apparent. I’m just about to give up when he comes back.
“Sorry,” he says. “This is what I get for trying to get away.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask, motioning toward the phone. The calls, the intrusion into our lives, it isn’t abnormal. I’m trying to be kind.
“Just work stuff,” he says. “I want to lie with you before I have to hop on another call.”
“All right.” I place my hands on my hips. He’s already halfway to the bed. Sex will resolve some of the tension. I watch as he strips out of his clothes. I start to remove my own when he holds his hand up. “Come here,” he says, and I do. My husband desires obedience. There’s security in that.
He takes me in his arms, and I feel that something in me, the weight of the day, the weight of the past few weeks, slowly melts away. He sits back on the bed and I sit facing him. I start to unbutton my blouse when he stops me. “Would you mind?” he asks nodding. “It’s been a long day,” he sighs. “And I could really use some relief.”
My eyes widen. I’d like to say I’m not surprised, but that would be a lie.
“Josie,” he says, getting my attention. I feel tears coming. Grant thinks crying is a form of manipulation. “Come on,” he says almost earnestly. “Don’t leave me hanging.”
I scoot lower on the bed, and I give him what he wants. This is the thing no one tells you about loving a person, I think, working him the way I know he likes. They’re bound to hurt you at some point. You can’t make a lifelong commitment to another person and come out unscathed. No one does. You just do the best you can to minimize the damage.
“We need to talk,” Grant tells me, waking me from sleep. I glance toward the balcony. It’s dark out. I have no idea what time it is, or how long I’ve been asleep. He brushes the hair from my face. Drool has matted it to my cheek. My mouth is dry. “I have something for you.”
He’s holding a small box. I blink as he kneels before me. He thrusts the box in my direction. I’m not fully awake.
“You didn’t have to do this,” I tell him.
“I wanted to.”
I eye the box. He holds it up to me, and when I reach for it he pulls it away. “First, there’s something I need to know…”
“Okay,” I answer unsure where this is going.
He studies my face carefully. “If you could do it all o
ver again…would you?”
“Do what?”
He frowns. “This. Us.”
I narrow my gaze. “Of course, why?”
He lets out a long heavy sigh. “It’s nothing,” he says. He looks relieved, and this is the man I know. He doesn’t ask questions like this. “Just something I needed to hear.”
“Here,” he says, thrusting the box at me. “Open it.”
I lift the lid and inside are the most gorgeous emerald earrings I’ve ever seen. They’re drop earrings surrounded by the tiniest understated diamonds that make the rest of it just pop. ‘Thank you,” I say, my face flush. “This is too much.”
“There’s more…” He tells me, and he stands and walks over to the closet and opens it. “They will go perfectly with the dress I purchased.”
“Grant… wow. I don’t know what to say.”
He smiles. “You’ve said enough.”
He helps me slip into the gown, and then we’re off into the night, no worse for the wear.
Dinner turns out to be lovely. We don’t talk about forced feedings or New Hope or even the kids. We don’t speak much at all, in fact. In the end, I know how it’ll turn out. He’ll strip me out of this expensive dress, and make love to me with the earrings on. Later when I go to the sink to clean up and wash my face, I’ll remove them. I’ll carefully lay them next to the others, a long line of gifts that remind me all things broken can be fixed. A beautiful reminder of remorse. I’ll snap a photo of them next to my dress on the hanger and post it to Instalook with the caption: he loves me.
Chapter Eighteen
Izzy
Serendipity, it turned out to be. I first saw it in Josie’s photo sitting on Grant’s bedside table. These are the things one can come to know about a person by studying their behavior online. Innocent things. Intimate things. Things one can use to their advantage. Things like books. People like people who have the same tastes. It offers a sense of validation. Most people need that. Even the Grant Dunns of the world aren’t immune to neediness in that sense. The only difference is he doesn’t want you to know he has insecurities, whereas most people shout them from the rooftops. I once read a study about the negative to positive ratio in regard to the kinds of things people say online. Also, how much is fact and how much is fiction. It was enlightening. It’s strange what people connect to.
“I can’t believe you’re reading that,” he says. He looks over at me, devilish grin and all. “I thought no one read Dickens anymore.” I smirk. It’s been days since I’ve seen that grin. Maybe Josh was right when he said fire needs air to breathe.
“What if I didn’t take you home immediately?” he quips. “What if we went for a little drive instead?”
I glance down at my hands. Anything to avoid appearing too eager. People like it when you’re unsure. It gives them the satisfaction of convincing you. People like to win. Especially people like Grant Dunn.
“We can discuss the book,” he adds.
I pretend to think it over. My eyes dart to the clock on the dash. This buys me time. He wants to have to work for it.
I watch as his fingers tighten around the wheel. He doesn’t know it, but he appreciates the suspense. It’s the best part of the game. Will she or won’t she?
Finally, I shrug as though to say why not. He flips the blinker and pulls onto the highway. It’s a good thing I am prepared. I did actually read some of that stupid book. Not enough to really discuss it in detail. But enough so he won’t know the difference. Mostly though, he’ll want to tell me his interpretation rather than hear mine. He’ll be nice and satisfied if I throw in a question, just a slight but what if. He’ll want a minuscule difference of opinion, a slight disagreement. But not a real one. He’ll correct me and feel smart doing so. With a bit of hesitation, I’ll agree, before I finally admit the truth—that I have no idea how I could have missed that.
We drive into the night. He puts the top down. It’s chilly out, but I don’t care. This feels dangerous, reckless—necessary ingredients. He turns up the heat, and then grabs his coat from the back. He lays it over me. Holiday lights twinkle in the distance. “Won’t you be cold?” I ask, but it’s so loud in a convertible. I hadn’t realized it would be this loud. I’m not sure whether he hears me or not.
He smiles. “I spend my days in a hospital, remember? The OR trains you to embrace the cold.”
I hadn’t thought of it that way. But that’s the thing about Grant Dunn: He’s considerate. He takes thought a level or two above what you’d expect. He’s unpredictable.
Eventually, we pull off the highway, and the lights fade until it is just us on a two-lane open road.
“Do you like to go fast?” he asks, a wry grin plastered on his face like it’s a permanent fixture. Like it comes with the car.
I want to say yes. But I jut out my bottom lip and raise my brow instead, because it’s hard to answer that question when you don’t even own a vehicle.
“Would you like to find out?”
“Sure,” I yell. I don’t mean to. I’m just not sure how my voice is going to come out in the open air.
He floors it, which forces my head back against the seat. It’s like being in a slingshot, being launched into outer space. It feels so good, so free. I would go to the edges of space with Grant Dunn. I would go anywhere with him.
We drive for a bit, fast, too fast. Eventually, he slows and pulls off onto the side of the road. He puts the car in park, and I should be scared about what comes next, about being out in the middle of nowhere with a man I hardly know. But I’m not. I smooth my hair away from my face.
It’s dark, practically pitch black, save for the headlights. “Look up,” he says, and I do. There are stars up above, entire galaxies I’ve never seen.
We sit there in silence for a long while. I inhale the fresh air, fill my lungs with it. I hold it in. I never want to let go. It smells like pine needles and freedom. I’d stay here forever staring at this kind of magic if I could.
But everything changes.
At some point he gets out of the car, walks around to my side and opens the door. “It looks better from the hood,” he motions. He offers his hand. “That and it’s warmer there.”
“There,” he says, and I perch myself on the hood. He stands in front of me. Neither of us are looking at the stars anymore.
“Mr. Dunn—” I say, knowing what’s coming. Part of me is trying to put the brakes on. Part of me can’t help myself.
He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t call me that. Call me Grant,” he tells me. “Or doctor, if you must,” he adds with a sly smile. It fades quickly. Too quickly. “Anything but that.”
It feels awkward with him standing over me. I want him to make his move, and yet I don’t, because I know this is the start of something. Also, that it’s the beginning of the end.
“Okay,” I say. “Thank you, Grant.”
“Better.”
I rest on my elbow and let my head fall all the way back until it feels like I’m looking at the whole world upside down. This is the way I feel. Upside down. Inside out. A thousand tiny instances I could have stopped this one-way train we’re on, and in all of them I could never quite make myself pull the cord. I know it only goes one way or the other from here, and I know that if I reject him which way that is. The rides will stop, this— whatever this is— it all goes away. And to be frank, I’m sick of things going away.
I don’t know what to say in that moment, so I default to sarcasm. “You could kill me out here and no one would know…”
He lowers his voice, and I don’t know how he does it but it’s so thick and smooth it’s suffocating. “I’d never hurt you Izzy,” he says, and it’s the first time I know for sure he’s telling me a lie.
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
He leans down, and he’s so close now I can taste my future. All I know is I want him in it.
I raise my head, meeting him in the middle. My world is right side up again. He kisses me, sucking
my bottom lip between his teeth. He’s not hesitant, but he’s not rushed, either. He’s the perfect mixture of everything.
He pulls away, and he searches my eyes. Carefully. Thoroughly. It’s just me and him, galaxies and the headlights.
After several moments, he moves away, and I think maybe he’s lost his nerve. Yes, I want to tell him. You will be giving up a lot. There’s no going back. Trust me, I know.
He takes my hand and pulls me into a standing position. Then he takes the coat he’s slung over my shoulders and lays it on the hood. He nods, and I realize he hasn’t lost his nerve. He’s setting the stage. “Is this all right with you?”
This is my chance. One way or the other, I have a decision to make. It’s already been made. It was made when you got in the car. It was made when you pulled off the highway. It was made the first time you saw his stupid face. I look up at the stars, and then I meet his gaze directly. “Yes. This is perfect.”
He peels me out of my jeans. The cold hits me hard. All I feel is his warmth. A part of me cringes. Usually, I like to prepare myself for moments like this. I’m sure I smell like work, but he doesn’t seem to care. “I’d like to take my time with you, Izzy; I’d like to show you what I’m capable of,” he whispers. “But we haven’t got time for that.”
I nod as though I know what he means. I’ve got all the time in the world.
He lays me back on the hood and parts my knees. I listen as he tears the condom wrapper, and I’m grateful one of us has thought ahead. Suddenly, I feel him warm and rigid against my thigh. It causes me to jump. He places his palms on either side of me, lowers down. His lips meet my neck, grazing the spot just behind my ear. “You’ll have to forgive me,” he says. “I hate condoms. But I don’t trust that friend of yours.”