My Double Life
Page 26
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While he drove me back to Rodeo Drive, Grant told me he would e-mail me a version of our song so I could practice it. I didn't say anything. My wishful thinking had begun to break apart. No matter how much I wanted it, I wouldn't be able to sing that song with him. But how long could I put him off about it?
"I guess I should warn you that my mom wants to invite you to dinner," he said. "She’s been cooking vegetarian recipes to come up with something you’ll like."
"Really?" I asked. I didn't want to meet his family. It was bad enough lying to Grant about my identity, I didn't want to spread the lie around to the rest of his family. "Don't you think it’s a little early for that?”
He shrugged. "You've already met my dad, and I’ve met yours."
"What?” I asked. "When did you meet my father?"
Grant sent me a glance like he thought I should know. "I belonged to that group he put together to visit the troops last year."
"Oh, right,” I said. The words sounded harshly hollow, even to me. I didn’t know why they'd come out that way.
"He’s a nice guy,” Grant said. "You remind me of him sometimes—your sense of humor and your mannerisms.”
There is obviously something wrong with me. A normal person would not cry after hearing that. And I’m not even sure why I started crying—whether it was the unfairness that Grant knew my father better than I did or because it was the first time anyone had ever said I reminded him of my father. Could I really have his sense of humor? Was that inherited?
I couldn't help thinking, with more desperation than I wanted to admit, that if I was like him, if my father could see himself in me, maybe he'd love me.
Grant looked over and then did a double take. "What?" he asked in alarm. "What’s wrong?"
I shook my head. "Nothing.” But I knew he wouldn't be satisfied with that answer, so I added, "It's just things with my father aren't the way I want them to be right now."
Grant's voice went soft. "You can change that if you want.”
"It's not that simple."
"Why don't you pick up the phone and call him?"
I didn’t have his phone number, for one thing.
I wondered—just to inflict pain on myself—if Grant had his phone number. How many friends, acquaintances, and near strangers talked to him every day? But even if Grant had Alex Kingsley's number, I couldn’t ask him for it. How do you explain to a guy that you don't know your own father's phone number without raising major red flags?
I wiped the tears off of my cheeks, angry with myself for having these emotional reactions every time I learned something about my father. He hadn't spent one ounce of emotion thinking about me.
"I know you two don’t get along anymore,” Grant said. "That’s in chapter nine of Lorna's book, but I'm sure he wants to talk to you as badly as you want to talk to him.”
Probably not.
I slipped on a pair of sunglasses and grabbed my hat from off of the seat. We’d arrived at Rodeo Drive, and he was about to let me off. As Grant put the car in park, I reached over and squeezed his hand. "Thanks for trying to help. And the song is beautiful. It means a lot to me.”
He leaned over and kissed me. It was stupid to let him do it in public, but I didn't turn away. Being within six inches of him apparently disarmed my rational thought. Besides, it only lasted three seconds. What were the chances that anyone would have a camera pointed at us during those three seconds?