by Darcy Woods
I understand loss. We are intimately acquainted. I understand the way it can hollow you if you let it. How something so simple can be so devastating. My mother going to get maple syrup, Anna’s single misstep—events that could’ve played out in countless, impermanent ways. But instead, they ripped away the people we loved.
He’s watching me, gauging my reaction. His jaw is tight and lines appear on his forehead. I think he worries he’s said too much. He hasn’t.
Grant’s watering eyes fill with more emotions than the English language is equipped to describe.
I take his arm, pulling it closer, kissing his tattoo, kissing away the hurt, the way Gram has done on so many skinned knees and elbows. I don’t want him to bear the burden alone anymore. Pain is something we can share.
I smooth the lines above his troubled brow. Just as I’d wanted to that night at Absinthe that now feels decades ago. My head tucks back against his chest. His breath is hot on my scalp, making me forget our hurts. Making me forget everything.
And, I know, the smallest movement would change everything. If I lift my chin, then our lips will almost be touching. Almost…
His heart beats faster as if he’s sensing my thoughts. The cotton of his T-shirt brushes softly on my cheek as I slowly, slowly lift my head. Half-lidded eyes gaze back, matching my longing.
I touch my mouth to his and hear the sharp intake of both our breaths. In that second that our lips meet, all the aches and pains of living…vanish. I know they aren’t gone forever, but for now…I don’t feel them. I only feel Grant.
We are still except for our breaths and our hearts. My hand, feeling the stubble on the side of his face, hasn’t moved, and neither has his arm that curls around me. I am surrounded by “Anna’s Song.” I’m sure it’s as beautiful as she was.
I pull back and we stare at each other in wonder. It shouldn’t be wondrous.
Because we are doomed.
But for tonight, for one night…I will imagine I can rearrange the stars.
I drop my hand, which carries the heat from his face.
“I can’t go back to pretending. I don’t ever want to pretend with you, Mena—ever. You’re all I want. All I’ve wanted since the moment we met.” Grant takes off my glasses, which clatter to the coffee table. He leans closer, eyeing my lips. “Tell me to stop.”
I say nothing. Grant may not want to pretend, but I do. I want to pretend there is nothing but us—no vows, or charts, or lives hanging in the balance. Because this ache I have for him is unlike anything I’ve ever felt. It’s all-consuming.
Suddenly Grant pulls me into his arms and kisses me. Hard.
I gasp and we fall back into the couch cushions. His lips move frantically over mine, and I match his need with my own. All the emotion I’ve pent up, all the memories of that night in the gardens—it’s my undoing. The kiss deepens as our bodies recall the way we fit. The way our contours shape against one another—puzzle pieces waiting to be joined.
I tug the back of his T-shirt until it’s bunched at his upper back, scratching him with my haste. I murmur my apology against his mouth as his shirt is tossed to the living-room floor.
I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t believe what I’m doing. I’ve practically torn the shirt off his back and all I can think is…please, oh please, don’t stop.
Once again, our lips collide like bits of heaven bursting through atmosphere. We gain speed with our fall just like heaven’s debris.
And I am in flames. Ignited by the way his lips and hands move over me.
I cross my arms at my torso, reaching for the bottom of my shirt. I don’t want anything between us. I want to feel his heart, his skin molded to mine. I want the physical connection to match the emotional one.
“Mena.” Grant pulls back, bracing himself above me. His bare chest rises and falls erratically, his hair even wilder than usual.
“Not sex,” I breathe. But I can’t define what I want. Connection? Closeness? To feel something worth remembering?
“No, this wasn’t”—he stalls and licks his lips—“this wasn’t why I came to the hospital. Or why I came here tonight. You’re hurting. The last thing I want is to comp—”
I still his mouth with my fingers, and push down the grief that threatens to surface once more. “I’m not the only one hurting.”
He gently removes my fingers and sits up. “That’s different. Those are old scars.” He drops his head to his hands. “I haven’t been with anyone in a long time. I haven’t really wanted to. But then I met you, and…everything changed.”
Quietly I echo, “It changed for me, too, Grant.”
Now, sitting beside him, the taste of him on my lips, the scent of him on my skin—I realize why no one else has awakened me quite this way.
Because no one else…was Grant.
My hand trembles as I turn off the lamp. It’s easier to be bold in darkness. “I’ve never really wanted to be with anyone. At least, not the way…” But then my voice fades along with my nerve.
“Not the way?” he prompts. Grant cups my chin, turning my face toward him. “It’s me. Mena, there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
He’s right. And the rightness of being with Grant is pounded out in every beat of my heart. My fear dissolves. “I’ve never wanted to be with anyone”—I gaze into his darkened eyes—“the way I want to be with you.”
Then I stand, the moon’s caress at my back. This time he doesn’t stop me as I peel off my T-shirt and toss it on top of his. The slamming inside my chest does little to mask the sound of his breath.
“You’re so beautiful, Mena.” Grant’s voice drops to a whisper, “You make it hard to breathe. But I need to say, you need to know how much I lo—”
“Please, Grant”—I shake my head—“no more words. Could you just…find another way to speak?”
I see the outline of his throat tighten and relax with his swallow. He stands facing me.
Blood rushes in my veins and in my ears and in every part of me, reminding me I am alive. I am so very alive. I wrap my arms around him, pressing my skin firmly to his. It is like holding fire, and looking into his eyes is like gazing at the sun.
When I finally let go, we collapse on the couch. I fall on top of him. His hands aren’t as rushed as they were before, and they don’t try to remove any more clothes than I have already.
Not sex. He honors this, even as I move desperately against him and fumble with the button on his jeans. It’s a reckless move, and I haven’t really considered what I’ll do once the jeans are off. But I want to ease what he must be feeling. What I am feeling.
Suddenly I’m pulled beneath him. Grant’s breath is ragged, and his body is shaking, but he sways his head back and forth when I grapple with the button of his jeans again. He pins my hand against the couch cushion. Our fingers intertwine; he kisses them.
Grant hovers above me now, head outlined in silver light. His face has that same euphoric look as it did the first time I saw him play. Except now I’m the guitar. And those talented hands play me much as they did his beloved instrument. Touching me like no one ever has. Then his mouth is on mine, kissing me until I can’t form thoughts. And he tells me everything…without once uttering a word.
“Don’t,” he whispers when I start to roll away. He draws me back against him so we are chest to chest, hearts beating in time. “Stay with me.”
I’m not sure how long we’ve been on the couch when I finally awaken. Long enough for the tingles to recede and for dawn’s first light to pierce the living-room curtains.
My head feels stuffed with wool and my eyes are gritted with sand. Grant’s arm is draped over my waist and his breath has the slow steadiness of sleep’s rhythm.
I love Grant.
The thought startles me like a thunderclap. And I’m not joyous, or happy, or any of those things someone in love is suppose to feel. Instead, I’m terrified.
Because loving Grant compromises a lifetime of beliefs. Worse, it compromises my mot
her’s legacy, the promise I made. I squeeze my eyes shut.
My God, what have I done?
The grandfather clock bongs, echoing six times through the house. Grant doesn’t stir.
Carefully as I can, I roll out from beneath his arm and yank on my T-shirt. His lips are parted, head half-mashed into the cushion, deep in a blissful sleep. His breath is slow and even. I so badly want to kiss him.
But enough damage has been done.
Tiptoeing out of the room and upstairs, I get ready in record time. I’ve even put on the jeans I hate. Besides, it feels too wrong to put on one of my mother’s dresses after last night.
I let out a quiet exhale when I see Grant hasn’t moved. Crouching down, I flip over some junk mail and scribble out four words:
I’m sorry, I can’t.
I bite my knuckle to keep the sorrow from emerging, before adding one last line.
Please forgive me.
And I don’t give myself time for second guesses. I bolt for the door, and quietly shut it behind me.
Irina arrives at the hospital and doesn’t ask a single question about what transpired between Grant and me. She does food runs and coffee runs, and I have to practically shove her out the door to get her to go to work.
I fritter away the time reading to Gram, playing solitaire, and watching TV. Eventually I’m so restless I’m ready to crawl out of my skin. Her lovely lashes don’t flutter. Hope is such a fragile thing. And mine becomes increasingly delicate and breakable with the passing hours that Gram is under sedation.
The doctors still say she’s stable and breathing more on her own, but we won’t know until she’s awake if there’s neurological damage the tests don’t show.
I hug her and kiss her good night before I go. And pray tomorrow will be different and I’ll have my gram again.
My mind is a puddle of mud. I can’t remember where I’ve parked and end up wandering aimlessly until I spot the Buick in all its Buicky glory.
But some part of my brain must be functioning, because I find my way home, and when I do, Seth’s parked at the curb. The streetlights are on and glance off the spotless, shiny Lexus.
My foot barely touches the ground and Seth is already out of the vehicle striding toward me. I plant my feet, preparing for the worst.
Seth’s pace loses steam and he slows. He gnaws his lower lip. “Jesus, you look like hell.”
“I know.”
“Listen, Wil.” He jams his hands in his pockets, then takes them out. “I’m so sorry about everything. I would’ve told you, I swear. In fact, I was gonna tell you after dinner the other night.” His eyes beg for understanding.
I adjust my glasses, totally thrown by whatever it is he’s trying to tell me.
“I was wrong, okay? It was totally messed up and I was wrong. I can see that now. If I could go back in time, I would’ve done things differently. But when you told me those things about your mom…shit. I just lost my nerve. I—I couldn’t.”
He was wrong? How can he be wrong if I’m the one who spent the night with Grant? I don’t follow. My thoughts are so scrambled, it’s possible these things should make sense and I’m just not connecting the dots. I fold my arms over my chest. “Seth, I don’t—”
“I know I shouldn’t have lied to you, but you were turning down every guy in the club! And then that chart was just hanging out of your purse so…I looked. I figured it was the only way you’d give me a shot. I thought if you got to know me, my sign wouldn’t matter. Because you’d see how amazing we were together. How much fun we could have.”
The asphalt shifts underneath me, making everything go lopsided. I brace a hand on the Buick’s trunk. “What?”
Seth nervously rubs at his neck. “I assumed Grant told you, and that’s why…that’s why you…” He curses under his breath. “I thought that’s why you weren’t returning my calls.”
“No…I’ve been at the hospital.” My voice is eerily calm when I rediscover it. “When is your birthday?”
“Wil, it isn’t important. What’s important is how you feel about me and—”
“Yes!” I explode. “It’s important, Seth! Tell me your birthday!”
“A-April eighteenth,” he stammers.
And I can’t move. I can’t stop the high-pitched ringing in my ears. The world is no longer lopsided. It has completely tipped over and crashed down in a way I cannot make sense of. “So you’re not…you were never…”
Seth was never a Sagittarius.
My paralysis breaks long enough for me to stagger to the porch steps. I sink down, dropping my head to my hands.
“You’re an Aries,” I whisper dully.
Dear God, I got it wrong. I had it all wrong. I saw what I wanted to see in Seth. I wanted to fall in love with him. I wanted him to be my Sagittarius. Desperately.
Could the same be said of Grant being a Pisces? Was I only seeing what I wanted to see because it kept him unattainable? Is it possible I’ve gotten his sign all wrong, too? But no, I had proof. I—
These questions make my head hurt. And there’s already a surplus of pain competing for my attention right now.
Seth slides next to me on the warped step. Desperation clings to his words. “Please…talk to me, Wil. Let me try to make it up to you. Give me one more chance. Because what I feel for you…I’ve never felt for anyone.”
I wipe the tears from my eyes as Seth tries to put a consoling arm around me. “No”—I shrug away—“don’t. You won’t want to touch me when I tell you this.” I hug my knees. “Gram had a severe heart attack the other night; she’s still in recovery. That’s why I was at the hospital.”
He rubs a hand over his face and moans, “Oh man, and I dumped all this on you tonight. Tonight when you’re dealing with everything else.” Seth lowers his hand. “But why didn’t you call? I would’ve come. You didn’t have to do this all on your own.”
“I didn’t. Irina came and so did…Grant.”
“Grant knew?” Seth’s nostrils flare. “Well, why the hell didn’t he tell me?”
“I asked him not to,” I reply quietly, and tilt my head skyward. There is a clear view of the Milky Way tonight. The shimmering band is as far away as I wish I could be.
Anger rolls off Seth in suffocating clouds. “So Grant was there for you at the hospital. Was it just the hospital or something else?” I can almost hear the enamel being ground off his teeth as he waits for an answer.
“Seth, don’t. Don’t put the blame all on him. It was my—”
“Stop looking at the damn stars and talk to me, Wil! Did Grant stay here last night? Is that why he didn’t come home?”
I fix my gaze on Seth and steel myself for the wrath sure to follow. “Yes.”
But what follows isn’t at all what I expect.
Seth’s eyes glisten. He looks completely and utterly…crushed. I expected the anger, the rage, the injustice of it all. But I didn’t expect this, to see him so, so wounded.
My heart folds in on itself; my body follows suit. And if it is in the realm of possibility to feel worse, then I do.
He pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I knew it!” He drops his hands. “So, how long has it been going on? How long have you been sleeping with my brother?”
I hug my legs closer. “We didn’t sleep together.”
“Wow, well, that’s a huge relief,” he says wryly. His hands hang limp between his knees. “You know what’s ironic? I’m usually the one who struggles with being faithful. Do you have any idea how many girls throw themselves at me at the club? Hell, I don’t even have to try. Fish in a damn barrel! But for the first time, I didn’t even see them, Wil.” He lifts his shining eyes. “I only saw you.”
I nod, completely gutted. “I disappointed you.” I rise, gripping the railing like a lifeline in a sea of grief. “But you disappointed me, too. I guess neither of us is what we thought we were.” I turn to the front door.
“So we’re done? That’s it?” Seth barks, anger catching up
to the shock.
My body crumples with exhaustion. “Seth, what else is there?”
He’s looming behind me, and while his movements were quiet, the subtle scent of his cologne gives him away. “I need to know, Wil. I need to know if I was just some guy who fit the mold…or if you actually ever even cared about me.”
“I cared,” I rasp. “Of course I cared.”
“But you love him. You love my brother, don’t you?”
Streetlights glance off the house key in my hand, calling to mind the little silver key Grant once gave me. As long as you don’t go losing your heart, you’ll always know where to find it, he said.
I swallow. “I love Gram. And right now she’s lying in Carlisle Community Hospital.”
“I’m sorry.” His words are laced with shame.
“Goodbye, Seth.”
And for the second time today, I am closing the door on a Walker.
Morning comes. The sun spills across the skyline, warming the city of Carlisle. And the one person I’m desperate to talk to can’t even hear me. But I talk anyway, all Wednesday morning and afternoon, like Gram’s hospital room is a friggin’ confessional. I pour everything out to her. The glorious mess I’ve made, my ramshackle Fifth House, and how I’m tempted to ship myself off to a deserted island and avoid all this in the future.
Eventually I nod off in the chair, my arm slung across her middle, head down on her bed. I’ve napped long enough for my arm to fall asleep and my neck to develop a hellacious kink. But neither of those discomforts are what cause me to stir. It’s the hand on my head, light as a feather, stroking my hair.
I jerk upright. “Gram? Gram!”
She can’t speak. Too many tubes run in and out of her. I punch the call button eighty times, laughing and crying at the sight of her sparkling blue eyes. Not just the sight of her eyes, it’s what’s behind them. Recognition. And I don’t need a single test to confirm what my heart already knows.
Because I see Gram—my Gram.
I am whole again.
