by Lindy Zart
Grayson shifts so that he is leaning forward. His gaze is on the closed doors of my closet, but I think he is seeing into himself; the doors and everything in this room—even me—invisible to him. “If I let people in, I let them see me, and then I give them power. Sometimes that's okay, but other times it can be lethal. People are fake. People lie. People use you. People let you down.”
“Like me.” I swallow around a lump in my throat. “You let me in and I let you down.”
He glances at me. “Is that what you think?”
I turn stinging eyes away from where they want to be and walk across the room to my dresser. Fiddling with a bottle of perfume that smells like sunshine and strawberries, I say, “Isn't it true?”
A hand, warm and lean-fingered, covers mine. “You saved me.”
I turn my head and look up, colliding gazes with eyes dark and honest. His air as he exhales becomes mine as I inhale. I hold on to the ways we are linked; with this shared air we breathe and his hand on mine, and I pull these thin connections into me and wrap myself around them to preserve them in my memories.
A smile, sad and true, curves his lips. “You are the one person who has never let me down. I've had two years to think about it; two years to put things into perspective. I'm not saying I'm happy about it all, but...you did what you did for me.” His hand leaves mine to tuck hair behind my ear. “So thank you.”
I have this overwhelming urge to cry. I am not sure if they will be tears of sorrow or relief—maybe equal parts of each. “I didn't want to let you go,” I whisper.
The corners of his mouth pull down and he touches his forehead to mine. “I know. I didn't want you to let me go either.”
I laugh shakily, regrettably moving to put space between us. I say the first thing that comes to mind. “I read once that Rod Stewart had stage fright so bad he had to perform with his back to the audience. Did you ever do that?”
Grayson looks at me for a moment and then grins. “No.”
“So you have one on up Rod. Not many people can say that. You've done outstanding things, Grayson. The music you write, the way you sing—you connect with people in ways you don't even know. You should be proud of yourself.”
“Are you proud of me?” He holds himself still as he waits for my response. Does it matter that much to him? The unwavering set of his gaze on me tells me it does.
“Yes. So much,” I say with feeling.
A ragged sigh leaves him and there is a hint of peacefulness in it.
“Do you ever get to be away from the rock star role? Have time for yourself?”
“You do realize that's all it is—just a role?”
“Actor, songwriter, singer; you're multi-talented.”
“That's me.” His smile deepens before disappearing. “There are days when I lock myself in my apartment and turn off my phone just to appreciate the silence. The only work that doesn't actually seem like work is when I get to write my music. At times it seems like the promoting takes over even that.” He sounds tired and I want to take his weariness away.
I lighten my tone as I ask, “Do you have screaming, adoring fans following you around everywhere you go?”
I try to picture Grayson walking down the street with women flocking to him, asking for photographs and autographs. It fits with his rock star persona, but not the quiet boy I remember, nor the man I am seeing tonight.
“I pretty much can't piss without someone showing up,” he admits, looking at me.
“That has to be hard.”
“I'm used to it now.”
“Doesn't mean you like it.”
“The bodyguards are the weirdest thing. That and the women continuously trying to get me to have sex with them.”
I suddenly feel sick, wondering how many times he has given in. I close my eyes. Some truths are best unknown.
“Hey.”
I open my eyes, though the sight of his face is painful to me.
“I didn't have sex with them. Not with any of them,” he tells me softly. “I mean, I'm not saying I didn't do things I regret, because I have done more than my share.” He looks directly into my eyes as he says, “I have continuously fucked up in ways I never thought possible.”
I flinch; more from the self-loathing I hear in his voice than his actual words. “We all do. We all do things we never thought we would. Sometimes it's easier to forgive others than it is to forgive ourselves, but we're all worthy of it.”
“You think so? You might change your mind if you knew all I've done.” His eyes are challenging me and I know he wants to tell me, that he needs to confess to me.
I do not look away as I say, “I might, at first. But I doubt it would last. All the bad is part of the good, Grayson, remember?” When he remains silent, I add, “Why do you do it then? Why have sex with countless women when you feel bad about it later? That's what you're trying to tell me, isn't it?” I stare at him, waiting.
I say with my expression what I cannot put into words. You can tell me. It will hurt to hear it, but it is hurting you more now. I am strong enough to hear your sins and I will forgive you so you can forgive yourself.
Rubbing his face, Grayson says, “Sometimes it's hard to think about the consequences when it feels too good to stop. Sometimes it is a release from anger or stress. Sometimes it is a way to punish yourself. Sometimes it is a way to punish the one who hurt you. Sometimes it is loneliness. Sometimes it is to know that someone wants you, even if in the most carnal of ways.
“Sometimes you just want to know what it will feel like with a certain woman; if it will be different from all the others, if it will erase the one you can't forget from your head and heart, maybe if only momentarily. Sometimes you just do it to do it.” His hands drops from his face and he looks at me with bleary eyes. “Does that answer your question?”
Even now I want to draw him into my arms and protect him from all the demons he fights every day. Even as he is telling me why he's had sex with innumerable women, I see the pain in his face, and I want to take it away. I want to make him know he is wanted, desired, and loved, and by me. I want to make him forget all the other women and remember only me.
“Yes,” I say quietly. “That answers my question. And it doesn't matter.”
Something clears from his eyes as he watches me. His jaw tightens and he finally looks away. He sits on the edge of the bed and bows his head. He is so close to me. He could lift his hands and pull me to him. I could reach down and pull his head to my stomach. I swallow, short of breath. He has always had the power to make me forget everything that should matter—to the point where only he matters.
And then his fingers gingerly slide against the sides of my stomach as though he is afraid I will pull away. His hold tightens on my back and he draws me to him, burying his face against my abdomen. He hugs me like I am his redemption. I close my eyes, threading my fingers through his soft hair; breathing him in; letting his body heat seep into me. Tenderness washes through me as a tremor goes through his strong body and I crisscross my arms behind his head to keep him close. I want to heal him. I want to fix him so he knows he is right just as he is.
I love this man—such a simple, complicated fact.
Grayson and I are like clouds in the sky; always floating past one another; touching for one significant moment before shifting away. Dancers constantly changing partners and only sharing a limited piece of the music. We are fingertips brushing in the dark and fading; something just out of reach—never forgotten, but never belonging either.
“I'm sorry, Grayson,” I say softly as I pull away. I have never told him this before.
He looks up, surprise etched into his features. “For what?”
“For hurting you.” I slump onto the bed next to him. I rub my face. “For telling you to go. For breaking up with you. For everything. I don't regret making you choose your dream; that is the one thing I can't be sorry for. But everything else...I'm sorry.”
The heat of his gaze scorches me, each feature
his eyes touch scalded. “I want to kiss you,” he softly confesses. “I've always been kissing you. Every time I was kissing you.”
I struggle to inhale as he leans toward me, his eyes connected with mine. My pulse is thrumming through my veins at an impossible speed. The minutes seem endless as we silently take in each other's features. Beautiful, is all I can think when I stare at him.
Our lips are almost touching when he whispers, “Don't be sorry. Never be sorry, not for anything you do, not when you think it's right. I was angry at you for making me go, and I didn't understand how you could do that, but I do now. I understand now, Lily, because I would have done the same. And I want to kiss you. You have no idea how much I want to.”
I blink and tears trickle down my cheeks. His eyes move to them, his lips following, softly brushing my sorrow away with a kiss. Our lips never touch; there is nothing passionate about it, but the poignancy of his action ravages me. He is so close to me and yet so unreachable. This is tearing me apart.
I take a steadying breath and get to my feet, brushing hair from my face with a shaking hand. “We should get the cookies made. Aidan is probably wondering what we're doing.”
He wordlessly follows me, looking as confused as I feel. I don't know myself anymore. I want Grayson and I feel wrong about that at the same time it feels right. I don't know how to act. I don't know what I should be thinking or feeling. I am so lost and I don't know how to find the person I want to be.
Maybe Grayson is right. Maybe I have changed. I didn't see it until now.
IGNORING THE LOOK OF DISAPPOINTMENT on Stone's face when I appear wearing a pair of jean shorts and a white shirt, I meet him on the steps to the apartment building. His expression brightens when he notices the clear container of cookies.
“You came through. Well...kind of.” He blatantly peruses my non-sexy/non-dress outfit. “Grandpa will be disappointed.”
I shake the cookies in front of his face. “I think Grandpa will be just fine. And anyway, you could have dressed up. Why did it only have to be me?”
Jumping off the last step, he glances down at his brown tee shirt and faded jeans. “I did dress up. I put on clothes, didn't I?” He grins at me when I give him a look. “Anyway, I don't think I have the right body to pull off a sexy dress. I could be wrong.”
A vision of him in a tight black dress and red heels flashes through my mind and I laugh. “I think if you ever did, I would make sure to get lots of pictures.”
“I know. It'd be hot, right?”
“Totally.”
Stone opens the door to a white Ford truck. “Your carriage.”
My steps slow. “This isn't a date,” I remind him.
“I think you keep saying that because secretly you really want it to be a date.”
“You can't open doors for women unless it's a date.”
“You're wrong.” He nudges me toward the truck. “I can do whatever I want. In you go. I'm being polite,” he adds when I continue to eye him. “I did it Friday night and you didn't say anything.”
“I was stunned.”
“Well, pretend you still are. It shouldn't be too hard. Everything I do is extraordinary.” He pats the side of the door. “The cookies aren't going to eat themselves. I didn't have breakfast. I'm hungry. The sooner you get in, the sooner I get the cookies.”
I climb into the truck. The interior is cool and spotless. “The cookies aren't for you.”
“Says you.”
The drive to Maple Ridge Nursing Home is short and comfortable. There is an easygoing quality to Stone that immediately made me like him upon our introduction. I can tell we are going to be good friends, as long as he remains okay with that being the only thing between us. The smiles he keeps tossing my way make me think he kind of will be. It doesn't appear like too much can get him down without him bouncing back right away.
George's face lights up when he sees us and it hits me why I find Stone so likable—he reminds me of his grandfather. Their smiles are the same; as is the teasing glint forever in their eyes; though George's eyes are blue where Stone's are gray. And they both like my cookies. Between the two of them, the container is almost gone within the first twenty minutes of the visit.
“How did you two meet?” he asks in his rusty voice.
Stone leans against the bed with his arms crossed. “Long story, Gramps.”
“I have time.” A touch of wryness is apparent in his voice.
“Lily used to date Sam, who is now dating Angela. We all ended up at the bowling alley, and you know, stuff...” He shrugs, shoving a cookie into his mouth.
George turns to me. “He never did learn how to talk right. I blame video games.”
“You're a gamer?”
Shrugging, he pops another cookie into his mouth. “Don't be jealous.”
“Don't worry.”
His grandfather laughs. “You probably don't even play video games, do you, Lily?”
I shift my feet. “Well...”
Eyes sparkling, Stone straightens from the bed. “You do, don't you? Where have you been all my life?”
With a scowl on his weathered face, George chucks a book at his grandson. “Don't scare her away. She's the only one who brings me any decent food.”
Stone catches the book and sets it on the bed. “Lily has already informed me that nothing illicit shall ever form between us. Her loss.”
“It is, sadly, and I will have to learn to live with my decision. Somehow.” I heave a dramatic sigh.
His grandpa snorts when Stone says, “I think I'll be okay. I mean, you can make up for it by dropping off cookies on a weekly basis. They'll be my replacement love and will help mend my broken heart. But you, well, nothing will cure the permanent ache in your heart for ditching your one chance at true love.”
“He takes after his father's side,” George informs me while munching on a cookie.
I RAN OUT OF COFFEE earlier this morning and didn't have time to go the store to get more before Stone showed up. For me, Sundays are not complete without coffee. Instead of going to the store now like anyone else would, I go to my parents'. It isn't like I'm hoping to see Grayson—not at all. But it looks like I will anyway. My pulse picks up as I stare at his broad-shouldered back. I keep asking myself what I am doing, but the voice of reason is easily ignored.
He is standing on the porch of my previous residence, chatting it up with my mom and dad. I wonder how often they hang out and I am unaware. I rotate my shoulders at the thought, not sure how I feel about that. I park my car and turn it off, wishing I had made more of an effort on my appearance. A haphazard bun is on top of my head, pale blue gym shorts a size too big hang from my hips, and I'm wearing a dark blue top and have yellow flip-flops on my feet.
I am seduction personified.
There is a chill in the air that wasn't present earlier and the sky is cast in gray, making me think it is going to rain. Grayson turns as I cross the dewy grass, looking me up and down. A smile slowly curves his lips up and my stomach does this swirly thing. Even with glasses on, a plain black tee shirt, and gray sweatpants, he really is seduction personified—unlike me.
“Nice getup,” he says in greeting.
“I know. We are totally rocking the couch potato ensemble this afternoon, aren't we?”
“It took me hours to look this good.”
“I doubt dpg it took any time at all,” I say as I move up the steps and stop beside him. My tone was flirtatious and my face flames because of it, especially as he raises an eyebrow at me. I quickly look away. “Hey, Mom and Dad, got any coffee? I'm out.”
“Coffee's funny that way. You drink it...it disappears.” Grayson shrugs.
“Ha ha.” I try to keep the smile inside, but it is to no avail. He winks and I have to look away again so I don't do or say something to further embarrass myself.
“There is a store in this town. Brand new thirty years ago,” my dad says.
I squint my eyes at him and my dad gives me a knowing look i
n return.
“Of course we have coffee. I'll get you a cup.”
I put out a hand as my mom gets to her feet. “Sit down. I'm capable of getting my own coffee.”
It must be pajama day all around. My mom is wearing pink slippers and a purple robe over silky red bottoms and my dad is wearing black and white plaid lounge pants and a gray sweatshirt. Maybe it's the weather. Cold, dreary days tend to make Wisconsinites lazy and listless. It's a geographical thing.
“And yet...here you are,” my dad murmurs, eyes on the magazine he's holding.
“Your coffee's better.”
“I've noticed that recently.”
I ignore that, turning to Grayson. “What are you doing here?”
“I was on my way to get doughnuts and your mom waved me over, stocking me up with homemade cranberry orange muffins and coffee.”
I look around. “Where are the muffins?”
“I took them over to Dad and Aidan already. She made me promise to come back for the coffee.”
“There are more, right?” My mom nods and I start for the front door. “I'll be right back.”
The sweet scents of baking and coffee hit me as I cross the entryway and veer toward the kitchen. I pour myself a cup of coffee, inhaling deeply of its strong scent, and grab an oversized muffin from a plate on the table. Breaking off a moist morsel, I turn around and jump. “Where'd you come from?”
A sheepish look is on his face as Grayson tells me, “Your mom needed a refill on coffee and her hip suddenly ached when she went to stand up.” He peers down into the white coffee mug. “It's almost full. She said it wasn't hot enough.”
“Of course she did.” I motion for him to hand me the cup. “She sure has all kinds of ailments lately. I wonder if she realizes how transparent she is.” I top off the mug and set it on the table.
Laughing softly, he says, “I don't think she cares. She has a goal set in her mind and she is determined to see it through.”
The air outside cracks with thunder, the sky darkening as I glance out a window. “I think it's going to storm.”
