Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86064 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 430(@200wpm)___ 344(@250wpm)___ 287(@300wpm)
“Because you’re a good person,” he states matter-of-factly, answering so quickly it’s as if he didn’t need to consider it. Which leaves me more puzzled than ever.
How do I even respond to that? Not that it looks like I could change his mind even if I wanted to.
I yank at a loose thread on the coverlet until it comes off. “When do you need me?”
“Next Saturday.”
“I have to check with Ronan. Sam will be spending the weekends with him.”
A flicker of surprise crosses his face. It quickly changes to something darker. “And you’re going to let him?”
“I don’t have much of a choice. He’s Sam’s father and it’s either try and get along or he’ll take me to court.”
“So he threatened you.” It’s not even a question and going by the goose bump-inducing scowl he’s wearing he does not approve.
“Not exactly…” I consider all the times Ronan issued the ultimatum. “Maybe he did, I don’t know. But I do want Sam to have a relationship with his father.”
“Why?”
Confusion is all over my face. “What do you mean, why? Because he’s Sam’s father. Every child should know his or her father. It’s better for them.”
His eyes fall to the floor. “No, it isn’t. If the father is a worthless piece of shit, the kid is definitely not better off.”
Wow. Okay. It doesn’t take a shrink to figure out he’s no longer speaking about Ronan. “Ronan has his faults and he definitely needs to make up a lot of ground with Sam…but I wouldn’t go so far as to call him a worthless piece of shit.” Saying it out loud makes me cringe. Ronan is nowhere near that bad––and makes me wonder what kind of man Grant’s father was. “I’m not exactly a model parent, either.”
“You’re a good mom––really good.”
Heat shoots up my neck and covers my face. “I’m not, trust me. I have a lot to make up for, too.”
He grips my ankle. Finally making eye contact, the bottomless look he gives me makes the hair on my arms stand on end. “I know what I see. Any kid would be lucky to have you as a mother,” he says quietly and it feels as if he’s purposely peeling back more of the iron curtain for me.
A swell of emotion stuffs my throat. Every argument I have lined up loses steam in the face of his belief in me––whether misplaced or not. I need to change the topic before he makes me cry for real.
“About this party––” I start, clearing my throat. “I’m not going. You have to go without me. I have nothing to wear and––”
He lets go of my ankle. “I’ll have my guy at Neiman Marks send something over.”
Huh? “Marcus, you mean.”
“The store.”
“Yeah, but you called it Marks.”
He brushes a hand over his face, his unfocused gaze fixed on the abstract painting on the wall. As if he’s not really seeing it. He seems beaten down all of a sudden and a heavy weight lands on my chest, my heart feeling uncomfortably squeezed by it. I try to tell myself he doesn’t need my sympathy but it aches all the same.
“Amanda,” he sighs. “All I’ve done since I was seven years old is football. I don’t know how to do anything else. I don’t know much about other stuff.”
The magnitude of that confession is not lost on me. This is about a lot more than Neiman Marks, or Kimbles. This is about his career and his life if he can no longer play.
“Hey,” I say, brushing his arm to get him to look at me. “I understand. Calvin went through it this winter when he decided to retire.”
He nods.
I can feel the loneliness coming off of him in waves. It makes me suddenly determined to be his friend because if anyone knows about loneliness, about life beating you down so low you can’t see yourself ever getting up, it’s me.
“So will you go with me? To the shelter?”
My heart opens up and makes space for him. “Yes.”
He stares for a minute, his expression bordering on surprise. “Thanks.”
When I was living in California, I inevitably experienced my first earthquake. What I thought I knew about earthquakes––that the earth shakes back and forth really fast––was a lie. It doesn’t simply shake. It shakes and rolls. As if you’re on a boat being tossed about in a raging sea. The ground feels liquid under your feet. The earth beneath me, that connects me to everything and everyone, has properties to it I had no idea existed.
It’s profoundly frightening to realize that what you’ve believed all your life to be true is nothing but an illusion.
Grant is not at all the person I thought he was. Or rather who he wanted me to believe he was. There are properties to him you only get to see if he lets you in. Properties like kindness, generosity, patience. And what scares me, really scares me, is that I get the impression he doesn’t let many people in. And that when he does––it really is a seismic event.