Page 12 of Giving Grace

With Ryan’s brain.

With his body.

I don’t say anything. Don’t let on that I know what she means, mainly because I don’t trust myself to keep my mouth shut. Because what’s going on with his body seems to be sorting itself out and I don’t know if Ryan wants people to know that.

So I change the subject, instead.

“Have you ever waitressed before?” I ask gesturing toward the dress I made her and the reason she’s wearing it.

“No.” She shakes her head and smiles, seemingly as relieved to get off the topic of Ryan and Declan and all the nothing that’s going on as I am. “To be honest, I’m freaking out a little—give me a blown tranny or busted axel and I’m your girl, but put me in a dress and expect me to smile and I’m lost.”

“I used to pick up shifts at the local bar back home,” I tell her. “If you want some pointers, I’d be more than happy to help.”

Tess smiles at me, so big and wide, the glow of it lights up her entire face. “Don’t tell your sister I said this, but you, Grace Faraday, might just be my new best friend.”

Eight

Ryan

I used to keep an apartment off base. A tiny one-bedroom with saggy, pressed wood cabinets and a refrigerator that hummed too loud in the summertime. Windows covered in cheap, plastic blinds that overlooked the parking lot. Shitty thrift store furniture with lumpy cushions that smelled like other people’s lives.

I didn’t live there.

Not really.

I existed.

I came and I went. Waited for my next assignment. My next deployment. Showered and slept. Picked up women. Fucked them and sent them on their way. Ate take-out standing over the kitchen sink. Forced myself to be polite when one of the team wives would drop by with tidy, plastic containers full of leftovers or baked goods. Pretended to listen when she’d tell me she was worried about the way I was living. That what I was doing wasn’t really living at all. That I needed more than four walls and frozen dinners. That I was worth more than a parade of nameless women and ESPN.

That I needed a home.

A family.

I never told them that I had both.

That I had a sister.

People who’d kill and die for me without a second’s hesitation. A half dozen doorsteps I could darken and be taken in, no questions asked.

That my sister lived little more than a day’s drive from where we were standing, because when we were kids, Henley left me standing on the sidewalk outside our apartment. Looked right at me, a split second before she let our mother shove her into the back of a limousine and take her away.

Because she left me, and I’d rather die alone in a fucking hole than give her, or anyone for that matter, the opportunity to do it twice.

Standing here, now—in this apartment—I realize for what might be the millionth time since I was wounded, that as much as I pretend that I have, I’ve never really forgiven her for it.

And on top of it all, I’m angry.

Because this place is fucking ridiculous. It’s too much—and it’s got my sister written all over it.

“You could’ve just stuck me in a supply closet, you know,” I grumbled at Patrick when he first let me in and handed me the keys. “I don’t need all this space—and shit.” I cast a hard look around the room and shake my head. “I don’t need all this shit.”

This shit is furniture. Couches and chairs. End tables and lamps. Throw rugs on the floor and framed prints on the wall.

Fuck, it looks like an actual person lives here.

“This is the same apartment I showed you last month,” he tells me, unfazed by my complete lack of gratitude. “If it’s too much, you should’ve told me then. As for the shit—blame Hen. She’s the one who bought it.”

Thinking about the army of delivery guys who were here yesterday, carrying in furniture when I dropped by yesterday, it makes sense It looks like her. Understated and classy. Expensive and tasteful. I want to pick up the nearest lamp and throw it through the fucking window.

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