Page 24 of Giving Grace

Ryan

A sensory deprivation tank.

The kind you fill with water and a half-ton of Epsom salt before climbing in naked and floating off into hippy-dippy oblivion.

That’s what Henley is having delivered tomorrow, and if it’s anything like the one in the medical equipment catalog she left behind, its price tag is enough to make me sick to my stomach.

Yeah, I know that between my uncovered surgeries and the topflight aftercare I got at Sojourn, not to mention buying off my assault victims, I’ve likely cost Patrick more money than I’ll ever see in a lifetime—fuck a dozen lifetimes—so I don’t know why I’m getting twisted over what amounts to a fraction of that, but I am.

As soon as I look at it, realize what it is, I don’t want it. Maybe because I know who’ll ultimately be paying for it.

Spencer Halston-Day.

Henley’s stepfather.

Not my stepfather.

Not even our stepfather.

Spencer is her stepfather.

Not mine.

Because I’ve never even met the man.

Because he took my sister and left me behind without so much as a fuck off, kid.

I can only imagine what my mother told him about me. That I was worthless, just like my father. That I wasn’t worth saving. That I was more trouble than I was worth. And he believed it—every word of it—because believing served his own selfishness.

If he thinks he can buy me off with a shiny new toy or that all’s forgiven now that Henley is back and a complete fucking thorn in my side then—

There’s a knock on my door, short and brisk, like the person on the other side of it doesn’t actually want to knock. Hoping their request for entry will either go unnoticed or ignored.

For a second, I almost do ignore it. Because I’m sure it’s Henley and I don’t want to talk to her. Because we won’t talk. We’ll yell and scream and I’ll end up saying something shitty I can’t take back.

Leaving the kitchen, I decide to take myself back to bed and leave whoever’s at my door standing on the other side of it. Instead, I find myself in front of it. Reaching for it, I pull it open to find Grace and Molly on my doorstep.

Sunny blonde hair pulled back in a perky little ponytail. Jeans and an olive-green jacket that bring out the green in her eyes. Jesus, how does she look so goddamned good, so early in the morning? Before I can make a fool of myself and ask, Molly saves me.

“Mom said the shingles words when I woke her up this morning,” she says, shoving her plastic jar into the space between us. “That means she’s gotta put money in my jar right?”

“Shingles?” I look up, over Molly’s head to find Grace watching me.

“Shit.” Grace stacks her hands on her hips, her look sharpening into a glare that practically dares me to laugh. “I said shit.”

“See?” Molly shakes her jar at me. “Money, right?”

“Well—”

“I happen to think swearing is an acceptable response to being woken up by your four-year-old at 5AM on a Sunday morning—especially when she’s doing it to ask you about a pending dinner date that’s still twelve plus hours away,” Grace says, letting me know that she blames me for the fact that her eyes are open and she’s upright before the sun.

Sighing, I lean my shoulder against the doorframe. “I think she’s right, Moll,” I tell her with a shrug. “It’s too early to be awake—swearing before 7AM on a Sunday is allowed.”

“You’re awake and you’re not swearing,” she says, bottom lip poking out a little, letting me know I’m a traitor for taking her mother’s side.

“Henley stopped by on her way to the ball field to drop some stuff off—she woke me up and I swore plenty.”

“Patrick is awake and he didn’t swear.”

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