Page 25 of Giving Grace

“I don’t think Patrick is human,” I tell her in a sincere tone that earns me a snort from Grace. “Why are you awake?”

“I’m an early bird.” She gives me a shrug. “That’s what Gran always says. I woke my mom up like she said,” Molly sighs, readjusting the jar in her arms. “She says since it’s your fault I find it acceptable to wake everyone up at such an ungodly hour that you can deal with me—can I come in?”

“Ahhh,” I say, giving Grace another quick look to make sure that’s what we’re doing here before I take a step back. “Sure.”

“Thanks,” Molly says, pushing her jar into my hands as she moves past me. “You found your stick,” she says, noticing my cane.

“Still not a stick,” I say, swallowing a laugh.

“Still looks like one,” she says while she struggles out of her coat. “Do you have a bathroom,”

“Yes.” I point the business end of my cane at the guest bath, tucked into the corner, between what Patrick decided would be my home office and the set of closed barn doors Henley pointed out before she left. “In there.”

As soon as she’s gone, I turn to find Grace still standing in the open doorway, like she can’t decide if she wants to risk coming in a second time so soon.

“You left.” Using my cane, I shuffle thump my way over to where Molly dropped her coat on the floor. Gritting my teeth, I bend over to pick it up. When I straighten it’s to Grace watching me while she eases herself through the door to shut it behind her.

“You told me to, remember?”

“I’ve got fucking brain damage, Grace,” I remind her, trying to make light of what happened between us last night. “I say a lot of stupid shit I don’t mean.”

Ignoring the obvious having brain damage doesn’t give you the right to be a dickbag reply, she just shrugs. “I didn’t want Molly to wake up and find me gone,” she says, reaching out to take her daughter’s coat from my grasp. “We don’t want to confuse her, right?”

The last of her explanation is enough like the bullshit excuse I gave her Friday night about why I didn’t want to share her bed that I feel my gut clench when she says it.

“Grace—”

“I’ve been beating myself up since the night we met, trying to figure out what it is about me that you don’t like—why you don’t want to want me.”

Sighing, I swipe a rough hand over my face. “It’s not you. There’s nothing wrong with you, Grace. I—”

“I know.”

That stops me in my tracks. “What?”

“I said I know. It’s not me—it’s you.”

Even though it’s true, it still stings, hearing her say it. Agreeing with me that there’s something wrong with me. “You’re right. I’m just—”

“Not ready for me.”

That’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say fucked up, but she’s right. I’m not ready for her. I know she’s right because when she says it, I can feel the clench in my gut tighten. It squeezes so hard I can feel my pulse in my stomach.

Instead of acknowledging it, I completely side-step it. Stick to the explanation I worked out and told myself I’d give her the next time I saw her. “I’m sorry, about last night, I know I was—”

“There’s nothing wrong with me, Ryan.” She doesn’t sound angry when she says it. She sounds resigned. “And there’s nothing wrong with you either. I know you don’t believe that and I’m just someone who barely knows you but—”

“There’s plenty wrong with me,” I tell her, my tone hard and flat against her ears. “I’m broken, Grace. I’m fucking broken and there isn’t a goddamned thing I could’ve done to stop it from happening. I—” I stop talking for a second, trying to gather myself. Keep myself contained. “You don’t know who I was before—”

“You keep saying that.” She nods. “And you’re right, I don’t know who you were. I know who you are.” She sighs and shakes her head at me, a look of frustration settling over her face. “Something bad happened to you, Ryan—something goddamned horrible that was out of your control.” She swallows hard, and looks away for a second like it’s hard to look at me. “That’s what makes these kinds of things so horrible—not being able to stop them from happening. Knowing you’re at the mercy of something that wants to tear you apart.” She looks at me again, her jaw set, eyes narrowed. “But you’re wrong about who you are. There is so much—”

“If you say potential, I swear to Christ…” I heave out a breath, my jaw suddenly tight and aching. “I’m not a project, Grace. I’m not some wounded animal you can just nurse back to health,” I tell her, even though that’s exactly what I feel like, every time I’m with her.

“I know that.” She frowns at me. “I don’t want to fix you, Ryan—” Somewhere behind me, a toilet flushes, followed by the quiet rush of water swirling down the drain. “I can’t fix you, because there’s nothing to fix. You’re not broken, you’re just different, and until you accept that, whatever this is—” She waves a hand between us. “Is something you’re not ready for.”

“What are you saying?”

Behind me, the water shuts off but Molly doesn’t come out of the bathroom right away.

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