Page 29 of Giving Grace

“She told me what?” He barks out a laugh, leaning against the front fender of the car. “That you’re not taking your meds? That you’ve got some fucked up idea that managing your pain makes you the same as your father.” He jerks a shop rag free from the back pocket of his jeans and starts rubbing his hands clean. “Yeah—she told me,” he growls it at me, focusing his attention on his hands rather than on me, probably so he doesn’t launch himself across the garage and try to kill me for upsetting my sister again.

A nasty retort bubble in my throat. Something ugly, designed to piss him off. Start a fight. Because that’s what I need right now. I need to hit something. I need to hurt. Because if I can’t be with Grace then that’s all I’ve got. The only way I can forget.

Instead of letting it fly, I swallow it. Force it down until I’m practically choking on it. Focus on why I’m here. What I came to say. “It happened.”

“What happened?” he says in an impatient tone that tells me he’s about three seconds away from throwing me out on my ass. He’s usually patient with me. Unruffled by my surly bullshit, probably even amused but it most of the time, but I made Henley cry. Keep making her cry and the only thing keeping him from killing me for it is that fact that I’m family.

“My…” I trail off because, really—who wants to talk about their broken dick with anyone, much less another dude who’s never had one in his life. “My problem. It isn’t a problem anymore.”

Conner freezes, mid-rub, his gaze jerking up from his hands to find mine, anger and disappointment blown away but a sudden gust of comprehension. “You became sexually aroused? Achieved an erection?” he asks, suddenly Dr. Gilroy instead of my smartass best friend. “When? Were you alone? What were you doing? How long where you able to sustain it? Did you—”

“Jesus Christ…” I reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose, squeezing my eyes shut so I don’t have to look at him while he rapid-fires questions at me about my dick. “I was with Grace,” I tell him, trying to take his questions seriously. “Last night and earlier—”

“It happened twice?” I imagine a father teaching his son to ride a bike wouldn’t sound half as proud as Con does of me right now. “Did you fuck her?”

“What? No.” I drop my hand away from my face and lift my head to pin him with a hard glare that tells him unequivocally that we aren’t going to talk about her. Not like that. “Look, I just need to know if it’ll work—” I have to force the words out of my mouth. Lift a hand to swipe it over my jaw to loosen it because it’s suddenly gone stiff. “The sensory deprivation tank that Henley is having delivered tomorrow. If I use it, will it help me, or are you guys just grasping at new-age, bullshit straws?”

Con’s jaw goes slack with surprise and I can’t help but smile because for a guy who sees everything coming, plans for every possible contingency, he never saw this. He never expected me to get in line. “Yeah.” He says it carefully, like he’s afraid to spook me. Like knows what I’m about to say and he’s afraid I’ll change my mind. “It’ll help—if you take it seriously.”

“Okay.” I nod, swallowing hard against the sudden lump in my throat. Breathing deep against the tightness in my chest. I recognize the feeling for what it is.

It’s fear.

Fear of the unknown. What comes next. Fear of failure and I finally accept that it’s fear that’s been keeping me still. Keeping me stuck in this place between who I was and who I could be if I’d just accept what happened to me and move the fuck on. I’ll never be an operator again. I’ll never be the guy who kicks down doors and saves the day—but I could be something else. I could be the guy who’s ready for Grace. The guy who makes her life better.

I could do that.

Be that, if I’m ready to quit wallowing in my own little pit of despair and start putting in the work.

“Okay what?” Con gives up on his hands and tosses the shop rag on the long, low bench next to the pair of coveralls he never bothered to put on.

“I need a ride of my own,” I say instead of answering him, unable to keep my gaze from drifting to the car behind him. “I need to start feeling normal again—like myself. I need my independence—as much as I can handle—but it can’t be a stick shift. My leg won’t—”

“I figured.” He gives me a shrug before stuffing his shop rag back into his back pocket. “You can have this one as soon as I’m finished converting it to an automatic transmission for you—okay to what?”

The car he’s offering me like it’s nothing more than a piece of shit Corolla is worth a hundred grand, easy. It’s also the car he’s been driving since I got here. “What’re you gonna drive?” I’m stalling and he knows it. Too chicken shit to just come out and say it.

“Your sister has a different car for every day of the week—driving some prissy import around for a few days might be the motivation I need to get off my ass and finish restoring my Cuda,” he says with an impatient wave of his hand. “Okay to what, Ry?” He crosses his tattooed arms over his thick chest and frowns at me. No more stalling. No more stupid questions. He wants an answer.

Now.

“Okay to tank therapy. Okay to physical therapy. Okay to therapy therapy. Whatever you say.” I give him a shrug, trying to act like I don’t know that this is the single most important decision I’ve made since they brought me home. “I’m in.”

Nineteen

Grace

“That one!” Molly crows from the red velvet settee she’s sitting on, before taking a dainty sip from the plastic champagne flute Anton filled with sparkling cider for her. It’s her third. Coupled with the three hot chocolates and the gallon of maple syrup she drowned her pancakes in at breakfast, she’s wired for sound, bouncing and clapping every time Cari comes out of the fitting room to show us another dress. I’m beginning to think that she’d proclaim that’s the one, even if Cari came out of the room to model a chicken suit.

“I can’t buy all of them, you nut.” Cari laughs at her enthusiasm.

“Yes, you can,” Molly tells her. “Uncle Patrick wouldn’t care if you bought a thousand dresses—he says he likes it when you wear ‘em.”

The birthmark on Cari’s chest, on full display because of the sweetheart neckline of the dress she’s wearing, practically bursts into flames, the heat of it rapidly spreading across her chest. “Did he now?”

Molly nods like she has the inside scoop. “After the game, he told me you only have two of them and you keep telling him no when he tells you to buy more, so it’s my job to make sure you get one today.” She jostles her flute a bit while maneuvering her hand into the pocket of her jeans. The site of apple cider sloshing over its rim and onto Anton’s red velvet settee gives my Mom heart palpitations. Finally she hooks onto whatever she’s looking for and yanks it out of her pocket with another fat slosh and waves what looks like a fifty-dollar bill in the air. “See, he even paid me.”

Chest still flaming, Cari presses a hand to the side of her face and gives a low whistle. “That’s a lot of money. You sure that wasn’t meant for your swear jar?” she asks, dropping her hand to indicate the plastic jar on the table between them.

---