Page 30 of Giving Grace

“Of course not,” Molly says, frowning at her while stuffing the bill back in her pocket. “Uncle Patrick doesn’t swear.”

“Is that so?” Cari says, barely able to keep herself from laughing.

“It is.” Molly gives her a sage nod. “Ryan says it’s because he’s not a human, but anyway, I have to help you pick out a dress today because it my job and I like all of them.”

“Maybe it is,” Cari concedes, “And maybe you do, but your job is to help me decide on one, remember?”

Molly gives up on being dainty and drains her flute, like dealing with Cari’s indecisiveness is going to be the death of her. “Well, you can buy more than one and maybe share. Someone else might need it someday,” she says, setting her plastic cup on the table before aiming what feels like a pointed look at me, sitting on the other side of the settee. “Right, Mom?”

Holy shit.

Did I just get called out by my four-year-old?

I think I did.

No—I definitely just did.

I open my mouth to tell her… what, exactly? That she’s wrong. That I’ll probably die alone because even though that, thanks to her, I’ve shed my addiction to Jerkus Erectus, I seem to have merely replaced said predilection with a taste for screwed-up war vets who don’t have the capacity to do much more than give me bone-shattering orgasms and make me question everything I know about myself a person.

Which is why you broke things off, remember. Because you can’t save him—no one can. Not if he doesn’t want to be saved.

“I require your assistance, Miss.”

At the sound of Anton’s voice, Molly forfeits our staring contest and turns to look over the back of the couch where he’s waiting for her with a pair of pristine white gloves. Seeing them, Molly jumps up with a grin and follows Anton into the catacombs of his little dress shop, on the hunt for another round of dresses for Cari to try on.

As soon as she’s gone, I force myself to look at my sister. “I know you want to ask, so just get it over with.”

The tone of my voice, defensive and edged in accusation, pulls her dark blonde brows down over her sky blue eyes. “Would it do me any good to ask?” The birthmark on her chest going from bright red to burgundy in an instant. “I mean, you’re the Queen of Secrets—I could ask you until I’m blue in the face and it wouldn’t matter. If you—“

“I broke it off.”

That shuts her up.

But not for long.

“What?” The frown that mars her near-perfect face deepens into a scowl. “Why? Did something hap—”

“No—why do you keep asking me that?” My tone stops her cold and I flick a quick glance toward the open doorway Anton took Molly through. I can hear him fussing over her gloves, telling her she can’t touch any of the dresses until they’re on properly. “Nothing happened. He didn’t do anything, unless you count giving me the kind of orgasms that make me forget how to walk as something.”

Because that’s all that happened.

Because when I tried to touch him, he asked me to leave.

Shut me down.

Again.

“You and Ryan…” She looks confused. “You two—”

“No—we didn’t.” I shake my head, feeling a sudden rush of guilt because I’m dangerously close to spilling secrets I’m pretty sure he doesn’t want broadcasted to every member of the family. “There’s other ways to—” I give the doorway another glance, hoping to see Molly come through it so I can have an excuse shut up. When she doesn’t save me I sigh and look back at my sister. “It’s not all about dick you know.”

“Oh, believe me, I know…” she says with a laugh that makes me want to hide under a rock. When I don’t laugh with her, the sound of it slowly fades away until she’s quiet again, watching me carefully as the scowl on her face bleeding into something else. Something softer. Something that looks like empathy. It reminds me that she and Patrick weren’t always perfect. That a year ago she moved home out of the blue. That she’d been fragile and out of sorts and whether she wanted to admit it or not, Patrick had been at the center of it.

“Gracie…” Picking up her skirts, she comes toward me to sit down in the spot Molly just vacated. Reaching for my hand, she settles it between her own to give it a gentle squeeze. “I know you like him, but…”

Like him?

Is that it? Is that all this is? Even though I’ve only known him for a few weeks, like doesn’t seem to be a strong enough word to describe how I feel about Ryan. I don’t like him—certainly not just like him. To be honest, I don’t think I ever just liked him.

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