Page 9 of Giving Grace

“So.” She keeps scowling, her little forehead creased and folded, but the crater of it lifts just enough to tell me that even though she’s not happy, she’s listening.

“So… Sunday is Gilroy family dinner day,” I inform her. “You’ll be there.”

The crags and creases in her forehead smooth away. “And you’ll be there too.”

I look past her for a minute, at Grace who is still standing at the sink. She’s been rinsing the same dish for the past five minutes now. When she feels the weight of my gaze on her, she looks up, skewing me with her sky blue eyes before giving me the slightest of nods.

“Yeah,” I tear my gaze away from Grace and focus on the little girl perched on my hip. “I’ll be there too.”

Five

Grace

She wants to ask, I know she does, but she won’t. Instead, she’ll just sit here and stare at me and waits for me to crack.

“You’re good,” I tell her, giving her a nod while I load the dishwasher. “But you’re no Ellen Faraday.”

Cari bristles at the mention of our mother and master interrogator. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she sniffs over the half-eaten burger basket Patrick brought her from downstairs. When Ryan left, Patrick followed him down. My guess it he was following Ryan to do the same thing my sister was doing now—launching the Spanish Inquisition. He probably had as much success as she did because he came back up less than thirty minutes to deliver Cari’s food. Dropping a quick kiss on her mouth he murmured, I’ve got some work downstairs to catch up on, and disappeared again.

When I don’t take the bait, she pushes the basket aside and shrugs. “He seemed to be enjoying his time here.”

Enjoying his time here? Sure, if by enjoy, you mean oscillating between making me come and basically telling me that touching me was a mistake, then yes—Ryan enjoyed his stay just fine.

Before I can answer, Molly pipes up. “Are you talking about Ryan?”

“I am talking about Ryan.” Cari grins at me because she’s found her fount of information. “The two of you seem to really like each other.”

“We do like each other,” Molly says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “He’s my friend.”

“Is that right?” Cari answers her while looking right at me. “Is he your mom’s friend too?”

“I think he wants to be,” Molly says, answering Cari’s question seriously. “But she keeps getting mad at him because he keeps doing dumbs stuff—at least that’s what he says.”

“Jesus.” I say it under my breath, casting a nervous over her shoulder at where Molly is playing ponies on the couch. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah…” Cari shakes her head at me. “I don’t think I am.”

“You are. Completely and totally bonkers.” I give her a sunny smile before bending down to add soap to the dishwasher. When I stand back up, she’s staring at me like she’s suddenly sure I’m a pod person. “What?”

“Something did happen.” Her mouth falls open for a second before she snaps it shut. She looks around, trying to find someone to share her discovery with. When all she finds is an oblivious preschooler and the uncooperative subject of her interrogation, her face falls into a frown. “He’s family, but if he did something to you, Grace, I swear to—”

“Stop.” I say it to her the way Ryan said it to Molly. Firm. Final. It works like a charm. “He didn’t do anything to me.” That’s not exactly true. He did plenty but he didn’t do anything I didn’t want him to do and he sure as hell hasn’t done enough of it. “He played board games with Molly. He let me sleep in and made me French toast for Christ’s sake—not exactly the sadistic actions of a monster,” I gesture toward the half-eaten burger and cold fries that Patrick brought her, hoping to strengthen my argument. “Exhibit A.”

“Exactly!” She jabs her finger at me, the force of it lifting her out of her seat. “Guys don’t just—”

Her tirade is cut short by a flurry of panicked knocks that rattle the laundry room door on its hinges. “Not over,” she says, giving me another finger jab before sliding out of her seat. “You might get away with your Scarlet Letter routine with mom and dad but—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…” I wave her off with a laugh that feels harsh in the back of my throat. Sounds forced because she’s talking about Molly’s father and the fact that I won’t name him. She’s thinks it’s just me being stubborn. Maybe a martyr.

I’m neither of those things.

What I am is a coward.

Maybe it was me. Maybe it wasn’t. What are you gonna do, Grace—line the whole fraternity up for a swab test?

A familiar nausea rolls through me, the acidic feel of it slick and oily, scorching the back of my throat. Gripping the edge of the counter, I look up and find Molly sitting on the couch, bouncing her candy-colored ponies across the cushions like they’re running the Kentucky Derby.

It’s weird that looking at her is the only thing that makes me feel better when it hits me. That when I remember where she came from, she’s the only thing that matters.

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