Page 47 of Grace on the Rocks

“If onlyIcould do it a second time,” she muttered.

“ ’Course you can.”

She sighed and shook her head.

“What, ’cause of the romance?”Pointingto the tablet he said, “You’veten different kinds of love in this novel, you know that right?”

“Not romantic love.Itwas never supposed to be about that.Sixteen-year-olds don’t know anything about love, it’s all toxicRomeoandJulietbullshit.”

“It’s real to them.”Everysingle one of his heartbreaks had felt like the first and last at the time.

“It’s real until it’s not,” she said. “I’malmost thirty years old.I’venever been in love, not for real.ButI’mgoing to shove that down some poor kid’s throat?Withtheir too-big hearts and their too-raw feelings?”

Were they still talking about books?

Eòghann andTeàrlachliked to tease thatBryanhad left a string of heartbreak in his wake, having slept with everyone his age he wasn’t related to, male and female alike, but the truth was more complicated.Therehad only been one boy onBarrahe’d ever kissed, a tourist at that.Therest were unrequited.

Bisexuality—one more word he couldn’t utter because it started with aB—hadn’t made his already rocky relationship with his father any easier, and he’d had to travel to the mainland to really explore it, but it wasn’t why he’d left.No, his too-big feelings had all been tied up in paternal disappointment over his academic mediocrity and the words he couldn’t say.

Bryan’s head was spinning a little, and the moment felt heavy with meaning, too heavy for him to stay quiet like he wanted while a crocodile did death rolls in his chest.

“Then use it,” he blurted out like a shotgun as he pushed away from the counter.

“What?”

Bryan turned his back on her to make speaking easier.Slicinga loaf of bread to keep his hands busy, he imagined the knife cutting away tethers that tightened his throat and tangled his tongue. “Youdon’t believe in love, and it’s holding you back.Fromfinishing your manuscript,” he clarified. “Useit, instead of letting it control you.”

“You’re not making sense,”Gracesaid.

They were the four worst words in theEnglishlanguage, the ones he most hated to hear.

He should’ve stayed quiet.Whenhe lived onBarraas a child, he’d learned to stay quiet, but somewhere over the years, with his elocution lessons and his extra work on film sets, with his bartending and dram-fueled karaoke, holding his tongue had become a little less necessary.Couldhe relearn how?Didhe want to?

“I don’t know ifIcan pull it off,” she whispered.

Oh.

“You absolutely can.JustlikeMayaand her perfect quinceañera.”

She laughed a little sadly, and he turned to hand her a piece of brown bread and butter.

“Was it based on yours?”

She stared at the slice of bread for a minute, almost debating her answer with herself.

“I didn’t have one,” she finally said, looking up to meet his gaze with her glassy eyes as she reached for the bread, her fingers skimming the sensitive skin of his wrist. “Igot into some trouble, and my papa was pretty angry.Hedidn’t mean it, but he shouted that we should cancel it, andIwas eager to avoid everyone.SoIagreed.Mymom, you know, she’s white.Shedidn’t get it, didn’t try to talk me out of it.SheassumedI’dhave a big sweet-sixteen party instead.Sothat was that.”

“Wait, you really cancelled it?”Bryanasked without thinking.

Her brow creased.

Shite.Hestudied the floor. “Diego.Hecame to the flat in an absolute fury.We’dbeen out drinking the night before to celebrate hisWorldCupcall-up when he realized the dates.Hetold the gaffer he’d be late to camp, and they said if it was so urgent he go home, then he could stay there.They’dtake an alternate toSouthAfrica.Hewas wrecked over having to tell you.Whenhe heard you cancelled it…”

“He thought it was because of him?”

Those glassy eyes grew glassier.Christ. “Idon’t know what he thought.Ijust always assumed you uninvited him.”

“Fuck,” she said.Then, “Sorry.”

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