Page 108 of Dream Chaser
The smell hits me the second I cross the threshold—freshly baked cornbread, something spicy simmering low. There’s jazz playing low from a speaker tucked into the bookshelf, the kind of playlist Grand swears by: Coltrane, a little Nina Simone, and that one old-school blues guitarist she claims once kissed her hand at a county fair.
The inside of the house is everything I wanted it to be when I picked it out—high-end, but homey. Creamy walls, soft lighting,open kitchen with dark quartz counters and brass hardware that shines like it was polished this morning. The kind of kitchen that says, “Stay a while.” A long farmhouse table sits near a bank of windows overlooking the water, and there’s a blanket tossed casually over the arm of the couch in a way that I can imagine Grand curled up reading a magazine there.
Grand moves like she’s finally comfortable here. Took a beat, but I’m glad it’s there. She gestures for me to sit.
I trail her to the kitchen island, but when I reach for a bowl, she swats my hand gently.
“I cook meals here. You take us—me—out,” she says, narrowing her eyes.
“Yes, ma’am,” I nod. Us. Her and Gramps.
She fixes the plate with care, heaping spoonful of red bean chili, scoop of her cornbread—the kind that ruins you for all other cornbread—and a little pile of something green and pickled she calls “sassy slaw.” I don’t even ask. She sets the plate in front of me and leans against the counter with her sweet tea in hand. Her gaze doesn’t waver, even as I dig in.
“So,” she says, slicing through the quiet, “they really asking y’all not to speak on that hot mess of a game?”
I nod, mouth full. “League wants it buried. Told us no do-over. Fines’ll get dropped if we shut up and move on.”
She tsks. “And what do you want?”
I shrug. “Still figuring that out.”
She hums like she gets it, but then she tilts her head slightly. “You looked rough when you got here. Not tired, just … heart-tired.”
I nearly choke on a spoonful of chili.
“I knew it!” She points the ladle at me.
“Grand,” I groan.
“Don’t you ‘Grand’ me, Griffon Elijah. Spill it.”
I pull out my phone and scroll to Izzy’s Instagram, one of her older posts, my favorite. She’s holding up a tray of canned jam jars, hair in a messy braid, hands stained from berries, freckles bright on her cheeks, eyes crinkled from the size of her smile. I flip it around.
“That’s her?”
I nod. “Izzy.”
“Lord, that girl looks like she could wrangle a tornado and then charm the clouds back into place.”
I huff a laugh. “She could.”
Grand studies the screen a little longer, and then her mouth pulls down in that barely-there way that tells me something’s hit.
“She’s a stunner, and real. Not like those others,” she says softly. “But that smile’s holding something.”
I look down at the photo again.
Yeah, I see it, too.
“She’s been through it,” I murmur.
Grand’s quiet for a moment. Then … “Make sure you see all of her, not just the shine. The shine’s earned. But the cracks … that’s where the real story lives.”
“Plan to, if she’ll let me.”
“And you, Griffon”—she walks around the island—“you need to let her in”—she touches my chest, right over my heart—“here.”
I hold my hand over hers. “Told her some.” I smile. “Told her how Gramps got me into Lincoln. About you.”
