Page 29 of Built to Fall
He closes the door without another word.
Eden turns to me as we walk. “They’re impossible.”
“What even was that?” I ask, glancing back over my shoulder.
Eden puffs her cheeks, fond and exasperated. “They broke up when they still loved each other. Now they pretend they’ve moved on, but neither one really wants to let go. It’s like watching a rom-com where nobody gets to the airport in time.”
I hum. “That sounds exhausting.”
“Yup.” She grins. “But at least we’re getting breakfast!”
* * *
When we get to Sal’s Diner, I’m immediately impressed by the sheer number of people flooding almost all of the tables and booths.
“Is this a popular place?” I whisper to Eden as we follow one of the waitresses toward a booth in the back corner.
“I wouldn’t say it’spopular, but it’s frequented by the football team. We only found out about it once Meredith started dating Braxton.”
“Wait.” My head tilts in confusion. “This entire place is full of football players?”
Meredith looks around, scanning the booths full of guys before saying, “Yup.” Right as Eden says, “Pretty much.”
Eden slides into the booth, tugging her hoodie sleeves over her hands. “And they all eat like they haven’t seen food in a decade, so if you want anything carb-based, order fast.”
Meredith takes the outside seat next to her while I sit across from the two of them. “I wouldn’t be shocked if Braxton and his friends show up.”
“Obviously!” Eden exclaims. “His eyes lit up like the Fourth of July when we mentioned where we were going.”
Meredith shrugs, opening a straw as three glasses of water are set in front of us. “Technically, this was his stomping ground first. We kind of stole it.”
I keep my eyes trained on the menu, trying not to show any reaction at the idea of Braxton and Co. showing up, because that likely means that Grant will too.
The sweatshirt I’m wearing is one from the year my high school basketball team went to states, and while it’s my favorite, it looks like it’s been through war.
There’s a good chance Grant would say something about it if he were to see me. I can’t find it in myself to care. It still crosses my mind, oddly enough.
He proved last night that he can cut someone down with a single look, sharp-tongued and shamelessly cocky. But in the same breath, there’s this tiny undercurrent of something gentler.
Like he’s wired to provoke but can’t help himself from softening around the edges at times. He didn’t have to tuck me into bed, or plug in my phone, or leave a water bottle on my nightstand. But he did.
I’m trying to listen to what my brain is trying to convince me of. He’s not sweet. He’s not easy.
But buried beneath the sarcasm and the smugness is this rare, careful intention that throws me off balance. Like he’s always half-daring me to expect more from him so he can meet me there.
And now I’m sitting here, wearing a sweatshirt with a bleach stain on the sleeve and a hole in the collar, trying to decide if I should risk ordering anything greasy when my stomach still feels like it’s doing somersaults.
I focus hard on the breakfast burrito section, hoping the universe takes pity on me. It does not.
The bell above the diner door jingles again, followed by a chorus of deep voices and the sound of someone loudly slapping another guy on the back.
“Please tell me that’s not them.” My voice is rigid.
Eden’s smile grows as footsteps come up behind us, and Meredith mock winces. “Sorry, but I think the football gods are always going to be against us.”
I’m still processing her words when a familiar voice cuts through the clatter of silverware and chatter.
Of course, Grant is walking alongside Braxton, looking like he came straight out of a Calvin Klein ad. With a little more clothing. Obviously.
