Page 97 of Built to Fall
“I wish I would have known you better then, because I would have told you what I know now—that you are the smartest person I’ve ever met, and somehow, still the one I can’t stop looking at.”
Grant’s words land with the kind of weight I’m not prepared to hold, saddling on my chest like a sandbag.
“You don’t mean that,” I say, already trying to outrun the way it makes me feel.
“I didn’t know you like I do now, and I had nothing to compliment you on other than what I did know. At that moment, the only thing Ididknow was that I felt like I couldn’t breathe when I looked at you.” He sighs, running a hand through his hair and down the back of his neck. “I was trying tobe niceto you, Lina. Clearly, it’s not something I’m the most well-versed in.”
“Don’t use this as an excuse to brag about how often girls throw themselves at you and that’s why you have no social skills,” I joke, as a poor attempt at ignoring how my chest feels as though it’s caving in on itself.
Then, quietly, he says, “You’re the only person I’ve ever tried with. That’s gotta count for something.”
That smilenever leaves his lips, and it makes my breath catch. It’s not sweet in a disarming way, but instead in a way that says,“You could ruin me, and I would let you.”
And whether he’s just disgustingly perfect, or if that is just what he’s trying to convey, my heart is halfway to thinking the exact same thing.
“I’m sorry for being an asshole,” he adds after a beat.
“I’m sorry for being a bitch.”
He shrugs. “Meh. It’s kind of our thing: I’m an asshole, you’re a bitch. It works.”
The corners of my mouth tug up.
“It works,” I agree softly. Too softly. Like the words aren’t really about insults anymore, but something heavier. Something closer to the truth.
The truth is thatwework.
Grant’s eyes stay locked on mine, serious in a way that makes it impossible to breathe right.
“You want to stay tonight?” he asks, voice low.
It’s not loaded. Not some innuendo like he would’ve made back when we first met. It’s a simple offer. An open door.
“Yeah,” I whisper.
Without another word, he takes my hand, tugging me gently toward the living room, where a forgotten game of Madden is still playing itself out. He picks up the controller, and when he goes to shut it off, I shake my head, stopping him.
“Go ahead,” I tell him when he looks back over at me. “You can keep playing.”
“You sure?”
“Not like I’m going to be sleeping anytime soon, anyway.”
When he nods, I make myself comfortable on the couch, pulling the blanket off the back of it and curling up against the armrest while Grant settles beside me.
Every so often, I can feel him glance over at me, like he’s making sure I’m still okay—still here. And every time he does, I feel that same stupid wrecked feeling crawl back up my spine. Warm. Full. Terrifying.
Tonight was the first time I’ve ever cried about my mom in front of anyone—the first time I’vereallybroken down.
I don’t know whether I find comfort in Grant because he knows what it’s like to grieve for a mother, or if it’s because he’s become my friend. Either way, I think there’s something to be said about the fact that he’s the one I find myself seeking.
I try to pay attention for a bit while Grant plays Madden, quietly asking questions and nodding along. But eventually, I let my eyes drift closed. Not to sleep, but to lie here comfortably.
And after a moment, I feel Grant reach out to rest a hand on my back, scratching lightly up and down. I peek my eyes open the tiniest bit to see that he’s still playing the game, his other hand on the controller.
“How are you doing that?” I whisper, impressed with his obvious display of dexterity.
Grant smiles. “My sisters.”
