Page 142 of How You See Me
“Okay, Queen.” He lifts an imaginary crown onto my head. “Ready for your pamper session?”
“I thought you’d neverask.”
???
We spend the next hour exactly as promised—wrapped in robes, with facial masks in place, our wine glasses full, and our favorite country songs humming in the background. It doesn’t take away the ache, but Grant’s laughter, his stories, his steady presence dulls the sting just enough to let me breathe.
Later, when Grant drifts into the bathroom to finish his skincare routine—muttering something about exfoliating for the gods—I creep out of bed.
The calming scent of lavender fills the dim room, lit only by the distant glow from the city lights beyond the balcony glass, but none of it calms my roaring thoughts.
They’re consumed with Hayes. I wonder if he’s heard more about what happened with Ava. I pray it was only a scare and there are no more complications. She’s already dealing with so much.
I wonder what he’s doing right now and if he’s okay—his heart, his mind, his safety on the road.
That’s when I remember his gift.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, my robe tied loosely around me, I hold it in one hand while I tap my chest with the other.
“Wait until I’m gone.” His voice—hoarse, guarded, pained—grinds through my mind and leaves a mark I’ll feel until I can be with him again.
I trace the edges of the lid and the faint smudges left by his pocket with my thumb. The small box feels impossibly heavy, weighted with meaning.
Whatever’s inside, I know it’s more than a trinket. If it were, he wouldn’t have handed it to me with that breathtaking longing in his eyes—like he was leaving a piece of himself behind.
I hesitate.
Part of me wants to wait until morning. To prolong this one final connection. But the other desperately needs to know. Needs to feel him close, even if only through whatever he saved in this box.
I draw a long, shaky breath and lift the lid.
Inside, nestled in soft ivory felt, is a silver bracelet with charms fanning out and glinting like little secrets. Our secrets. It’s simple and elegant. Beautiful. Lifting it carefully, I spread it out over my palm to examine each little story attached to the chain.
The first charm is a tiny paintbrush, bristles etched with stunning detail.
Next to it, a miniature cowboy hat—worn with little swirling patterns in the rope along the base. Nashville. The dive bar. The night that changed everything.
There’s a van, of course. Our home on wheels. A tiny guitar pick dangles beside it, engraved with the words:Play it again. The concert.
I swallow hard and continue moving down the chain.
An exact replica of the stack of pancakes he often mademe during early mornings on the road. A horse and a hot air balloon. There’s a compass too, pointing west, and a delicate charm shaped like the state of Virginia with a little heart cut out of the center.
I lose it then.
I clutch the bracelet to my chest as the sobs rise—not wild or frantic this time, but full and deep. The kind that comes when you realize just how completely you’ve been loved. Not with grand gestures or loud declarations, but in the intentional ways that mean the most. He remembered everything and put it all here.
A journal in silver.
A roadmap ofus.
I don’t know how long I sit there, curled around the bracelet like it’s Hayes.
“Oh, sweetie,” Grant says as he steps out of the bathroom.
He crosses the room in two strides and kneels beside me.
I don’t say a word. Just open my hand and show him.
