Page 30 of Letters of Faith
“No, Gray. Your anger has never hurt anyone but yourself. You self-sabotage, and after Nate and finding out about your family—well, I’ve just been waiting for that to happen so I can help you pick up the pieces like you have for me.”
The muscle on his jaw relaxes, and his face softens.
“That won’t happen, Peach. I’ve grown up a lot since my teenage years. Sure, I still have moments I get angry, especially when old women try to pimp you out, but I can control it now. I have things to take care of now—more than myself.”
I nod because that makes sense. He has a whole business where employees rely on him. He cares about that business and his employees,even if he’s not one to wear his feelings on his sleeve and show it.
“Right, your business. How do you do it? Let go of that anger? I watched just now as you were consumed with it, and then it was like a blink of an eye, and you relaxed. You were still frustrated but not angry. So what worked for you?”
“Are you asking because you want to know about me, or are you asking for yourself?” he asks, staring down at me.
Shrugging, I say, “A little of both. It’s no secret that I’ve been angry since Nate died. But I also want to know about you, too.”
He studies me a moment before saying, “I don’t know—I guess I just try to be mindful now. When I feel that heat burning deep in my gut, I take one deep breath and think about where I am and if it’s worth being this angry. Usually, the anger simmers to frustration. It doesn’t always work, mostly when I’m around Kip and Brooks, but for the most part, it cools me down enough to let me think.”
“I’m glad you’ve found that part of you, Gray, but if you ever need me to pick up the pieces, I will,” I say, squeezing my arms around him and holding him until the crowd pushes against us and we are forced to break apart.
I don’t look at Grayson. I can’t. Instead, I look around the festival, searching for a distraction for both of us. Catching sight of a booth labeled hot chocolate, I motion towards it and say, “Let’s go grab some of that. I’m freezing.”
Grayson nods, refusing to make eye contact with me either.
Besides the run-in with Mrs. Adams and her posse, this isn’t as hard as I thought. For the most part, people have left me alone, waving as they walk by and then moving on. Whether that’s from fear of Grayson’s glare or because they are busy with their own lives, who can tell, but it’s been nice.
The hot chocolate stand is to the left of the grandstand, where several mid-size performers are taking the stage tonight. The mic on stagecrackles to life, announcing the schedule for the rest of the night as we wait in line.
Grayson stands beside me, his hands shoved in his coat pockets, warding off the cold. Objectively speaking, he really is handsome, his dark hair a shocking contrast to those blue eyes. His eyelashes are long and dark, causing every girl to hate him for the mere fact they would kill for natural lashes like that. He’s caught the eye of several women here tonight, but he’s remained oblivious to it. My heart aches a little when I think about losing the only friend I have left to another woman someday.
“Why do you never date anymore? Before Nate died, it seemed like you went out with a new girl every weekend.”
I instantly wish I could shove that question right back into my mouth. Heat rises in my cheeks, and I’m thankful for the bitterness of the night so I can blame my blush on the cold. It’s none of my business why he doesn’t date, and if I’m honest, I also don’t want to know.
Grayson’s eyes narrow just a fraction, but that one movement makes it feel like he can see right through me.
“I got tired of going out with the wrong girl.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, scrunching my nose. “I never got the impression that you wanted to settle down.”
“It’s not like I haven’t thought about it. It was impossible not to think about being around you and Nate, but I watched my mom make all the wrong decisions—and look at Kip. I’m pre-genetically disposed to screw things up.”
“Gray,” I say, pulling him so he’s facing me. “You know that’s not true.”
He shrugs, and irritation crawls over my skin. Reaching up, I flick him on the tip of his nose.
“Hey,” he cries, rubbing the spot. “What was that for?”
I lower my brows and glare at him from below my eyelashes. “Forthinking that’s actually true.”
“Fine—then let’s just say I haven’t had the chance with the right girl, ” he says, a smirk taking over his full lips, causing his dimples to poke in under the scruff along his face.
My heart rate kicks into overdrive, and I hope he can’t see what that one little smile does to me. His choice of words seems intentional, but I can’t figure out what he means by them.
Instead of asking, I say, “You’ll get your chance.”
His smirk grows into a full-blown smile, and at this point, my heart might fall right out of my chest.
“Yeah, Peach,” he says, studying me. The clearness of his eyes darkens into stormy puddles when he continues. “I think you’re right—I just might.”
I don’t know what to say to that, so I let the conversation go.
