Page 87 of The Game Plan
“How was game prep? Feeling good about tomorrow?”
He nods. “It was productive. I pointed out a few things we missed earlier this week.”
I study him. Even in the dimly lit apartment, I can see the exhaustion marring his features. There are dark circles under his eyes. He looks tired, worried.
“You doing okay?”
He hesitates before nodding. “I was going to ask you.”
My eyebrows raise. “Me?”
“Yes, you.” He nudges my foot playfully. “I wanted to check. Make sure you’re still happy with everything—living here, us—and you know, you’re about to be a mom.”
I want to say yes instantly, but I hesitate.
Am I okay?
My silence has his hand pausing where it was rubbing my swollen ankle.
“Peach…”
I let out a sigh. “I’m happy with you, Grant. All of this is a little unorthodox, but please don’t question my feelings or love for you. This is just a lot.”
Grant shifts closer, placing my legs on his lap as he begins to rub my calves, making me moan.
“You know, I never knew my dad. He left before I was born, and my mom—” My throat tightens, and I pause. “She was…for lack of better words, a shitty mom. Some days, she was around, then gone for weeks. I learned early never to count on her for anything. I was eight when she started leaving me home alone for sleepovers. Eight…can you imagine?”
He shakes his head, and I know he’s telling the truth. Our upbringings couldn’t be more opposite, as if our childhoods were written in completely different languages.
“I’ll never forget the first time I realized my mom was different from other moms. We were in the grocery store, shopping for sale items. She saw a man farther down the aisle, dug in her purse for her lipstick, and told me to wait where the carts go. There was a bench, so I did what she asked.” I suck in a lungful of air. “She left me inside the store to go screw some random guy.”
“Jesus,” he huffs, running a hand down his face.
“The worst part? The clerk paged her over the speakers, and she never came back. I waited in a manager’s office for the police. When she finally showed up, she played it off like I had run away and she’d been searching for me.” I scoff.
“What the fuck, Sav?” Grant grips my leg as if he can absorb my pain.
“She was a master at manipulating people, and I got scolded by the officer for leaving my mom’s side. That was the first on a long list of things I had to deal with.”
“You know you’re not your mother, right?”
I nod, and something wet hits my arm. Reaching up, I swipe my fingers across my cheeks and realize the moisture came from me. I didn’t even notice I had started crying.
“I know I’m not her, but I don’t—” I hiccup the sob I was trying to keep hidden. “I don’t want to turn out like her.”
“Oh, baby.” Grant’s voice is soft as he inches up the couch. It’s awkward, but I shift until he’s sitting beside me and pulling me into his chest. I bury my face in the crook of his neck, and he holds me like I’m made of glass.
“You’ll never be her, Peach. You’re too good a person to ever resemble her behaviors,” Grant whispers.
I let the tears flow. It’s therapeutic in a way I didn’t know I needed. These tears have been bottled for years, aging like fine wine, waiting for a chance to break free. This is for the six-year-old abandoned in the grocery store, for the eight-year-old left behind for a weekend while my mom was with a new guy, forthe twelve-year-old forced to navigate puberty on her own. For years, I had to figure out a world I knew nothing about. I’m lucky I’m as normal as I am after all the shit she put me through.
“I’m happy, though,” I finally whisper. “I’m happy her faults led me here. It led me to you.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead. “You’re safe, Peach. You’ll always be safe with me.”
Grant Campbell isn’t like the rotation of men who came into my life. He’s everything I ever wished for. He’s my very own Prince Charming when I’ve only ever seen the villain. And not one of those hot, morally grey villains I read about in dark romances.
I believe every damn word he says.
