Page 55

She traces her finger along the edge of the frame thoughtfully.

“You know, sometimes it’s so hard to accept good when it comes along.

We get used to molding ourselves into what we think we need to be, to fit in with our family’s and friends’ expectations, the requirements of our job, or the needs of our partners.

But when we squash ourselves to be what other people need, we forget ourselves.

” She places the painting on the windowsill and takes my hand.

“I see what you do, Grace. I see you searching for what you need in all the wrong places, and when you don’t get it, you use those negative feelings to validate your self-belief.

I should have talked to you about it sooner, but I didn’t want to damage our friendship or hurt your feelings.

I thought you’d come to your senses when the right man came along.

I know I joked about you starting a cowboy harem, but honestly, I was hoping they’d recognize what a loving person you are, and you’d finally see it, too. ”

I shake my head. “I’m not what they need.”

“Think about it,” she says. “You’re the last person who should’ve worked in their world, and they wanted you anyway.”

I close my eyes and shake my head. “If it were love, they would have listened to my explanations about the article. And anyway…” I brush my hands over my jeans like I mean business. “Now I’m a slut-meme, all of this is irrelevant. Wh o’s going to want me for anything more than sex after this?”

Allie doesn’t flinch. “Sweetie, my ass was plastered all over the tabloids for weeks, and I’ve got ten very enthusiastic boyfriends who are madly in love with me. If they’re your people—really your people—none of this will scare them off.”

There’s a knock on the door, and Allie rises. “That’s Theron. He drove me. I told him fifteen minutes, but I’m guessing he’s doing the pee dance.”

I blink, startled. “Wait. Theron? You brought Theron?”

Allie shrugs like it’s nothing. “He insisted. Said no one should have to cry alone.”

She heads for the door, and I try to pull myself together, wiping at my face with the sleeve of my sweatshirt, but it’s no use.

I’m blotchy and tired and emotionally wrung out, and it shows.

I think about standing, about pretending to be composed for one-tenth of Allie’s sexy harem, who’s about to walk into my apartment, but I don’t have the energy.

Theron walks in, tall and broad-shouldered with that calm, grounded energy that always feels like leaning against a brick wall you trust not to collapse.

His dark hair is wind-tousled, his jaw shadowed, and he looks exactly like a man women would Photoshop into a cowboy meme, except he’s real, and he’s here for me.

He glances around the apartment, then at me, and offers a small, polite nod.

“Grace,” he says, voice warm but a little clipped. “Good to see you. Is it okay if I use your bathroom real quick?”

“Of course. It’s down there on the left.”

He heads down the hallway like a man on a mission.

Allie sighs. “He’s got the bladder of a nervous chihuahua.”

There’s a muffled “I heard that” from the hallway.

A small, startled laugh slips from me, and a flicker of something warm breaks through the weight pressing on my chest. I’m not alone .

When Theron reemerges, he makes a beeline for the kitchen, yanking open cupboards like he owns the place.

“Got chamomile?” he asks.

“Uh… in the back.”

He finds it within seconds, drops a tea bag into a mug, and sets the kettle boiling like he’s done it a thousand times. Then he turns and leans against the counter, his arms crossed over his ridiculous chest and expression calm and kind.

“I told Allie she should’ve let me come up sooner. You shouldn’t have to face this storm alone.”

“I’m not.” I look at Allie gratefully.

Theron’s expression softens. “Good, because we’ve lived through this shit and it’s vicious, yeah. But it isn’t the end. You got brandy?”

I shrug and point at the bottom cupboard. “Maybe in there?”

Theron crouches while Allie mouths “sorry,” like he’s overstepping. He rises, clutching a bottle. “This’ll do.”

He somehow manages to find three glasses with barely any effort and pours a measure of caramel-colored liquid into each. He gathers them in his huge hands and passes them to us. “Medicinal,” he says. “If we were at home, I’d give you Tsipouro.”

“What’s that?” I ask.

“You don’t want to know.” Allie knocks back her shot of brandy with a pained gasp. “It’s like a million-proof Greek alcohol that Theron and Gabe drink and rub on any kind of ailment like it’s healing nectar from the gods.”

“It cleared up that rash Carson had, didn’t it?”

“I think the antihistamine did that,” she says, patting his arm. “But I’m sure he was grateful that you tried to help.”

Theron returns to the kitchen to finish the chamomile tea as I sip the brandy. It’s smooth and hot, with a burn that feels oddly comforting.

“He’s sweet,” I mouth to Allie before he returns. She smiles and nods knowingly .

As Theron passes me the tea, Allie says, “Grace thinks you’re sweet.”

He flexes his chest muscles, making his pecs bounce, and his biceps swell. “This looks sweet to you?”

Stunned, I glance at Allie, who bursts out laughing. “Jesus, Theron. She doesn’t need the ‘I’ve got a big dick display.’ She read the article. She saw your dildo mold. She knows. It’s okay.”

Theron’s eyes darken. “No man wants to be called sweet, especially a Greek. We’re warriors. Defenders. Protectors. Just saying.”

“Sweet’s the wrong word,” I correct. “Supportive.”

“Supportive, I can handle. You were supportive of Allie when it counted. We have your back.” He watches while I take a sip of the chamomile tea. “You’ll sleep better with this.”

He crouches in front of me, his forearms resting on his knees. His voice gentles, but there’s steel under it.

“Look. I know we’re not friends exactly. But I want you to listen to me like I’m your big brother for a second.”

I look up at him, surprised, then at Allie, who doesn’t seem surprised at all. “Okay?”

“You think you’re ruined. That this—” he nods toward the phone “—defines you now. That your worth’s been carved out and tossed in the dirt. But that’s bullshit. You hear me?”

I nod because it’s all I can do in the face of his determination.

“A wreckage,” he says, “can be rebuilt. Stronger. If you use the right materials.”

His eyes hold mine, and they’re steady and unapologetic.

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit, my voice barely audible.

Theron leans in, voice calm. “You don’t have to know. But you have to keep going.”

“Keeping going seems like the hardest thing of all,” I admit .

Allie and Theron exchange a worried glance that’s more transparent than they mean it to be.

“Allie’s going to stay here tonight,” Theron says so firmly that there’s no way I can object.

“You don’t need to stay,” I say, half-heartedly.

“I really do.” She gives me a firm look. “I brought snacks. My laptop. If you need to cry or rage or scream at men in meme form, I’m here.”

“She’s the best,” Theron says, reaching out to touch her knee. “Even if she talks too much and steals the covers.”

Allie flips him off with a grin.

“I’m feeling better,” I tell them. “I think the weird combination of brandy and chamomile is mellowing out my nerves.”

“Tsipouro would have worked better,” Theron says as Allie rolls her eyes.

“I’m telling you that stuff is for removing stains or igniting barbeques.”

He scowls. “Don’t let my dad hear you say that. EVER. Stay here. I’ll get your bag.”

When Theron disappears, I look back at McCartney’s painting as it catches the light, and I can’t look away.

The brushstrokes. The care. The space they made for me.

This life, or that life.

Right now, neither feels like it’s mine.