Page 36 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Gen

There’s a bee that won’t stop buzzing, keeps landing on the bundle of hydrangeas Evie arranged for dinner tonight.

I was shocked to see her milling about the kitchen, chopping chives for the potato salad, marinating the ribs Beau just finished grilling.

I don’t know what Anders does, besides driving them round, because Evie’s kind of done… everything.

Grant had to do important, official things with his dad at the corporate office after lunch at the club, which left me alone with his mom and Anders.

I helped as much as I could with dinner prep, but she shooed me off so lovingly, I felt silly for even trying.

So I read on the wrap around porch—something I haven’t had time to do in months—where I swear I saw this same damn bee.

“Dupont’s French, right, Gen?” Evie asks as she passes me the tray of balsamic tomatoes.

“Yes. My dad was Haitian—he passed away a while ago,” I add, hoping to avoid the whole pity deal, “but my mom’s also French.” I slide a few tomatoes onto my plate before passing the tray to Grant, grateful he’s back by my side.

“That’s a shame,” she says, and I can tell she’s trying not to do the pity thing. “Well, I’m sure he’d be in awe of you now. Grant said you’re dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy in the Nutcracker. Did he tell you we go every year?”

My gaze slides back to his, finding it carefully guarded. “He didn’t,” I say, a question in my eyes.

“I told you I’ve been to the ballet,” he tells me, the slightest smirk on his lips.

I remember what he said to me in the woods, the realization that he wasn’t just flattering me and the memory heating my skin.

“We love it! Don’t we, Beau?” He comes to the dark paneled outdoor table, a tray of perfectly charred, steaming ribs in his hands.

“Started going after Grant and Sloane joined the family. You know, tryin’ to make traditions,” he drawls, his eyes sparkling as he charms me with his smile.

The greyed edges of his hair somehow make him look more sophisticated than the perfectly popped collar beneath his light sweater, and I wonder if he really grilled the ribs, or if some phantom house chef did it for him.

“Remember when we let Sloane give that a go?”

Evie’s laugh is like a wind chime, so at odds with the way her hair seems to stay in perfect place. “I do. I do,” she shakes her head, and I catch Grant’s tight smile out of the corner of my eye. “One of her many dreams .”

“She’s on the right track now, though. Curating is a viable career. Lots of connections to be made on the business end of things.” Beau gets comfortable in his seat, resting an arm on the back of Evie’s chair .

“She wouldn’t rather be the artist?” I ask, remembering that to them I couldn’t have met Sloane.

“Well,” Beau huffs, “I’m sure. But it’s not realistic or a life, really. Being the star sounds exciting, but what about when it’s over? When the fervor dies down?” He shakes his head on a tsk. “You have to be exceptional, and even then.”

I stab a chunk of potato with my fork, imagining teenaged Grant and Sloane having to listen to this. Think about how amazing it is that they still believe in their talents after years of monologues like this.

Evie must pick up on my unease, because she says, “We don’t mean that about you though! You’re a talent, I’m sure.”

“You don’t know that,” I laugh, trying to curb my bitterness because I like them. I really do. “You’ve never seen me dance.”

“Well, if Grant says so, I believe him. Always been more rational and honest than his sister,” Beau says, sending Grant a look I know I saw my dad give me time and time again. Total faith. “He never entertained that kind of pie in the sky thinkin’ like she did.”

“Grant’s an incredible player,” I blurt out, shocked to find the words on the table just as much as him, I’m sure. I catch the slightest tick of his jaw, see the smallest intake of breath.

“Well, sure,” Beau says. “He’ll be an even better chief executive one day. Won’t you?”

It’s just pride I find in his gaze, but it makes my stomach churn. He’s blind to it, I realize—blind to the idea that Grant could want anything different. That he should be able to forge a path for himself, regardless of the life they’ve given him.

Grant just smiles, placid and easy going, and it’s the version of him I used to think was real. Now, I realize he’s just trying to please everyone, trying his best not to upset the balance he’s created for himself.

I don’t mention it again. I let Evie lead the conversation and watch the sun finally set in the sky, the glow of it reflecting in the pool behind them. And when it’s time to tidy up, Grant convinces Evie to let him help. I sidle up next to him, drying the dishes he hand-washes next to me.

“I can’t imagine why you’d ever leave this weather,” I tell him as the breeze rustles the herbs set on the ledge of the open french windows above the sink.

“The weather’s all the south really has to offer,” he laughs, his southern twang more pronounced after less than a day here.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, not knowing where his parents might be.

“Don’t worry about me. I’m used to it.” His smile doesn’t meet his eyes, and he turns to finish up the last few dishes.

My phone buzzes in my pocket, and when I check it, it’s Will’s name I see on the screen.

I click the ringer off as my mind races a mile a minute.

Does he know I’m here? And why do I care if he does?

But I haven’t spoken to Will since the gala.

I’ve ignored every call, avoided having to see him—and he hasn’t darkened my door the way I thought he would.

Licking his wounds maybe, but I’ve let him sit in his own mess because I don’t think anyone has in years.

Everything is brushed under the rug, or handled, or coped with for him.

My phone rings again, and nervous energy slinks down my spine, my fingers itching to answer—but I don’t want to talk to him.

The physiological reaction I have to him calling multiple times is quieted the moment I ask myself “ and what then? ” the way my therapist told me to when I was having a hard time throwing away those bakery boxes.

“You didn’t want to answer that?” Grant’s voice carries a slight edge, but I can tell he’s trying to mask it.

I shrug, shaking my head. “Nope.”

“Seems important if he called twice.”

We haven’t talked about that night in its entirety.

It’s just that it’s this dark, heavy thing and I’ve felt so good and light and happy.

Bringing it up feels like calling a storm over us, but we’ll have to.

At some point, we’ll get sick of existing in the margins of each other’s lives.

And so long as we don’t talk about it, he’ll be this constant presence, haunting us both.

“I haven’t spoken to him since…well, you know.” He knows about the coat check girl, about Liv. Everyone does, thanks to the paper, who sent out a detailed news blast the following evening.

His throat bobs as he nods, his hands submerged in the sink water as he pauses his scrubbing. I watch his mouth open and close one too many times before his jaw subtly clenches. He finishes the last dish, drying it himself before taking my hand and guiding me through the house.

“We’ll have breakfast before we head to the airport?” he says around a door frame, poking his head into the library with the massive burning fireplace he showed me earlier.

“Okay, sweetheart. Goodnight,” I hear Evie say. “And goodnight, Gen!” she says cheekily, and I feel fifteen again, too nervous to be seen by my crush’s parents.

My stomach sinks just thinking about fifteen year old me’s crush, about how long ago that was and how long I spent holding onto that feeling when I should’ve been trying to let it go.

Grant still holds my hand in his as we make our way up the stairs, the width wide enough for us to walk in lock step.

He still hasn’t said anything, and when I look, his jaw still ticks.

And I don’t know what to say because I’m now wondering if he’s mad I haven’t formally ended things with Will, even though there is nothing to end.

I make to walk into the room I’m in but he pulls me back, brings me into his room and shuts the door softly before resting his forearm on the frame.

“Grant?” I say, my heart beating loudly in my ears. He stands up straighter but doesn’t turn to face me.

“Why haven’t you talked to him?”

“I don’t want to talk to him,” I tell him, not really wanting to talk about this either.

“What he did hurt you,” he says, quiet anger in his voice. “Maybe it shouldn’t have, but it did, and he should know that.”

“It won’t make a dif?—”

“You deserve an apology. Or closure. Or something from that asshole,” he says, turning toward me. “Why does he get to go through life not giving a fuck who he hurts?” He steps toward me, and tears prick my eyes. “Why are you so okay with being collateral damage, Gen?”

And suddenly, I’m angry, too. At him for assuming what I need or deserve, or at Will, I’m not sure.

“Maybe I don’t want any of that. Maybe I don’t need closure.”

“Maybe I do,” he says on an exhale, his anger blowing out with it, and something in my chest twists at how honest he’s being, at how easily he’s trusting me with his heart. I want to cradle it, want to lock it away where not even I can hurt it.

“I haven’t thought about him in weeks, Grant. I haven’t felt the way I used to in months. Do you know why?” I watch as his tongue brushes his lip before he presses his mouth into line, his throat bobbing. “Ask me why?”

He doesn’t answer, just lets his searing gaze roam over my features before he relents.“Why?”

“Because all I can think about is you. You are every thought I have. Every one—it’s all you.”

When I say it, it’s true. And still, this small voice in the back of mine asks: how are you simply done with the one person you thought you’d have forever? But I have to be—want to be. Because what I really want, with every fiber of my being, is standing right in front of me.