Page 48 of Second Position (Astor Hill #2)

Grant

The rattle of the net, the ragged intake of my breath, the barely audible lapping of the lake—that’s all I hear.

Cold air rushes past me, rasps against my bare arms as I set up another shot and miss.

It was warmer when I got here, when the sun was still nestled low in the sky.

Now, it’s just the moon shining down, spotlighting the hoop.

My heart kicks up, fluttering inside my chest, again. It keeps doing that—beating like it can’t find its rhythm.

And I haven’t felt like this. I haven’t felt like this in a really long time.

I spent the past ten years avoiding it—the burn of abandonment. Had convinced myself that maybe there was something in me worth staying for. That it wasn’t me—it was my mother that was the problem.

I swallow past the grief, lining up another shot.

Spinning through the air, the ball barely touches the net, bouncing off the ground in one smooth motion—the only clean shot I’ve made all day.

The quiet murmur of a car pulling up the road momentarily pulls me out of my thoughts, and my next shot is less seamless; the ball collides with the rim, ricochets before swishing through the net.

A raspy huff filters out of me as I sit at a weathered picnic table, my voice rusty from a near twenty-four hours of disuse.

I didn’t go home last night—didn’t want to face my sister whose self-righteousness would’ve deepened the cut Gen made.

I stayed on Andy’s couch, grateful for a place to dissociate from it all.

This is what tortures me the most: would I go back and tell her no deal? Would I give up even knowing her, just to avoid this pain?

A resounding no pulses through me every time, is this heavy leaden thing, like an anchor, keeping me stagnant in this sea of sadness. I don’t want to let her go, but I should, because it’ll always be like this—me needing her to be done with him, and her not being ready to.

My dread is acidic as it clamors through what’s left over: the hope, the sweet ache of loving her, the twinge in my heart every time her lips would tug into a smile, the heat that flared across my skin when her knowing eyes would slightly slant my way.

That’s the trick with love—you can’t just forget it.

It ends and you have to deal with knowing it happened, with remembering what it felt like.

Have to deal with knowing you can love some like that, and they can be careless in return.

I wish I could be like Sloane and just have this never ending well of optimism that people will come back.

But being separated at seven didn’t spur this permanent hopelessness in her like it did in me.

She didn’t sit in a restaurant at eleven and get stuck with the bill.

She didn’t lay her heart on a table in a pizzeria and have to pick it back up, shove it back into place on a long walk home, alone .

That is what this feels like. Like I gave a part of myself to Gen and she left it on the table.

The table groans beneath my weight as I shift on the attached bench, elbows on my knees and head in my hands.

If I go home, Sloane will definitely want to talk, will tell me exactly how she feels the moment I walk in the door.

And I don’t want that right now. She’s right—everything blew the fuck up. There’s nothing else to say.

“What the hell, Grant?”

I pick up my head at the sound of her voice, the sight of Gen in the middle of the court feeling surreal. She wears this tired scowl, her arms crossed and jaw set hard in irritation. I’m about to ask her how she found me when she cuts me off.

“You can’t just do that.” I can see fear lapping in the back of her gaze as she comes closer, and I fight the urge to wrap myself around her and wash it away. “I went to your apartment. I called?—”

“My phone’s dead. And I stayed at Andy’s.”

“So were you ever going to let me know you were okay? Let me know where you were so we could talk, like I told you I wanted to?” Quiet fury rages in her gaze, her breaths coming heavy as her brows dip, but the words elicit visions of her from last night—tears in her eyes, her phone tightly clasped in her hand as she left me.

“What is there to talk about, Gen?” I keep my tone even-keeled, try my hardest to hold her gaze without revealing just how painful this is, but my head shakes without my permission and I have to look away.

There is so much to say, but hearing it will make things worse, somehow.

Knowing, in no uncertain terms, that she chose him over me, feels far more horrible than just assuming it with no confirmation .

She looses a breath before coming to sit by me, wrapping her arms around herself like her sweatshirt isn’t enough in the cold. Her hair is up in a messy bun, the free strands of those curls I love framing the perfect contours of her face.

She sits close enough that the heat of her thigh seeps into mine, and it’s a small respite against the chill. When I exhale, I shudder and clamp my jaw like it’ll hold me together, my vision trained on some invisible dot in the ether. I tell myself it’s the cold.

“Grant, please look at me.”

Her breath is shaky on the intake, her anger giving way to a nervous angst painted on her face, and I brace myself for the worst, not even knowing what that is. My gut roils with this infinite sense of dread.

Her lips press together and she looks up as if to catch tears threatening to fall. “I know that I hurt you. I know that I left and that it’s maybe the worst thing I could’ve done. I’m sorry for all of it, but I—” I hear her take a breath “—I needed to go, for me.”

My eyes are shut, like it’ll shield me from the weight of her words. Despite the apology, they’re a physical blow, right to the center of my chest.

“Please say something,” she says, her voice quiet.

When I hold her gaze, I see that brokenness in me mirrored in her, like she felt the fracture the moment I did.

“You knew,” I start, pausing to take a breath, “and left anyway. Went to him , anyway.”

“I went to him because he was a mess. It was worse than before the gala. He was like, tortured, and he said he saw us and?—”

“Mission accomplished, right?” Bitterness coats my voice, hard as I try to sound okay .

Her molars grind against each other, tears pricking at her eyes. “No. Not mission accomplished. What the fuck, Grant?”

“That’s what you wanted, wasn’t it? To make him jealous, to get him to finally see you?”

Her breathing is harsh as she slides away from me.

“That was never what I wanted and you know it. Why is it so hard for you to believe that everything I’ve done was for me?

I went there to be there for him, because he was my best friend, Grant.

For half of my life, he was the only person I had.

I went there because my soul couldn’t fucking rest knowing I was leaving him out to dry, letting him drown without trying, one last time, to throw him a life raft. And I would do it again.”

“Is that all that happened? You,” I pause, rolling my lips together as I glance away, “‘threw him a life raft’?”

She hesitates, opening her mouth before shutting it, her breaths steady as she figures out how to tell me the truth. Uneasiness rolls over me, the thought of him anywhere near her sending me spiraling.

“That’s what I thought.” I push up from the table, heading towards the lake, just needing a minute.

“ He kissed me .” I hear her behind me, clarifying like that makes a difference.

Like that wasn’t what she’s always wanted.

“He kissed me and I hated it. It was all wrong and I left. I went to your place but you weren’t there.

And then you wouldn’t pick up the phone.

” She sounds pissed, like this is all my fault.

“So you finally saw what I’ve known for months—years. Good for you, Gen. I’m happy you can finally move on.” I keep tracking toward the shore, but she’s right behind me, the delicate grip of her hand on my arm sending a familiar shiver through me .

“Please stop. Grant.”

“He fucking kissed you ,” I erupt. “That’s what it took. You didn’t already know?” I watch her gaze, wait for her to tell me I’m wrong, because I love her. Love her so much that this feels like ten knives to my gut, feels like someone is flaying me for sport.

“Of course, I knew,” she almost shouts, like she’s offended. “But I can’t just shut it off. I can’t just stop caring.”

“I never asked you not to care, Gen! I just…” I’m shaking my head, shoving my hands into my pockets, “want you to stop sacrificing yourself at his fucking altar.”

Her jaw sets, any of the apology in her eyes leaving her.

“You have always known it’s been complicated for me.

You don’t get to look down at me from your high horse for caring about him.

” Her tears start to fall, cascading down the smoothness of her face.

“But you know how I feel about you. You know .”

“You walked away from me to go be with the guy you’ve been in love with for ten years. Do you hear how fucked that is?”

“And now I am here. Should I have left him to spiral alone just so I wouldn’t bruise your ego?” She’s incensed as the tears run, her breath ragged as she tries to find something in my gaze. “I was always coming back to you. I came back .”

“It’s that you went in the first place,” I tell her, my pain unbridled and untethered. “It’s that you’re always going to protect him; you’re always going to keep his secrets; and I’m never going to know if it’s really me.”

Her eyes soften and they’re a well of understanding I can’t stand to see. It feels too late.

I needed that last night. I don’t want it now .