Page 21

Zoe

T he fall morning air is getting colder. And I hate that I notice that this morning as Bronco putters around the front yard. Huddling under my blanket, I lower myself onto the front stoop, my gaze scanning the sidewalk. Again. I check both directions, though Grant has only ever come from the north.

But there’s no sign of his smooth jog or a canine companion.

Hasn’t been for the last thirty minutes.

I hug my blanket tighter and let out a tired sigh.

This is our time. If I had a calendar at the moment, I would mark it down. Shoot, I wouldn’t have to. Since that first morning that Bronco jumped on me, demanding a trip outside, there’s been an understanding. Grant would be here if he was in town. I would be, too.

I know his flight won’t leave until after noon today. But I’m still sitting here like a chump. Waiting on a guy who isn’t going to show up. Because I told him I was a waste of his time. Because I basically chased him out of Nan’s house with a broom.

Bronco seems to recognize my mood, waddling my way and plopping his chin on my knee. “I don’t suppose he’s coming, is he boy?”

With a woof, the dog flaps his brown ears.

“Me neither.”

Saggy brown eyes look up at me, all pity and concern.

“It’s not like that. I promise. It’s okay. He didn’t stand me up or anything.”

After all, I didn’t expect him to show up. Why would he after what I said last night? After what I did?

Letting my head fall into my hands, I let out a long sigh. This is my own fault. I know that. Doesn’t make it hurt any less. Even if I was only trying to protect him.

And maybe to protect myself a little bit too.

I glance at my phone, as though I could have missed a call. An “I miss you already” text.

Nothing except a reminder that I’m shivering on a hard cement stoop at 5:33 on an October morning.

Apparently for no reason other than my own stupidity.

Pushing myself up, I nod toward the door. “Come on, Bronc.”

His pathetic gaze sweeps toward the sidewalk once more like he too wants to wait for our morning friend.

Friend. Right. That’s what I said to him last night.

That’s what I lied to him last night.

I can keep telling myself that’s all I want, but it’s no better than the half-truths and twisted words that keep following me.

What I feel for Grant is so much more than friendship. It’s concern and care. It’s joy and hope. It’s fun and a future. It’s . . . it’s . . .

My insides twist, making me nearly drop my blanket-cape.

I snatch at the soft fabric before it slips off my shoulders and curl it into my fist before twirling it with a wide flourish as I turn to the front door. Even the Phantom couldn’t have done it better before a packed house.

“Let’s go, Bronco.”

His little nails clack against the steps as he follows me inside where we both collapse on the couch. Yeah, because hanging out at the scene of the last place Grant held me is definitely going to help me not think about him today.

I lean my head against the back of the sofa as Bronco rests his head on my feet, his mouth almost immediately vibrating on a soft snore. He cares enough to be here for me. Just not enough to stay awake for it.

“Thanks, boy.”

As the sun rises through the eastern windows, patches of light stretch across the floor. I can’t make myself move. I know I should shower and get going—but I literally have nothing to do. Nothing to work toward. This is new. And altogether unpleasant.

It’s well after eight by the time Nan shuffles out of her room, her orange tracksuit nearly glowing. Bronco lifts his head and pushes himself up to walk to her side.

Good to know where I rank in order of roommates. I’m useful for demanding to be let out early in the morning. A headrest when he needs one. But far from the favorite.

“Well, don’t you look like you just lost your best friend.”

“Good morning to you, too, Nan.”

She puts her hands on her hips and cocks her head to the side, pale eyes carefully surveying me. “I’m serious. You look terrible.”

I’d like to argue her assessment, but I haven’t risked a glance in a mirror yet this morning. Instead, I offer a lame excuse. “Didn’t sleep well last night.”

“Does this have something to do with that handsome quarterback?”

“No.” It has everything to do with him.

“You’re a bad liar, Zoe Jane. You always were. Couldn’t pull the wool over on anyone.” Her gaze narrows on me. “All right. I guess you better tell me about it. Come on. I’m making breakfast.”

Nan’s voice brooks no argument, so I force myself off the sofa and shuffle after her into the kitchen.

“Chop the peppers,” she commands, so I set to work rinsing vibrant red and green bell peppers while she cracks eggs into the bowl. The motion of her whisk is smooth and strong. Though her eyes watch her hands, she clears her throat in an undeniable directive to start talking.

Somehow I’m already starting to feel better.

“Grant didn’t show this morning.”

She lifts one white eyebrow. “You don’t say.”

Translation: she already knows that.

Slicing the stem off a pepper, I say, “He came over last night and we had a . . .” I have no idea what to call it.

“A fight?”

“No.”

“A disagreement, then.”

“Sort of.” If you call him wanting us to be us and me saying it’s a bad idea a disagreement.

It felt more like putting my heart through a cheese grater.

“Hmm.” The little sound in the back of Nan’s throat indicates the most interest she’s had in this conversation, and I can’t help but chuckle at her. The woman is unique. To say the least. “Well, what was it?”

My knife stills lest I lose a finger while relaying the story, but Nan makes a chop-chop motion with her hand before pulling out a skillet, setting it on the gas stovetop, and adding a pad of butter. So I focus on slicing even rows and then turn them to dice the pepper into small squares. They smell fresh and earthy as their skin cracks under my blade.

“I sort of cancelled our date.”

“You cancelled a date with Red?” She whistles long and low. “I didn’t think any granddaughter of mine would be foolish enough to do that. What happened?”

Great. Now I’ve opened a can of worms with Nan. I was in bed before she got home last night, and I haven’t told her about the movie. Or about Cyndi dropping me. Or any of the buildup to the part that stings the most.

Maybe I can just skip over all that. “I texted him that I wasn’t going to make it, but I guess he missed it because when he got here—”

“Uh-uh. Why did you cancel on him?”

I scrape my knife against the wooden cutting board, sending the colorful pepper pieces into the melting butter as Nan stirs it with a wooden spoon. “I had a rough day, and I wasn’t ready to face the world.”

“No new tabloid headlines.”

It’s not a question, but I shake my head to confirm anyway.

“Did that rat Knight Burkhardt decide not to give you a real audition?”

“It wasn’t his fault.” I have no idea why I’m defending the man who isn’t willing to put his neck on the line for me.

“Did he try to convince you of that?” Nan pours the eggs into the skillet, and they crackle against the greased bottom. She stirs them like they need another beating, so I pluck the spoon from her fingers and take a gentler approach.

“I didn’t talk with him.”

“Cyndi called you.”

I nod.

“And she said . . .”

I swallow, expecting to feel a resistant lump in my throat. But it’s not there. In fact, talking about losing my agent feels a whole lot easier than talking about Grant. About losing Grant.

The very idea ties a cord around my lungs. Breathing is no longer innate. Every inhale a struggle.

“What did she say?” Nan asks again.

“The producers think I’m too risky. So does Cyndi. She’s dropping me. At least for now.”

Nan grumbles under her breath then spits out, “Sounds like something an incompetent fool would say. Stringing you along for now . You know I still know people in the biz.”

I press my hand to her shoulder, holding her in place and forcing her to look my way. “I’m all right. I’m coming to terms with it.”

“Well, let your old grandma tell them what ridiculous fools they’re being.”

I smile because this is why I love her. “Please don’t. You don’t need to step in.”

“Need . . . want . . . there’s a difference,” she mumbles as she turns her back to load the aqua-colored toaster with a plain bagel.

“Don’t you want to know what happened with Grant?” I want to bite my own tongue off for moving us back in his direction.

She shoots me a stink eye, fully aware that I’m trying to change the subject and steer her away from dipping her toe back into the cesspool that is certain parts of Hollywood.

“Very well. What happened with Grant?”

“I, um . . .” I don’t want to rehash the mess that I made, and I sure don’t want to fess up to telling him I still want to be friends. Undoubtedly the lamest line ever.

“We were . . . he was holding me.”

Nan’s smile turns knowing. “Uh-huh.”

“Not like that.” I swat at her with the tea towel that usually hangs on the stove handle. She giggles and gives my arm a playful smack.

“Don’t you know you’re supposed to respect your elders?”

“And don’t you know you’re not supposed to jump to suggestive conclusions?”

She tilts her head of white curls in something of an acquiescence. “All right. Go on. He was holding you.”

“More like comforting me. I was upset, and he was just giving me a hug.”

“And those arms—are they everything an old lady like me could dream of?”

Yes. But I’m not falling into her trap. “I told him about Knight. And Cyndi. And I was feeling . . .”

“Vulnerable.” She doesn’t bother posing it as a question.

But I bite my lip as I consider it. “I suppose. And like a ship without an anchor. If I’m not an actress, if I don’t have my career, what—who—am I?”

“Well, I have a few answers for that.” She places two white plates on the granite countertop, adding half a bagel to each. “But at the moment, you’re the girl who’s dishing up my breakfast.”

I do as she says, then follow her to the two-person table. The kitchen isn’t large by any standards, and there’s no room for an island of any sort. DIY shows would say it’s in desperate need of an upgrade.

But sitting on the vinyl-padded seat across from Nan, it feels like a castle. It’s safe from any external attacks.

Steam still rising from her eggs, she takes a dainty bite, chews, and swallows. “So, what did you do to run the poor boy off?”

The poor boy with the dream-inducing arms. Right.

“I . . .” I swallow the lump that wants to choke off my words. “I just told him the truth. That if he’s with me, the tabloids won’t leave him alone, he’ll get all the press he never wanted, and my dad will be ticked.”

Nan’s face twists, but before she can let out whatever is clearly boiling inside, my phone chirps from the front pocket of my hoodie. Her eyes go wide, her anticipation nearly palpable. I freeze for a moment. “Answer it,” she whispers.

When I finally pull it free, I glance at the screen. It’s Kenna.

My heart slams against my ribs. Maybe it’s the creative in me, but every possible worst-case scenario rolls through my mind like film on a reel. She’s calling to tell me that Grant was hit by a car on his run this morning. Or that he’s in a coma. Or that my dad sent a lacky to tell him to stay away from me.

All plausible reasons why Grant didn’t show up this morning.

Also completely ridiculous.

Nan kicks me under the table, and I jostle the phone as I swipe to answer and put it on speaker.

“Is everything all right?” I can’t stop the words from flying out of my mouth.

“Yeah. Isn’t it? Did something happen?”

And now I’ve gone and terrified a poor middle schooler. Good job, Zoe. “Of course not. No. I just wasn’t expecting a call from you today.”

“Well, I talked to my uncle a couple minutes ago. He said I should tell you—”

She talked with Grant.

I let out a long breath.

He’s all right. He’s fine. He just doesn’t want to see me. Which is completely understandable. And still smarts like a beesting.

“Uncle Grant said you’d want to know.”

“What’s that?”

“I got the lead in the play!”

Warmth fills me in a way that makes me forget the autumn chill, and a giggle escapes unheeded. “I’m not at all surprised and so, so proud of you. You’re so talented.”

Kenna doesn’t say anything for a long moment, but I can practically hear her smile through the phone. “Do you think maybe—I mean, if you’re not busy—maybe you could help me rehearse my lines? And maybe come to the show.”

I have absolutely nothing else to do. And even if I did, this sounds truly fun. “I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.”

She laughs and then says her friend’s mom is calling her for breakfast. She’ll see me soon.

I hope so.

Even though I have no idea how that’s going to work if her uncle wants nothing to do with me and probably never wants to see me again.

“So you’ve made his niece a success,” Nan says.

“No. I only helped her find her own skills. She’s already more talented than I was at that age.”

Lips pursing to the side, she drums her fingers on the glittering green Formica tabletop. “But your man didn’t show this morning.”

“He’s not mine.” I made sure of that.

“Spit it out, young lady. What did you do?”

Pressing my fingers to my forehead, I replay the scene again in my mind. “I told him everyone thinks I’m a production risk. And that I’m a risk to him too. And that I let things get carried away. And that I still want to be friends.”

Nan sits up a little straighter, squaring those narrow shoulders beneath the velour jacket of her set. “Excuse me?”

“I said it was all a waste, that I was sorry he wasted his time on me.”

Nan clucks her tongue. “Well, that’s a load of horse manure.”

“No. It’s not. It’s . . .”

Her eyebrows turn angry. “Well, it sure isn’t the truth.”

“Cyndi says the truth doesn’t matter anymore.”

Nan’s scowl could shrivel an olive. “Oh, my dear. The truth always matters.” She clamps her wrinkled and spotted hand over mine on the table. “It will set you free. Jesus said it, so it must be true.”

I remember that Bible verse. I first heard it back when Nan took me to Sunday School in New York. Back before my grandpa died, before I was mostly on my own.

I always liked the idea, but I’m not sure how it applies to my life right now. “So far, the truth is only hounding me and twisting my life into a mess. It was true that I was seeing my co-star. It was true that he’s married. It was true that his wife slapped me in the middle of a restaurant. I’m sure there are plenty of witnesses who would be happy to testify to that fact.”

“Yes, those are facts. But all of that was built on a lie. One that Joe lived. You’re not responsible for his deception. Only for living in the truth.” Her forehead wrinkles as her eyebrows pull together. “What do you know to be true right now?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I don’t know what’s true anymore. Or what lies I’ve fallen prey to. It’s too hard to sort them out.

“Well, let’s start with the good ones. You’re forgiven. Completely and wholly by the only One who matters. You are loved by a good God and a cranky grandma. And you are worthy to be loved.” She gives my hand a little squeeze, which warms my chest.

Maybe it’s a Sunday School response, but that doesn’t make it any less true. And if that’s true, maybe I can begin to forgive myself too.

“Thank you, Nan.”

Her grin turns mischievous. “And once that’s settled—perhaps there’s something else you’d like to own up to. Something about a very handsome young man?”

I chuckle.

“If I were fifty years younger, I’d be giving you a run for your money, young lady. Grant Reddington is the most attractive man I’ve ever seen—except for your grandfather, of course.”

“Of course.”

He is handsome. That is true. And he has shoulders a mile wide that he doesn’t mind me leaning on. And he’s strong enough to carry me and all my messes. To the top of the Incline no less.

But he’s so much more than his physical attributes, so much more than most people will ever see.

He’s protective and patient. Thoughtful and kind. There are a hundred shelter dogs that can swear to that. And one sweet niece who can too. Grant is sure and steady and smart. He teases me and goads me and makes me laugh. Besides Caro, he’s the best friend I’ve ever had.

And I have never felt more cherished than when he’s holding me tight.

Flames lick at my cheeks at the mere memories—and a healthy dose of longing for another chance to be there.

“Well?”

I look up to meet her gaze. “What?”

“What else to do you know to be true?”

The words are right there, spilling out of my mouth and as freeing as promised. “I’m falling in love with Grant Reddington.”

“Took you long enough to get there.” Nan smacks her hands together. “Now, what are we going to do about it?”