by K. Bromberg
“So you let my son tell me.”
Those seven words have every thought in my head die a quick death . . . because he’s right. I knew Luke would tell Grayson about our conversation. I knew he would connect the dots I didn’t connect for Luke.
Is it possible to hate myself any more than I already do?
I hiccup a sob and push against the door. This time he lets it go. This time I reach forward and touch his face. The rough of his stubble scrapes against my hand. The hitch of his breath fills my ears.
This time, I use his words back on him. “I’m not very good with apologies, Grayson. I seem to keep screwing them up when it comes to you, so I’ll show you in the only way I know how.”
When I press a kiss to his lips, there’s hesitancy there. And then there isn’t. I taste anger on his tongue. I can sense the violence beneath the edge of it. I can feel it in his touch, the desperation for him to be wrong about my intentions. But there is nothing satisfying about the kiss because I know I’m trying to use it to save myself.
I love you.
And I know when I step back and look into his eyes, that it didn’t do a single thing to fix this.
“I believed you were different. I thought you’d changed. I should have known better.”
And with those words, Grayson turns on his heel and leaves.
I scream in my head for him not to go. Silently, I shout I love you.
But there is nothing I can say that will fix this. There is nothing I can say other than I’m sorry. There is nothing I can do that will take the look he just gave me out of my mind.
All I can focus on is that he didn’t say he hated me.
He didn’t ask me to stay.
He said he loved me.
What am I going to do now?
I turn the paper over in my hands. The one that was sitting on my desk when I got in this morning.
Meet me at Miner’s Airfield at five p.m. Wings Out Hangar.
—Gray.
I think back to how well I held it together when I saw the note on my desk. The sob I held back. The tears I blinked away because God knows I’d shed way too many in the past few days.
I’ve sent what feels like a hundred texts to apologize. Left a dozen voicemails.
None of them have gotten a response, and now this.
I look at the hangar in front of me and wonder what he is doing. What this means. I try to rein in the hope that maybe he wants to try to fix things. Maybe he wants to ask me to stay.
What would I say if that were the case? Would I agree? Would I give up my life in San Francisco? Would I give up the job at Haute? All for a chance at love? All for a life with him, here?
I don’t have the answers. I don’t know.
That’s a lie. I do know. And maybe that’s why nerves rattle around as I get out of the car and head to the hangar with the big Wings Out sign above it.
Unsettled and excited, shock mixes in there when I pull open the hangar door to find a table sitting in the middle of the room. There is a mess of candles and a bottle of wine in the center of a red-checkered tablecloth.
It’s oddly romantic in a way that wouldn’t have appealed to me in my old life, but being here, meeting Grayson Malone, may have changed that . . . and many other ways I look at the world.
He’s going to steal my heart, isn’t he? He’s going to tell me he’s sorry in that way he has, he’s going to tell me he wants me to stay, and I’m going to have to make a decision. Six months ago, I wouldn’t have batted an eyelash before I packed my bag and hopped on the flight back home. Standing and looking at candles flicker softly, the decision seems impossible.
My heels click on the concrete floor as I make my way over to the table. Music is playing softly on speakers somewhere in the hangar. There’s a bunch of wild, white daisies in a vase, and napkins folded in an attempt at something artsy that doesn’t quite make it but is thoughtful nonetheless.
The door behind me opens, and my heart jumps in my throat when I turn to find Grayson there, haloed by the sun setting at his back. A tight-lipped smile spreads across those kissable lips, and confusion flickers in his eyes.
“You did all this?” he asks, surprise in his voice as he takes a few steps toward me.
“Me?” I laugh nervously. “I thought you did.”
We both turn at the sound of footsteps, and if it were even possible, my heart falls further. There’s Luke in a vest and slacks with a napkin over his arm and a sheepish smile on his face.
“Luke?” Grayson asks as he looks at me and then back at his son. He obviously didn’t expect him to be here.
“I request your presents at the dinner table,” he says loudly before glancing into the far corner of the warehouse and nodding to someone I can’t see.
“Presence,” Grayson corrects as if it’s second nature before turning and looking at me. “Did you know anything about this?”
I shake my head. “I thought this was all you.”
The look he gives me—eyes narrowed and a slight roll of his shoulders—tells me he’s here out of courtesy. He came here thinking I set this up, and he wanted to see what I had to say. What he doesn’t realize is that with that one revelation, he’s given me a tiny bit of hope that we can right our wrongs.
“I think we’ve been set up,” he mutters under his breath, his irritation palpable despite the smile he displays for his son.
“I think I’m okay with that,” I say and give him a soft smile. Then he places his hand on the small of my back out of manners and ushers me to the table.
“What’s all this, buddy?” Gray asks, struggling to be gracious to his son while still resenting me. He tries to pick Luke up but has his hands batted away.
“I am your server this evening,” Luke says and tries not to giggle. When he fails, and his laughter echoes in the space around us, it’s almost as if an invisible weight has been lifted. As if Luke’s laughter is the encouragement we need to maybe take the first step to talking. “It isn’t kind of you to touch the servers.”
“It isn’t, is it?” Grayson chuckles. “What’s going on?”
“I wanted you and Sidney to have a nice dinner before the final vote . . . and before she has to leave.” And it’s out there. I swallow over the lump in my throat and hate Grayson’s wince. “I thought a romantic dinner without children present was very important. And without people in town knowing so you don’t mess up the vote.”
“Without children present?” Grayson says and lifts his brow.
“Servers are not children.” He laughs again, and another piece of my heart falls at this little boy’s feet. “And this server selected every item on your menu tonight, so don’t throw tomatoes if you don’t like it.”
“We promise not to, especially since said server doesn’t like tomatoes,” Grayson says and winks.
We are both given the biggest grin, which is followed by a nod. “I’ll leave you two to get settled, then. Oh, and wine is there. Breathing when it doesn’t have lungs.” He rolls his eyes. “But I’m not old enough to touch it, so that part you have to do yourself.”
“Yes, sir,” Grayson says. “May I ask who’s helping you?”
“Women.” It’s all he says and grins.
Emerson. Betsy. Dylan. My bet’s on them.
“Thank you, kind sir. Tell the women thank you, too,” I say and turn to look at Grayson. He quickly averts his eyes, but not before I catch the appreciative once-over he gives me.
Silence settles. Shifts. Smothers. We stand here, both more than aware of the millions of unspoken words that need to be said. We are also aware that doing so would risk disappointing a little boy with a wild imagination and a huge heart, who only wants the best for his father.
Grayson clears his throat and I jump. It’s ridiculous, but I’m so nervous.
And then he speaks.
“You look stunning,” he murmurs and steps in to press the softest of kisses against my cheek. My body hums from the slight touch, and before it even
starts, I know that this evening might be the hardest one I’ve had in a long time.
Hard to pretend I don’t care that I’m leaving soon. To put on a brave face for Luke while I’m slowly dying inside. To know there’s so much here worth fighting for, and yet I haven’t seen Grayson lace up his gloves or pull up the ropes to step foot in the ring.
“You have one hell of a son, Grayson Malone.”
“I do, don’t I?” Pride lights his eyes. “Shall we?” He pulls out my chair and hands me my napkin before he takes his seat across from mine and pours the cabernet.
The hangar is expansive. Its windows are a good two stories up on the corrugated steel walls, allowing the dusk to seep into the space. There is a plane in the far corner. It’s small and white with blue stripes. Behind us, there is what appears to be a set of steps that lead to a loft.
It isn’t a setting I’m used to, but it’s one that fits the moment and the man across from me perfectly.
“Thank you,” I murmur as I take a sip of wine and meet his eyes above the rim. They hold. And search. And question. But what they search for, I have no idea.
Luke serves us his favorite gourmet salads, which are really just lettuce, balsamic dressing, and croutons, while Grayson and I make small talk. The weather. How busy he has been at work. How the voting is going and all the elevated press we never expected but are so thrilled to have.
Luke has set the stage for a romantic date, and we play the part for him, but every soft smile when he comes near, or interaction to make him laugh, is with an undercurrent of tension and longing.
Of wanting to lean across the table and press a kiss to Grayson’s lips. To connect with him in a real way. Everything thus far—from conversation to eye contact to touch—has been light and impersonal, and it kills me not to tell Grayson to be mad at me. To scream at me. To call me every horrid name I know I deserve.
But then I smile when I see Luke carrying in our entrées. Slices of pizza. Grayson’s laugh echoes off the concrete floors as Luke beams with pride.
“It’s your favorite!” Grayson says and then waits until Luke has ever so carefully set the plates in front of us before he pulls him in for a huge hug.
“Not entirely,” Luke says through his giggle. “I only like cheese. I made sure there was pepperoni on there for you.”
“How noble of you, sir.” Grayson plants a big kiss on his cheek and then tickles him some more.
“Hey, Luke?” I ask and get his attention. “Why don’t you pull up a chair and have dinner with us. I don’t think the three of us have ever eaten a fancy meal together.”
His eyes widen, and his smile turns lopsided. And then it falls. “No, I couldn’t. I’m the server.”
“Servers have to eat, too.” I shrug. “But if you aren’t hungry or anything . . .”
“I’ll get some pizza.”
While we eat, we giggle over stupid things like how the bubbles of Luke’s Sprite tickle his nose. They debate where they want to go if Grayson wins the contest. We talk about upcoming little league games, and Luke and Grayson give me silly ideas for articles I should write for Modern Family. It feels normal, the three of us in a hangar, shut away from the world so people can’t gossip about us being together, and so I can savor each and every moment of this time without any interruption.
Savor my time with Grayson even though I have to be cautious of Luke’s perception.
It’s such a bittersweet feeling. This act we’re putting on . . . but it still feels real. It still gives me a taste of what this family could be like. It still shows me exactly what I screwed up and what I might be missing out on because of it.
Even now . . . with him mad at me and the fear that I won’t win this battle and he won’t accept my apology, I still want him. I want Grayson any way I can get him, even if what he’s willing to give me will never be enough. I’ll just keep wanting more.
After the food is gone, Dylan and Emerson and Betsy take a bow, which leaves me wondering if they knew about our fight . . . our demise . . . and so they helped spearhead this little romantic dinner. They accept our thank-yous before they take Luke home and leave us alone.
We no longer have an excuse not to talk about the elephant in the room.
An awkwardness settles around us.
“That was adorable,” I say.
“It was.” He rocks back on his heels before nodding toward the steps. “There’s a balcony of sorts upstairs if you’d like to get some fresh air.”
“There is?” I ask, but I’m already following him as he climbs the stairs. Blindly and with little hope that we might be able to salvage whatever is left between us.
“Yes. This used to be where Emerson lived. When she ran the skydiving school, before she ended up buying it, they converted the loft for her should she ever need a breather.” He laughs as if her taking a break is ironic.
He opens a door into a small studio apartment. There is a bed in one corner and a kitchenette in the other. We walk through the modestly decorated space to another door. When I step out onto the deck, I’m blown away by the view. Runway lights, trees beyond the strip of asphalt, and hills covered in vines in the distance. There is a soft breeze that blows my hair across my face, but it feels good against the warm night around us.
When I turn to find Grayson, he isn’t staring at the view, but rather, at me. His expression is intense. His eyes are a sea of uncertainty. I want to crawl into his arms. I want to stay right there for as long as we can, so we don’t have to figure out what needs to be faced.
I’m afraid to be the first to speak.
“What are we doing here, Sidney?”
“Looking at the view?” I say to try to add some levity, but he doesn’t even crack a smile.
“I’m serious.” He exhales. “What are we doing here? Are we pretending that we’re something we aren’t? Are we simply accepting that we only have a few weeks left together before you leave and that we’re just going to enjoy the time we have? Or should we call it quits now and save ourselves from the inevitable?”
“Grayson.” His name is barely audible when I speak it, but only because every other part of me is dying inside. “I screwed this up.”
“You did . . .” He shakes his head and takes a step toward me. “But I did too. I screwed up a lot of times and it wasn’t fair for me to ask your forgiveness time and again . . . but you did. And then the first time you screw up, I didn’t give you the same courtesy. But damn it to all hell, Sidney, you’re leaving, and you didn’t tell me?”
My sigh is loud and loaded with the mixture of emotions warring inside me. Fear. Hope. Desperation. Love. Everything I feel and am so damn scared to express. “This wasn’t my intention. To come here. To find you. To fall for you.”
His breath hitches and I know he heard me. “I know you have a life to get back to. Well you know what? So, do I. A life that had no room for you in it, but goddamn it, you’ve weaseled your way in somehow. Now what am I supposed to do? I have more than myself to protect here. I have Luke to think about. I have . . . Christ.” He runs a hand through his hair and paces to the railing before bracing his hands on it and staring at the view beyond. “This will never fucking work.”
The pain in his voice owns me, and I keep hearing his dad’s words in my mind. “If you’re not going to stay, let him push you . . . But if you’re going to stay, I hope like hell you’ll fight for him, because he’s worth every misspoken word and uttered curse and ounce of confusion.”
Is he pushing me, or is he making it easy for me to leave without regret?
Fuck that. There will always be regret. That much I know.
“We could try to make things work. Weekends and little trips back and forth,” I say and then realize how stupid it sounds. How shallow it sounds. That’s no way to have a relationship.
“I can’t make you happy here. This isn’t some big fancy town where trendy nightclubs pop up as quickly as they shut down, and Michael Kors isn’t likely to set up shop any tim
e soon. There isn’t anything here but Luke and me and goddamn grapes on the hill. That’s not enough to make someone like you stay.”
“Someone like me?”
He groans in frustration. “That isn’t what I mean.”
“It’s what it sounds like.”
“It can sound like whatever you want. It seems in your world I’m staying and I’m leaving don’t really seem to have any significance, so does it really matter?”
“Don’t be a jerk.”
“I’m just telling the truth.”
“So are you saying you want to end this—?”
“Sid—”
“Are you pushing me away because you’re too scared to say you want to make this work?”
“Dammit—”
“You think that I think I’m too good for you and Luke and this town and so it’s easier if—”
“Quit putting words in my mouth, Claire!”
And right there is the dagger to my heart. Right there is the exact reason we could never work.
It’s one thing to accuse me of being like her. It’s another to call me by her name because deep down he just can’t get over her.
I take a step back.
“Sid . . .”
I take another step.
“Sidney.” He reaches for me, regret and fear and heartache playing across his features. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t mean—it was a slip of the tongue. You were thinking I was referring to her and then . . . FUCK!” He shouts and bangs a fist against the railing. “I didn’t mean it.”
He meant everything by it. My heart already knows it.
“You may not think you do, but you did. You have held me up against her pretentious pedestal since the minute you opened your front door almost six months ago. And you know what? Back then, you probably had every right to accuse me of being like her. I was. But things have changed, Grayson. Being here . . . working for Rissa . . . meeting Luke . . . being with you. That has changed me. It has changed me in ways I never saw coming. So for you to stand there and call me her name, it just proves that you don’t know me at all.”