“He was pretty clear earlier this morning with his good-bye. It was one of those final, you’re-dead-to-me kind of farewells.”
“Still—”
“I’m the one who hurt him, Cruz. It was me, not him. He had every right to drive away the way he did this morning, after what I did to him then and what he assumed this morning. It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine.” He crossed his arms. “You two need to talk. How’s that going to happen if he doesn’t show up when he says he’s going to?”
My eyes cast down as I remembered the way he’d looked this morning. “He did show up. I didn’t have to ask or anything. He just got in the car and got here. He did show up.”
Cruz waved at where I was spread out on the couch, wearing jeans and a sweater, when I was supposed to be out with Grant, explaining seven years of my life. “And then he left because, go figure, you two seem destined to spend the rest of your lives victim to some serious miscommunications.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. You two need to talk. Need to.” Cruz looked me in the eye, not blinking.
“I know. We will. You know Grant. He needs a few days to cool off, then we’ll talk.”
His head fell back against the wall, and he shook it. “He’s flying back to New York tomorrow morning. You know, that big city where he lives and plays football for one of the best teams in the country? Oh, yeah, and then there’s the fact that he’s one of the best players in the country and barely has enough free time to scratch his balls during the season. So how do you expect him to have time to fly back down here to have a chat with you that you two should be having right this very moment?” Cruz had to catch his breath at the end of that, but he never stopped staring me dead in the eye.
“I’ll figure something out.”
“You better. Or else I’ll tell him. Because Grant is a good person, Ryan. He deserves to know. And you need to tell him. Soon.”
I sighed, knowing he was right.
“Speaking of . . .” Cruz lifted his chin at the television before wandering over and dialing up the volume.
I heard his voice before I saw his face. Grant was on the television, giving an interview to a roomful of reporters. A caption at the bottom of the screen said it had been recorded earlier and that it was an impromptu interview he’d surprised the local press with.
He’d changed from his inside-out shirt into a long-sleeve Henley and had on a New York Storm hat. The press asked various questions about his season and how he was feeling coming off a torn ACL from last season, but not a single question circled around the woman he’d dropped off at The Starlight Motel the night before. Not one. Which was not a coincidence, since I recognized a good handful of those reporters from earlier this morning, waving their damn mics in my face.
“Well, I guess that explains what the mass exodus was about.” Cruz crashed onto the couch beside me and nudged me.
“I guess it does.”
A reporter had just asked him how it felt to be the best tight end in the pros today when someone pounded on the front door.
Cruz’s head whipped in my direction. “Are you expecting anyone?”
I checked the time as I shoved off of the couch. “No.” I moved toward the door and checked the peephole. My breath left me in a rush when I saw who was waiting outside. “Or maybe . . . I am.”
“Who is it?”
Instead of answering, I unbolted the door and opened it.
“Speaking of . . .” Cruz made a clucking sound with his tongue.
“Hi,” I said, feeling shell-shocked that Grant was standing in front of me when I’d just been watching him on television. “You want to come in? Cruz and I were just having some tea, if you want some too?”
Cruz whipped his head at me and waved outside the door, like he was “subtly” trying to suggest we leave.
Grant was still staring at the ground, his forehead creased. “I’m sorry I left the way I did earlier. I’m sorry I said the things I did.” Grant stuffed his hands in his front jeans pockets and lifted his shoulders. “Everything just happened so fast, you know? You calling all panicked, me getting here and finding you in your bathrobe, figuring out what was going on . . .” His jaw locked up for a moment before he popped it loose. “You have every right to have a life. It’s been seven years, and I’d be a fool to think you don’t. I guess that realization just finally got around to hitting me this morning.” Grant’s head lifted just enough, and his eyes met mine. “I’m sorry.”
My head shook. “It’s okay. I should have stopped to think before calling you this morning. But I didn’t, and that’s life, so let’s just forget about the should-haves and move on.”
Grant seemed to consider that for a moment before nodding. “Okay.” He gave another nod as his eyes scanned the room behind me, almost like he was checking for someone else. “Did you still want to talk? I know it’s later than we planned on, but I’ve got eight hours before I need to be at the airport.”
From out of nowhere, Cruz appeared with my purse, a jacket, and dropped a pair of shoes at my feet. A true master of subtlety.
“But don’t you need to sleep sometime between now and then?”
Grant’s shoulder lifted. “That’s what the airplane’s for.”
As I slipped into my flats, I glanced at Cruz, who was back on the couch. “Do you mind?”