Worth the Risk(94)
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.