The Deal(111)

“Fine.” I hit the speaker button and reach for my guitar. “Feel free to hang up if you get bored.”

“Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored.”

Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.

I settle the acoustic on my lap and sing the song from the top. My door is closed, and although the walls in the dorm are paper-thin, I’m not worried about waking Allie. The first thing I did after Fiona told me about the duet was give Allie a pair of ear plugs and warn her that I’m going to be singing late into the night until the showcase.

Weirdly enough, I’m not angry anymore. I’m relieved. Cass had turned our duet into the kind of flashy, jazz-hands performance that I despise, so as infuriating as it is to get dumped, I’ve decided I’m better off not having to sing with him.

I run through the song three times, until my voice goes hoarse and I finally have to stop to chug the bottle of water on my nightstand.

“Still here, you know.”

Garrett’s voice startles me. Then I laugh, because I honestly forgot he was on the line. “I couldn’t put you to sleep, huh? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Flattered. Your voice gives me chills. Makes it impossible to fall asleep.”

I smile, even though he can’t see me. “I need to figure out what to do about that last chorus. End high or low on the last note? Oooh, and maybe I should switch up the middle section too. You know what? I have an idea. I’m hanging up now so I can figure it out, and you need to go to sleep. Night, dude.”

“Wellsy, wait,” he says before I can hang up.

I take the phone off speaker and bring it to my ear. “What’s up?”

I’m greeted by the longest pause ever.

“Garrett? You there?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Still here.” A heavy breath reverberates through the line. “Will you come home with me for Thanksgiving?”

I freeze. “Are you serious?”

Another pause, even longer than the first. I almost expect him to rescind the invitation. And I don’t think I’d be upset if he did. Knowing what I do about Garrett’s father, I’m not sure if I can sit across a dinner table from that man without reaching over to strangle him.

What kind of man hits his own son? His twelve-year-old son.

“I can’t go back there alone, Hannah. Will you come?”

His voice cracks on those last words, and so does my heart. I let out a shaky breath and say, “Of course I will.”





35




Hannah


Garrett’s father’s house is not the mansion I expected it to be, but a brownstone in Beacon Hill, which I suppose is Boston’s equivalent of mansion living. The area is gorgeous, though. I’ve been to Boston several times, but never to this ritzy part of it, and I can’t help but admire the beautiful nineteenth-century row houses, brick sidewalks and quaint gas lamps lining the narrow streets.

Garrett barely said a word during the two-hour drive into the city. Tension has been rolling off his suit-clad body in steady, palpable waves, which has only succeeded in making me even more nervous. And yes, I said suit-clad, because he’s wearing black trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, and a black jacket and tie. The expensive material fits his muscular body like a dream, and even the perma-scowl on his face doesn’t take away from his sheer hotness.

Apparently his father demanded he wear a suit. And when Phil Graham found out his son was bringing a date, he requested that I also dress formally, hence my fancy blue dress, which I wore to last year’s spring showcase. The silky material falls to my knees, and I paired it with four-inch silver heels that made Garrett grin when he showed up at my door, as he informed me that he might now actually be able to kiss me standing up without getting a crick in his neck.

We’re greeted at the front doors not by Garrett’s dad, but by a pretty blonde in a red cocktail gown that flutters around her ankles. She’s also wearing a lacy black overlay with full sleeves, which I find odd because it’s like a million degrees inside the house. Seriously, it’s hot in here, and I waste no time shrugging out of my pea coat in the elegant parlor.

“Garrett,” the woman says warmly. “It’s wonderful to finally meet you.”

She appears to be in her mid-thirties, but it’s hard to judge because she’s got what I like to call “old eyes.” Those deep, wise eyes that reveal a person has lived through several lifetimes already. I’m not sure why I get that sense. Nothing about her elegant outfit or perfect smile hints that she’s seen hard times, but the trauma survivor in me immediately feels an odd kinship with her.