The Lies That Bind(10)

    But Grant pretends to be intrigued. Or maybe he actually is. “Oh, so they’re knocking it down?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “On June sixth. After four decades. I interviewed this guy yesterday—Clarence—who’s gone there every day for the past thirty-eight years.”

Grant whistles and says, “Wow. A bowling alley every day of the week?…Is that quaint or pathetic?”

“A little of both,” I say with a laugh. “So what about you? How’s your week so far?”

“Oh, you know, the usual…”

“What’s the usual?” I say, craving details about his life.

“The usual grind,” he says. “But I did make a big decision…I’m taking some time off work….” His voice trails off as he looks a little uneasy.

“Oh,” I say. “Like a vacation?”

“No. More like a…sabbatical.”

“Cool,” I say. “How much time are you taking?”

“I’m not sure. Probably just the summer.”

“Cool,” I say again. “Starting when?”

“I leave in a few weeks.”

“Oh,” I say, a little deflated. “So you’re traveling?”

“Yeah. I’m going to London—and then traveling a bit from there.”

“Alone?” I ask, concerned that this will be the part where he tells me he has a girlfriend.

“No. I’m going with my brother.”

Relieved, I say, “Nice. Like a brother bonding trip?”

“Yeah…I guess…something like that,” he says. “It’s kind of a long story.”

I stare at him, waiting for more, remembering what one of my favorite journalism professors once taught me—that sometimes it’s better not to ask questions. That most people will fill the void with words. Information. But this tactic doesn’t work with Grant, so I say, “Why so mysterious?”

    His brow furrows as he says, “I’m really not mysterious…at least I don’t mean to be.”

“It wasn’t a criticism,” I say. “You don’t have to be an open book.”

“But I usually am,” he says. “I’m just going through some things right now…and I don’t want to bring you down or chase you away….I mean, don’t they say timing is everything?”

“Yeah,” I say. “But I disagree. I think that’s a cop-out people use when they don’t want something to work.”

“You do?”

I nod. “Yeah. I think when two people are meant to be together, they will be. No matter what it is they’re going through,” I say, then quickly add, “Not that that applies to us or anything. I just mean—you don’t have to tell me what’s going on. Just know that I’m here if you want to talk….You know…as a friend.”

“A friend, huh?” he says, angling his body to get a better look at me.

“Yeah,” I say, now completely flustered and starting to sweat. I force myself to make eye contact with him. “Isn’t that what we are?”

“Yeah,” he says, draping one arm behind the sofa. “We are…for now….”

Feeling weak, I take a few rapid breaths, trying to steady myself, wondering if he has any immediate plans to kiss me. Just as I think it’s about to happen, he looks away.

I’m disappointed, but also strangely relieved. We could do better than this moment. Our first kiss could be more perfect than a Wednesday night in my apartment.

We talk for a while longer, our conversation comfortable and easy, before he says he should probably get going, that he has to finish up some things for work.

    I nod and say, “I’m glad you came by.”

“Me too,” he says, as we both stand and he casually asks what I’m doing this weekend.

“Nothing much,” I say, breaking yet another of Scottie’s rules—never be too available. Which is probably especially egregious given that the upcoming weekend is Memorial Day. But I really don’t care. “Why?”

“I was hoping to see you….”

“I’d love that,” I say, as we start walking slowly toward the door. “What did you have in mind?”

“Honestly?” he says, raising his brow. “I know this is sort of nuts—but…what would you think about a road trip?”

“Seriously?” I say, smiling.

He nods. “Yeah. There’s a place I’d love to take you.”

“That sounds intriguing,” I say, feeling a little anxious but mostly just excited. “When would we go? Where would we go?”

“Friday afternoon? And…um…can the ‘where’ be a surprise?”

I smile and say yes, it sure can be. After all, everything about him is a surprise so far. “I just have to make sure I can get off work,” I add.

“I get it,” he says. “Just check and let me know?”

“Okay. But…I don’t have your phone number,” I say, stopping at my desk. I take a pen from my cup holder, hand it to him, then point to the pad I keep by the phone. He leans down and writes his number, then returns the pen to its cup and looks at me. “So. Now you have my number.”