The Lies That Bind(11)

“And your name,” I say.

He smiles, and we finish our walk to the door. I can tell he doesn’t want to leave any more than I want him to, but at the same time, I love that he’s not staying. That this was the furthest thing from a booty call.

    “Good night, Cecily,” he says, lingering a few seconds before leaning down to hug me again.

“Good night, Grant,” I say, my cheek against his neck.

We freeze there a beat, as so many things run through my mind, including that I can’t wait to tell Scottie that he sure got it wrong this time.





Except for assigning me a generic piece about the history and traditions of Memorial Day that I can write with one arm tied behind my back, my editor gives me the weekend off. As a bonus, the remainder of the week is on the slow side, giving me time to hit the gym, get my nails done, and shop for new lingerie and perfume. I still have no idea where Grant is taking me, only that I should pack “casual stuff with maybe one nicer thing for dinner.” I’m not sure what his version of “casual” or “nicer” entails, but Scottie, Jasmine, and I all agree that I should err on the dressier side, just to be safe. We all also agree that it likely isn’t the Hamptons, which is a relief. I’m not in the mood for a scene, nor am I quite ready for my first post-breakup encounter with Matthew, and odds are very good that he’ll be there for the weekend. I just want to be alone with Grant, focused on him and whatever “us” might materialize.

On Friday, at four o’clock sharp, as we planned, I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of my building in a cotton sundress and sandals. I am mostly excited, but also a little nervous, and as the minutes pass, I find myself thinking of all that could go wrong on what is essentially a weekend first date. I worry that our chemistry, when it comes right down to it, will be off. That we’ll run out of things to talk about. That I’ll relapse and start missing Matthew.

But all my worries melt away when I see Grant pull up in a black Jeep Grand Cherokee and wave at me. I wave back, then grab my duffel bag at my feet, heading toward him. Meanwhile, he double parks, jumps out of the car, looking so cute in khaki cargo shorts, a Buffalo Bills T-shirt, and aviator sunglasses. He says a quick hello, then starts to take my bag from me.

    “It’s okay. It’s not heavy,” I say, having followed Jasmine’s advice not to overpack or be “all high maintenance.”

He takes it anyway, and walks around to open my door for me. As I climb in, he jogs back to the driver’s side, puts my bag in the backseat next to his, and jumps into his seat. Once inside, he is all business—putting on his seatbelt, turning off his hazards, and checking his rearview mirror before merging into traffic. It occurs to me that he may have a few jitters himself, with all the added pressure of being in charge of logistics, so I look out my window, giving him a few seconds to concentrate.

When we stop at the first traffic light, I turn back to him and say, “I’m really excited.”

“Me too,” he says, our eyes locking as he gives me the most incredible smile.

When the light turns green, I say, “Okay. Now will you tell me where we’re going?”

He shakes his head and says, “Nope. Not yet.”

“It’s not the Hamptons, is it?” I ask.

“Nope. Not the Hamptons.”

“Good,” I say, relieved.

“You don’t like the Hamptons?” Grant asks.

I shrug and say, “I’m over the scene….What about you? Do you like it?”

He shakes his head and says, “Nah. Not a fan. Too crowded. Way too pretentious.”

I nod, thinking this is such a marked contrast to Matthew—who isn’t pretentious, but seems to love the exclusivity of the Hamptons.

I push him out of my head as Grant flips on the radio. “What do you want to listen to?” he asks. “Did you remember to bring your CDs?”

    “Of course I did,” I say, reaching down to pull the small leather case out of my purse. I flip through the plastic sleeves, reading aloud albums and artists that I culled from my wider collection, especially for this trip.

“All of those sound good,” he says. “You choose.”

“Okay,” I say, selecting Liz Phair’s Whitechocolatespaceegg. I pop in the disc and go to the third track—“Perfect World.”

“Ah. Good one,” he says, tapping the steering wheel as the happy tune gears up. “I love Liz Phair.”

“Do you think she’s pretty?” I ask—because, according to Scottie, she’s my celebrity doppelg?nger. It’s a stretch, but we both have slender, borderline boyish figures, big eyes, and angular features.

“Yeah,” Grant says. “In a nonobvious way.”

“Nonobvious?” I say with a laugh. “Is that a good thing?”

“Yeah. For sure. It’s the best kind. Generic pretty is boring.” He glances at me as we stop at another light. “You kind of look like her, actually.”

I tell him I’ve heard that before, but unfortunately, I sing nothing like her. I smile, listening to her croon that she wants to be cool, tall, vulnerable, and luscious. I consider these adjectives, knowing that I’ll never be tall, but that I could aim for cool and luscious. As for vulnerable, I have that box checked at the moment. It crosses my mind again that Grant could be a sociopath—that he could be taking me anywhere. That this will be the weekend I go missing.