The Lies That Bind(17)

    “Then why don’t you do that?”

“Well, I do. On the side sometimes,” I say, thinking about the manuscript I’ve been working on for the last several years. “But I also need to eat.”

Grant nods and smiles.

“I guess what I’m trying to say is that sometimes I’m not sure whether I’m doing what I really want to be doing—or what I think I should want to be doing. I worry that I’m on the wrong path…and that I’d be better off back in Wisconsin, watching America’s Funniest Home Videos. So to speak.” I feel like I’m making no sense.

But Grant must pick up on some of the nuances because he says, “So you feel that that might be settling?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“You don’t want to do that,” he says. “But I get what you’re saying….At the end of the day, you just want to be happy and fulfilled and sometimes it’s hard to know what that looks like.”

“Exactly,” I say.

I start to say more, but before I can, Grant stops walking, turns to face me, and leans down to kiss me.



* * *



—

The next thirty-six hours are nothing short of magical—the stuff of romantic movie montages—filled with long hikes, conversations by the fire, and endless kissing and cuddling. We don’t have sex, but we do everything else, and it’s all mind-blowing.

On our last night, we go into town to have dinner at a rustic postage-stamp-size bistro run by hippie foodies. I’m wearing a little black dress with spaghetti straps that is probably a bit much for the Adirondacks, but I have the feeling Grant likes it. Not only has he complimented me twice, but he’s now staring at me across the table with an expression approaching swooning.

    “What?” I say, feeling self-conscious—but in that good way where your skin tingles.

He inhales so hard I see his chest expand under his white linen shirt, then says, “You’re just so beautiful.”

I smile—not because I believe it, but because I can tell he means it. “Thank you,” I say.

“I fell for you the moment I saw you,” he says, looking a little emotional. He fights it with a smile, adding, “When I told you not to call that guy on the phone.”

It is the closest either of us has come to admitting that we’re falling in love, and I reach across the table for his hand. “I’m glad I didn’t call him,” I say.

“Me too.”

A dizzying few seconds pass. “What’s happening here?” I whisper, my heart in my ears.

“You know what’s happening,” he says, squeezing my hand.

I slowly nod. I tell myself to memorize the moment, stay in the moment. But as highs so often spark worry—at least for me—I find myself asking when he leaves for London.

“Week after next,” he says, his expression changing into a grimace. “Our flight’s on the thirteenth.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“It’s okay,” he says. “We should talk about it.”

I nod, picking up my fork. “How long will you be gone?”

“I’m not sure,” he says. “Our return tickets are for September. But we may come home sooner or later…depending.”

My heart sinks, but I tell myself not to be selfish—we are talking about his twin brother and only living family member. So I simply say, “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’m going to miss you, too,” he says. “A lot. But we can email and talk and maybe you can even visit.”

    “Really?”

“Sure. Why not? If you can get away…”

“You don’t think your brother would mind?”

“No, he’d like you….I really want you to meet him.”

I smile and say I want my family to meet him, too.

“Have you told them anything?” he says. “About us?”

I shake my head and say, “No. Because I just got out of something, you know? I don’t want them to think this is just a rebound….”

He nods, as my mind wanders to his past. “What about your exes?” I say.

He shrugs and says, “What about them?”

“I don’t know….What’s your type?”

“I don’t have a type,” he says.

I roll my eyes and say, “Everyone has a type. They might deviate from it here and there, but they still have one….It’s, like, biology—or chemistry. Whatever.”

“Okay,” he says, giving me a serious look. “Well then, my type is about five-three with dark hair and big brown eyes and dimples….Actually, strike that. One dimple. Never two.”

“Stop it,” I say, laughing as I cover up my lone dimple.

“I’m serious,” he says.

“Anyway. What was your most significant ex like?” I say, bracing myself for the predictable pangs of jealousy while hearing Scottie telling me I shouldn’t go there.

“Nothing like you,” he says. “The opposite of you.”

My mind races, picturing a tall, leggy blonde with big boobs. I leave off the last part, though, and simply say, “So, a tall blonde?”