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Ronan dropped the suit. Big surprise. He chose his folk singer image over his son. As Grant would say, “What a tool.” He’s been keeping up with the phone calls however, which for Sam’s sake I’m happy about.
“I guess.”
“Anyone else?”
It’s been 6 weeks since the breakup, three since he showed up at The Bend and it still feels like someone died. Sam is grieving. Roxy’s grieving. I’m grieving.
Do I miss him? Like the earth would miss the moon if she were suddenly gone. Nothing would be working properly and everything would be wonky.
Nothing in my life seems right anymore. Not my day-to-day existence. Not my goals. Not my relationship with my son.
And then there are the letters. Letters upon letters. It’s been three weeks and I have twenty letters. Descriptions of all the things I’m better than. Reasons why he loves me. Random thoughts on love and life. He’s poured all the sentiments he couldn’t speak out loud on paper.
Every time I read them I cry.
I’ve never been the girl that swoons whenever the movie The Notebook comes on. I’m not big on romance. But Grant? He made a believer out of me. His letters aren’t perfect but they’re heartfelt. They’re him.
Sam keeps pushing his chicken breast around the plate. “Grant. I want Grant to come,” he mumbles without looking at me.
Ouch. Why didn’t he kick me in the teeth? It would’ve been more humane.
Sighing tiredly, I place my utensils down and try to explain why that isn’t possible. “Sam––you know he’s in the middle of football season. You know how busy Uncle Cal was when he was playing. Grant probably won’t have the time.”
“That’s bullshit,” I’m pretty sure I hear him mutter under his breath.
“Excuse me?”
He finally deigns me with his attention, looking up with the trademark Shaw scowl. I’m in for it now.
“I said bullshit. I want to invite Grant but you won’t ask him to come ’cause you had a fight and kissed him and now I can’t see him anymore and that sucks! And he’s my friend and you ruined it!”
Pushing up from the table, he stomps out of the kitchen, Roxy trotting after him. I steeple my fingers and lean my forehead on my hands.
That went well. I knocked that one out of the park. Is he saying we had a fight ’cause I kissed him? I rack my mind for answers and get a lot of white noise instead. I need guidance. Where’s Dr. Phil when I need him?
After gathering the energy and intestinal fortitude to deal with a heartbroken boy, I push up from the table and drag my feet to Sam’s room. He’s in bed staring at his iPad with Roxy tucked against him, eyes swollen from crying.
“Sam…”
“I sent him an email inviting him. You don’t have to talk to him but I want him to come.”
I walk over to his bed and sit, running my fingers through the soft, chestnut wisps. He’s due for a haircut.
“I know you miss him. I miss him too…when you love someone, you never stop missing them. Whether they’re gone for an hour or for forever.”
“Then I never want to love anyone.”
I bite back the urge to laugh. If only it were that easy. “Sometimes you don’t get a choice. Your heart makes the decision for you. Do you feel like your heart loves Grant?”
He thinks for a minute before nodding.
“Does your heart love Roxy?” He looks over at his dog and pets her head. I lean closer and bury my face in his sweet-smelling neck, showering him with kisses until he starts to squirm and giggle. “Does your heart love me?” He smiles as he nods. “See, it’s hard not to love.”
He thinks for a beat, gray gaze distant. “That sucks.”
“No, baby. It’s a good thing.”
“It’s murder ball out there. I feel unsafe. These kids are vicious,” I hear Devya comment. “And voting in less than ten years. Chew on that.”
“They’re not following the rules. They’re supposed to hit below the knees,” Camilla joins in. “Oh dear, I’m pretty sure that little girl just took that boy’s head off.”
“Props to her,” Dev mutters. “He got a dirty shot in earlier.”
“I second that,” Cam adds.
It’s all background noise to me. Wired on nervous energy and lost in deep thought, all my senses are trained on the door, waiting to see if Grant shows up to Sam’s birthday party. In the meantime, I have to finish decorating the table while twenty of Sam’s classmates play in the Gaga pit.
Grant wrote Sam back almost immediately. The Titans are playing a home game this weekend so he said he’d make it. I’m not too proud to admit that I was secretly hoping he could and I’ve been on pins and needles ever since because as desperately as I want to see him, and I do––I’m practically jonesing for a chance––I also know this one is going to hurt. Especially if all I get from him is indifference with a side of stony silence.
