“Hi,” I say, a little breathlessly. I don’t know what’s different, but he looks good. Real good. Like me, he’s dressed in dark denim that fits him like they’ve been tailored to his thick thighs. It’s topped with a black tee that looks new. His black lace-up boots are just slightly scuffed, as if he reserves this pair for dressing up.
“Hi back. You look pretty,” he says, reaching out to take my hand.
“Thank you,” I say, feeling the burn of a blush. “You look nice, too.”
“I bought a new T-shirt for the occasion. It’s the standard uniform; I don’t know how to wear anything but this and flannel, these days. I hope that’s okay.”
“It’s fine. Better than fine,” I tell him, appreciating that he didn’t feel like he needed to dress up to impress me.
“You two are being awkward as fuck, right now,” Juliet says from behind me. “I can’t be a witness to this. Have fun and wear a condom!”
“Oh my God,” I say through a laugh.
“Thanks a lot, you fucking brat,” Grady hollers to her retreating form.
“You can thank me again later,” she says with laughter of her own.
“You ready?” he asks.
I nod and grab my small handbag from the table by the door. It’s the first one I’ve had since I started modeling that isn’t emblazoned with a designer logo. The only thing I took to thehospital with me the night Pierre strangled me was my Valentino ostrich leather shoulder bag, refusing to leave the house without my wallet and phone.
It was the first thing I threw in the trash of the hospital room. It had been a gift from Pierre the previous Christmas, and I was determined to leave without reminders of him. Besides the ones I wore on my skin. And heart. And head.
This bag, made of blue vegan leather, cost me a lot less than that gift did.
“Do you mind if I drive?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t…I just.”
“Hey, Lou,” Grady says, pausing our progress on the front steps. He places his palms on my shoulders and turns me to look at him. “Whatever you want to say, you say it. Whatever you want to do tonight, we do.” His thumb brushes along my collarbone, over my fresh tattoo that he doesn’t know about, up my neck.
An exciting cadence takes hold of my pulse.
“Whatever I want?”
“Whatever you want,” he says, his voice deeper, eyes intensely staring into mine. When his palm reaches my cheek, I lean into it. Just a fraction. The tiniest of movements. The smallest thrill. A spark.
“Where are we going?”
“I was thinking bowling,” he says, one side of his mouth twisting up. “You were so excited by bingo, I thought maybe…”
“I’ve never been.”
“Seriously?” he asks, and I nod, somewhat embarrassed. “I think you’ll like it.”
“We won’t know if we never make it off the front porch,” I say, smiling up at him, loving that he’s so much taller than my five feet, ten inches.
“Juliet is rubbing off on you,” he says. Grabbing my hand, he leads me to my truck in the driveway, charging with the new cord installed earlier today. He helps me in before getting into the passenger side himself. “How is it you’ve never been bowling?”
“My mother would never allow it. Not because of the bowling but because every alley was attached to a bar and an arcade. She thought they were hedonistic,” I say, pulling out of the driveway.
“There’s strict parenting and then there’s whatever that is,” Grady says. “Is your father the same way?”
For a minute, I have to think about how to answer that question. As a child, I wondered about their relationship. To each other and to me. As soon as I left Arkansas, I stopped wondering. Mostly, I stopped caring. Or at least, only cared so much as they cared for me. With them, it was easy to limit my energy. I wish it had been as easy with Pierre.
“My mother isn’t the easiest woman. Motherhood wasn’t her calling. I’d never ask, but I’m not sure why she had me. My father is head over heels in love with my mom. To the point of infatuation, blind obedience, unquestionable adoration. Whatever she says is like the word of God to him. He loves me, too. It’s not in the same way. He hid his affection for me, only showing it when she wasn’t around or wasn’t looking.”
“Was she jealous of you?”
“That never occurred to me,” I say, surprised by the question. “But it makes sense. She places a lot of importance on appearances. My modeling was an insult to her carefully curated image. She liked it when Pierre and I got together. As if heelevated my status, or she could tell her friends I was his muse, or I’m creating art, or something. She’s not happy I’ve left him.”
