And, dammit,it clogs my throat right up.
Fighting back tears—because, of the two of us, I’mdefinitelynot the one who should be crying right now—I ask, “How’s Dawson?”
“He’s hanging in,” Grayson says. “His head took a good hit. There was some swelling, and the doctors found a small bleed when he first came in, so they put him in a medically induced coma just in case. So far, nothing’s gotten worse, which they say is a positive sign, but we won’t know what kind of damage he has until he wakes up. There’s a good chance he’s fine. But there’s also a chance it’s catastrophic. Otherwise, he’s just got some busted ribs and a strained shoulder.”
I don’t know Dawson, but Grayson’s pain guts me. I want to take it away, bear it for him, but that’s impossible. Nothing I say can make this better, but I try, anyway.
“If your brother’s anywhere close to as stubborn as you, he’ll be just fine.”
“He’smorestubborn than me. Might even be more stubborn than Anson.” He laughs weakly before an unintelligible voice cuts him off. “Hey, I’ve got to go. Anson has news.”
I slump back in my seat. “Okay. I, um?—”
I miss you. I’m glad I got to hear your voice today. I want you to call me again soon.
Each confession is a compulsive urge, desperate to reach him. But even with his compliments, it feels like too much right now, at the end of a phone call, when he’s about to be updated on the condition of his seriously injured brother. I haven’t decided yet if I’m staying in Garnet Shores. Saying things like this would just make itthatmuch worse—for both of us—if I leave.
So I lamely settle on, “I hope he keeps getting better.”
But I’m the only one who seems to be heeding caution, because Grayson disregards my lame platitude and boldly states, as if it’s a fact, “Talk to you tomorrow, gorgeous,” before hanging up.
For a moment, I sit in the silence of the car. Then a giggle escapes my chest. Just alittleburst. Enough for Dave to quirk his head at me.
And when I see Suzanne’s text on my phone, informing me I’m ten minutes late to our call, I just giggle again.
31
ELIZA
“She’s beautiful.Like a fucking goddess. And hersmile…it just does something to me, you know?”
I nod absentmindedly as I record last week’s marketing analytics on my phone. Kenny’s on minute eight of musing about the love of his life, whom he hasn’t spoken to yet.
“She smiles a lot, too. At everyone. She’s kind like that. A total sweetheart.”
My head bobs as my fingers fly over the screen.
“I heard from my buddy that she volunteers at an animal shelter in free time. Kindandgenerous. That’s rare in this world, isn’t it—hey, are you even listening?”
I glance up at Kenny, whose dreamy-eyed expression is beginning to clear. Feet resting on a cooler, he reclines further into his plastic folding chair, crosses his arms, and waits.
“Beautiful. Goddess. Animal shelter,” I list. “I’m listening.”
His eyes narrow on my phone. “Don’t tell me you’re working right now.”
“Just doing a few things,” I say, shrugging.
“Eliza, we just manned this table for eight hours straight with no breaks. It’s five o’clock. We’re done for the day.”
Well, almost. We still have to break down the tent and clean up.
“Besides, it’s Saturday. I thought you didn’t do marketing stuff on weekends.”
“Some last-minute things came up. But they’re quick,” I say, glancing at the half-broken-down tents around us so he won’t see the guilt in my eyes.
There’s a lot of it, too, because I’m lying.
The truth is, I’m trying to get ahead for Monday to make time for my interview. Between driving time and the inevitable traffic, I’ll be gone the entire day. Technically, there’s nothingwrongwith my absence. I’ll have all my marketing work done between tonight and tomorrow, and I’m notrequiredto be on-site from nine to five.
