“I don’t cry over spilled laundry, Grayson,” I inform him, because that would be just as ridiculous as crying from an impromptu swim. “It was just one of several unfortunate events.”
“I know you don’t cry over spilled laundry.” He shrugs. “I didn’t even think you were crying at all. Thought some salt water flooded your retinas when you fell in.”
It doesn’t sound mocking. More earnest with a side of amusement, the way a friend tries to lighten the mood when your sky is falling down.
“Does that ever happen to you?”
“Nah. I know enough to close my eyes whenever I go face-first into the water.”
I’m surprised to feel my lips curl up, even if only a little. Another breeze washes in, slithering down my bibs and reminding me how sopping wet my leggings are.
As if he’s reminded, too, Grayson says, “Keep my sweatshirt for now, and take the rest of the day to do laundry and get sorted.”
I shake my head. “I’m not sick, and there’s stuff to do here. I’m working today.”
“Anything due tomorrow that you haven’t already done?”
“No, but I have some reports I need to send yourbrother for Wednesday, and content I need to shoot for the rest of the week.”
And if it isn’t early, it’s late. One of my parents’ mottos that has actually served me well over the years.
Grayson pivots easily. “Alright, then take an early lunch. Do your laundry, then come back this afternoon, and we can go out on the water then.”
“I don’t want to put you off-schedule.”
“You aren’t,” he argues. “That’s my new schedule.”
We both know that’s bullshit. He’d be going out of his way and moving his schedule to fit me in. But from his uncompromising expression, he’s not willing to budge.
And it makes things so much easier for me if he doesn’t—which he knows.
Finally, somethingotherthan disappointment, shame, or misery swells in my chest. It’s appreciation. Gratitude for this man who owes me nothing, who I’ve insulted more times than I can count, but who always seems to pick me up whenever I’ve face-planted.
Figurativelyandliterally.
Not once have I even had to ask. And not once has he shoved it back in my face, even when we’re dealing blows.
So I nod and accept, to which he smiles and says, “Now let me demonstrate how to step off a boat without falling in.”
21
GRAYSON
Anson: Lala wants you both here for the Fourth on Saturday. 2:00 pm.
It’sthe first message in our brothers’ group chat since April that involves something other than wishing Dawson good luck at a game. Setting my paperwork down, I reply right away.
Me: I’ll be there
Anson: Daw, you need to answer this one.
Even with that message, it’ll be a miracle if we hear from Dawson without two reminders and a phone call.
The fact that this doesn’t disappoint me shows just how bad it’s gotten. We’ve had this group chat since we got phones in high school. Used to text in it every day without fail. Through breakups, graduations, girlfriends. Mom’s funeral, then Dad’s.
Then two years ago, Dawson slowly fell off, at about the same time as his all-star career blewup—along with his reputation for partying, women, and other stupid shit people do when they’re famous and rich.
I used to blame Anson for it. He would send screenshots of Dawson’s bad press into the chat and question him on it when he’d ignore our calls. But Anson didn’t do it to shit on him. He did it because he was concerned, and he’s painfully direct.
