Grim got quiet. Then, without warning, he pulled off into a strip mall, and then into a parking spot in a deserted patch of the lot.
“That’s not a bad habit,” he said before throwing the car into park and killing the engine.
“Why are we stopped?” I asked him in the swelling silence.
For a long time, he didn’t say anything, and my anxiety grew. Especially when he just kept staring forward like that.
“That guy back there,” he said at last. “Ishethe reason you stop yourself from smiling sometimes? Or why you’re always apologizing for nothing?”
I frowned, a zing of fear shooting through my heart. At being seen.
Especially by him.
I opened my mouth to answer but my voice, as it so often did when I seemed to need it most, fled.
“Is he?” Grim pressed, turning to look at me, those eyes cold in hue but not angry, or judging. Instead, he seemed again to be sincere in his curiosity.
“I…” Gosh. What could I say? Maybe I didn’t even know the answer. Peter had made me feel small more than once, but… he wasn’t the only one. I was a lot for some people. Most people, it seemed. Except for the kids.
“I scare off most guys,” I blurted out.
Grim’s brow furrowed even more, his confusion deepening.
Up came my hands to help me explain. “I just say things sometimes, and I’m also a little clumsy but, well, you knew that. And I make jokes that people groan at. But… you knew that, too. I like weird, off-putting things like bright colors and big earrings that match but don’t—like a soda and popcorn, or a flower and a bumblebee? I make voices for all the characters when I do storytime—accents and everything. That can be a lot—Ican be a lot—and I guess I just don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable or mad or both, but no matter what I do, I just… seem to do that without trying anyway. If… that makes sense.”
He turned his gaze forward again, eyeing the strip mall across from us.
After another several seconds, he spoke.
“You ever think that might be a them problem and not a you problem?”
I blinked at him.
“I don’t run into many people like you,” he added when I didn’t answer—because I was still considering the possibility of what he’d said. “Which, if you think about it, is saying something. You… give off this energy. Even the fuckingbirdsees it.”
“Pluto?” I asked, perking up. “And what do you mean? What did he see?”
“Your… light,” he said, summoning another blush to my cheeks. “But it’s not just the fact that you…glow. I don’t know how else to describe it. Being around you. It’s… like when you hear a song that’s really good. A song that you can’t deny is good. And if people don’t like it—or say they don’t or pretend not to or whatever while they try to turn it down or off—it’s not because the song is bad. Deep down they’re just pissed it’s good. And because it’s nottheirsong. It’s yours. And listening to it reminds them of how their own song can’t compare. Or outright sucks. Becausetheysuck.”
A small smile touched my lips. Dare I call him sweet again?
“I think I get onsomepeople’s nerves,” I said. “And if I’m a song, I’m not for everyone.”
“See,” he said, leaning back in his seat, an arm draped over the steering wheel, “I think they get on their own fucking nerves. And being around you just reminds them of that. So they shoot the messenger, try to contain you by dumping their shit on you instead of following your lead and figuring out how to play their own song better. My advice? When it comes to your song, turn that shit up for the people whodolike it. And everyone else? Fuck ’em.”
My heart swelled and I had to fight the urge to launch myself at him—for, like, the tenth time. More than that, I wanted so badly to believe him. That there wasn’t anything wrong with me, and that I wasn’t the one messing everything up all the time by being too much. By being… me.
“E-even if my song is like… a Taylor Swift song?” I asked.
His gaze remained forward, though those deep blues narrowed.
I gritted my teeth and cringed internally, waiting for the fallout. But then he said, “Honestly, she’s got a few good ones.”
Gasping, I clasped my hands together, joy lighting up my face.
“I said afew,” he grumbled, leveling me with a “don’t get excited” glare.
I giggled, clapped, and pattered my feet on the floor mat, delighted that he liked at least three of her songs. That’s what “a few” roughly translated to, right?
