Page 103 of One Adult, Please

He lowers me gently, withdrawing carefully, and my legs immediately give out. I slide down the wall into a graceless heap. Grant disposes of the condom in the trash and then follows me down, sitting on the cold concrete, pulling me into his lap.

My whole body feels like it belongs to someone else.

"You okay?" he asks.

"I'm so far past okay. I'm in okay's vacation home. I'm sending okay a postcard from the other side of the galaxy."

He laughs. His arms wrap around me, and I let myself be held. He kisses the top of my head. His hand strokes down my back in long, slow movements, petting me.

"Hey Grant?"

"Yeah?"

"Gentle things survive."

He's quiet for a moment. His hand pauses on my back, then resumes. "What?"

"That's what I learned from you." I pull back enough to look at him. The patience in his eyes. The softness he's never tried to hide because he never learned to be ashamed of it. "I thought I had to be tough. I thought the falling and the getting up and the comedy were what kept me alive. But you're the gentlest person I've ever met. And you're still here. You survived. Gentle things survive."

Grant looks at me for a long moment. "You're gentle too," he says finally. "Under the jokes and the words. You're soft, Grace. And that's not a weakness."

"It feels like a weakness."

"I know. But it's not." He cups my face in his hands. "Your softness is a gift."

I don't have a joke for that. "I think the round friends were right. You're good."

"I think Diego would say the jury's still out."

"Diego's a skeptic. Fernando's vote counts double."

When we finally get up, my legs are shaky but functional. Grant helps me dress. I help him find his shirt. We unlock the door together, peeking out to make sure no wrong people have wandered into the garden part.

"No Gregory," I whisper.

"No Gregory," Grant confirms.

The path is clear. Fernando and Diego are sleeping, probably dreaming about warm water and palm fronds and the absence of chaos goats.

“Thanks for waiting,” I say as we walk back toward the crime boat for a late dinner. Pepper’s next bottle is due in two hours, which means Grant will be back before anyone else has finished arguing about dessert.

He takes my hand and squeezes once. "Thanks for coming."

"That's what she said."

Grant stops walking. His face cycles through surprise and disbelief and finally lands on resignation. "You had to," he says.

"I had to. The moment demanded it."

"The moment was nice. The moment was meaningful."

"The moment was begging for that joke and I'm not strong enough to resist."

He laughs, shakes his head, and keeps walking, my hand in his. "Gentle things survive," he says. "And apparently, so do terrible jokes."

"The worst jokes are the most resilient. It's evolutionary."

"That's not how evolution works."