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“They’re good. Brandon’s excited to see you.”
“Bri is…six-weeks now?” I asked, as if I didn’t know the answer. Six weeks ago was the last time I saw Grace, the last time I spoke with her. And even then it was stilted.
After meeting Jeremy, it was probably—no, it was—my fault our friendship started to fall apart. I didn’t expect the huge surge of jealousy though when I met the guy. And like I told Grace in an email, I just didn’t like the guy—regardless of whatever I felt for Grace.
Something about him didn’t sit right in my gut, and I always trusted my gut.
Grace was a special woman. She was the type who appeared all put together, even if slightly shy and quiet. In fact, when I first ‘saw’ her that was what drew me to her.
The first time I saw Gracelyn Dewey was in a picture on Sydney’s casting board. My sister’s first major casting assignment was for a dating show, Beauty. Little did she know at the time, her efforts in finding an ideal match for Caleb Prescott would be wasted, as he only had eyes for her.
Smart guy.
I’d hate to have to beat him.
Anyway, all the women Sydney had chosen were beautiful, but they all faded into one another. It was Grace and her quiet smile that drew me in. When Sydney played her monologue interview for me, it was more than her angelic face that snagged my attention. Meeting her at Sydney and Caleb’s engagement party only solidified everything for me.
Throughout our years of friendship, I learned an awful lot about the girl many thought was simply shy, and it was because of that I found myself endeared to her even more. She was a fucking fighter and she deserved a man who would allow her to shine.
Jeremy wouldn’t let her shine. There wasn’t any way in hell that d-bag knew what he had in his arms when he held Grace. And sure, she alluded to the fact that she told Jeremy about her issues, but I knew Grace. I knew how proud she was.
She didn’t tell him.
But me?
The day she finally put a label to what she’d been feeling and experiencing for years, I was the first person she called.
“I think I know what my problem is.” Grace’s voice over the phone was a balm for the shitty day I had. No, no horrible cases but a shit-ton of paperwork that I was so over, on a case I was thankful was now closed.
“You don’t have a problem, Grace,” I told her. I leaned back into the corner of my couch and closed my eyes, letting Grace’s voice wash through me. Not for the first time during a phone conversation, I found myself wishing she were beside me rather than miles and miles away.
“For years I’ve thought I was introverted,” she pushed on, ignoring me, “but I think there’s something more to it.”
I wanted to tell her that it didn’t matter what label she put on it, none of it mattered to those who cared about her. It didn’t mean shit to me if she was introverted, or shy, or a hermit. She could never leave her house, and I’d still care about her.
“I mean, I’m totally self-diagnosing myself but it all makes sense!” she continued, so I listened, being the good friend I molded myself into. “I think I have what they’re calling high-functioning anxiety.”
That actually made sense. Not that I knew the true definition, but I felt it was pretty self-explanatory.
Grace often talked to me about her dreams and aspirations but always let fear dictate what she’d go after. There were times during family and friend get-togethers that she’d be fine one minute, and then hiding out another. She never lost her shy smile, but…
Yeah. It made sense.
I’m not sure when, or even if, she told Sydney about her suspicions, but the fact she told me first continued to sit with me.
“You’re quiet,” my sister said, breaking through the silence. “Rough week at work?” She glanced at me briefly.
“Bad case yesterday,” I answered. I was ok attributing my silence to the case rather than the woman I couldn’t get out of my head. “Closed it, but it wasn’t a pretty one.”
“I am so proud of you, Soy, but God, I can’t help but be afraid of the things you’ve seen.”
I didn’t share with her a lot of the details of my cases, but she was well aware that most of my cases dealt with trafficking, and that most of those trafficking cases dealt with juveniles. Definitely a personality killer. I could have gone to school to be a teacher like our older brothers, or really anything else, but criminology and forensics always interested me, and I always thought that some people need bigger voices speaking for them.
“It’s not always pretty, no, but sometimes it’s rewarding.” Like when we found a fourteen year old runaway who ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. Or when a kidnapped teen was found, unharmed. Those were good days.
“And you’re not on call, right?” She shook her head. “Of course you’re not. You couldn’t be on call, but come out to San Diego. I’m sure you’re looking forward to the quiet. Well, not full quiet.” She grinned over at me. “Brandon can be a bit loud these days. He hasn’t quite embraced his ‘inside voice’ yet.”
I chuckled. “I’m sure it will be fine.”
