How to End a Love Story(91)

“You look worse,” he says. “Like you got hit by a fucking truck.”

“Ha,” she says. “Funny.”

“Hilarious,” he agrees.

“Why did you come?” she asks.

“Isn’t that obvious?” he says, and looks at her in that way he does.

“I don’t have the energy to play this game right now,” she says softly. “Would you come closer?”

He stands and reaches the chair closest to her in surprisingly few strides. She turns to look at him, close enough to touch now, though not quite yet touching. She reaches out lamely and he takes her left hand between both of his, then bows his head to kiss her thumb. It makes her heart ache painfully, but at least the heart rate monitor doesn’t seem to pick up on it.

He kisses her wrist, then her palm, then each finger. She smiles slightly at that.

“Are you thinking of that time on my couch, with the yearbook?” he murmurs, as he presses a lingering kiss to the tip of her left pinkie.

“No,” she says. “I was thinking I missed you.”

He huffs softly.

“You gotta stop saying things like that out loud,” he says gruffly. “It’s fucking killing me.”

She lifts her hand to press it against his scratchy cheek and he covers her hand with his own, pressing her closer.

“Grant,” she starts, and he shakes his head.

“Maybe we shouldn’t talk so much, crackerjack,” he says softly. “Can I kiss you?”

She knows she shouldn’t say yes, but she’s on enough pain meds that she thinks maybe it’s not such a terrible idea after all.

“You probably owe me one anyway,” she mutters, and she can feel his laugh against her mouth. She lets out a shaky sigh as it evolves into a slow kiss—it feels like the first real breath she’s taken since their last kiss. His lips linger—warm, sweet, longing—until it’s over, and he’s back in his chair, watching her.

Some searing pain in her chest tells her this is what it would feel like to be safe, and loved, and healing under the watchful gaze of Grant Shepard.

He chuckles.

“You’re about to say something that’s going to piss me off,” he says.

He’s so annoying.

“This doesn’t change anything,” Helen starts, and Grant holds out a hand, like there it is. “Take me seriously right now.”

“As a heart attack,” he says, his voice sounding raspier than she remembers it. “A cute, pastel one.”

She ignores that.

“I’m glad you’re here. I’d be lying if I said otherwise,” she starts.

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he says coolly.

“I wish you wouldn’t do that,” she says.

“Tell the truth?”

“Interrupt,” she says.

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, and she rolls her eyes.

“My parents are out there.”

“Yes, they are,” he says.

“My mom’s probably having a minor meltdown at the hospital staff because I haven’t let her in to see me.”

“She’s had a few,” he acknowledges. “Very tiny, perfectly reasonable meltdowns, in my opinion. You can be frustratingly . . . opaque. When you want to be.”

“Sorry,” she says irritably.

“S’okay,” he says quietly. “I’m used to it.”

“How was it out there, with them?” she asks, pushing onward past the bruising pain. “Did you guys bond over my intake forms, are you besties now, did my mom invite you to Christmas dinner?”

Grant’s jaw tenses. “No.”

“Did Mom even acknowledge you?”

Grant lets out a short exhale. “No.”

Helen sinks into her pillow sullenly. “Nothing’s changed, Grant. I got in a car accident. People get into car accidents and break bones all the time. You know that.”

“You don’t, though,” he says, his voice a dry rasp. “Do you know what it felt like, to get that call from Suraya last night? By the way, good job picking your boss as an emergency contact, that’s not pathetic at all, Helen.”

The quiet anger that’s been simmering in him since their kiss ended is nearly at the surface now, she can tell. Good. She can deal with an angry Grant better than a sweet one.

“I didn’t know anyone in LA,” she says.

“You knew me,” he hisses. “We filled that paperwork out week three, I remember, I was there. It was right before the camping trip.”

“We weren’t friends then,” she answers.

“We aren’t friends now!”

Helen exhales shortly. “You’re being unreasonable. Who gives a shit when we filled out some stupid employment forms?”

“I don’t know,” Grant says, and pushes a hand into his hair in frustration. “I can’t—I can’t think straight when I’m around you.”

“Maybe I should have put down someone else. Saskia or Nicole probably wouldn’t have called you first.”

Grant glares at her then. “Suraya called me because she knew I’d want to know. That’s how she put it. I almost didn’t pick up, because I hadn’t slept in thirty-six fucking hours, because I kept replaying our last conversation trying to figure out if I could have said something, anything, that would have changed the outcome. Thank fuck I did pick up, Helen. Do you know what it would have done to me if you’d died and I’d been sleeping?”