He’d acted like he wasn’t even wet. I remembered people talking to him, the little girl being returned to her parents. I remembered the brief glimpse I caught of his face—his eyes—right before he disappeared down these stairs.
I’d known that he wasn’t okay, but I’d had no idea why.
Focus on the game. I tried to stay in the moment—here, now, with both of them. Jameson went first down the spiraling stone steps. I was a step behind him, walking where he walked, not daring to look back over my shoulder at Grayson.
Just find the next clue. I let that be my beacon, my focus, but the moment we hit the bottom of the stone staircase, the landing came into view: a tasting room with an antique table made of the darkest cherry wood.
Chairs sat on either side of the table, their arms carved so that the ends became lions: one set watchful, one set roaring.
And just like that, I was taken back.
The lines of Grayson’s body are like architecture: his shoulders even, his neck straight, though his head and eyes are cast down. A crystal glass sits on the table in front of him. His hands lay on either side of the glass, the muscles in them tensed, like he might push off at any moment.
“You shouldn’t be here.” Grayson doesn’t pull his eyes from the glass— or the amber liquid he’s been drinking.
“And it’s your job to tell me what I should and shouldn’t do?” I retort.
The question feels dangerous. Just being here does, for reasons I can’t even begin to explain.
“Did someone say something to you?” I ask. “At the party—did someone upset you?”
“I do not upset easily,” Grayson says, the words sharp. He still hasn’t looked away from the glass, and I can’t shake the feeling that I’m not supposed to be seeing this.
That no one is supposed to see Grayson Hawthorne like this.
“The child’s grandfather.” Grayson’s tone is modulated, but I can see the tension in his neck, like the words want to come roaring out of him, ripping their way from his throat. “Do you know what he told me?”
Grayson lifts his glass and drains what remains—every last drop. “He said that the old man would have been proud of me.”
And there it is, the thing that has Grayson down here drinking alone. I cross to sit in the chair opposite his. “You saved that little girl.”
“Immaterial.” Haunted silver eyes meet mine. “She was easy to save.”
He picks up the bottle, pours exactly two fingers into the glass, those icy eyes of his watchful. There’s tension in his fingers, his wrists, his neck, his jaw. “The true measure of a man is how many impossible things he accomplishes before breakfast.”
I understand suddenly that Grayson is gutted because he doesn’t believe that Tobias Hawthorne was or would be proud of him—not for saving that girl or anything else.
“Being worthy,” he continues, “requires being bold.” He lifts the glass to his mouth again and drinks.
“You are worthy, Grayson,” I tell him, reaching for his hands and holding them in mine.
Grayson doesn’t pull back. His fingers curl into fists beneath my hands.
“I saved that girl. I didn’t save Emily.” That’s a statement of fact, a truth carved into his soul. “I didn’t save you.” He looks up at me. “A bomb went off, and you were lying on the ground, and I just stood there.”
His voice vibrates with intensity. Beneath my touch, I can feel his body doing the same.
“It’s okay. I’m fine,” I say, but it’s clear he doesn’t hear it—won’t hear it. “Look at me, Grayson. I am right here. I am fine. We are fine.”