Page 87 of My Grape Crush
I would have jumped fifteen feet. Cleared the moon, if need be. I liked Rhys then, and I like him even more now. Or should I say, I actually do know him, a little. He’s more complex and intriguing than I ever imagined. And he made my guarded heart bloom again.
If there is a chance for us, he deserves to know it all.
“About that shit I pulled at Yvette’s…” My knuckles tense on the wheel before I continue. “It had nothing to do with Amelia.”
“And,” he says, the slight rise in his voice a question to know more.
His gaze flickers toward me, a softer look now, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. I take a deep breath, slowing the car a smidge as I process what to say. It’s now or never. If I can’t be upfront on this raw, hurting night, I have no business being with Rhys.
I tell him everything. How I let Brett abuse his power, minus all the gory details. My insecurities and self-doubt, starting with the Dani of eighth grade, taller than every boy and hiding her boobs with baggy sweatshirts to stop the stares and teasing. Dani with a mouthful of braces mortally ruined at grad dance when Steve Ashe walked past without a second glance and into the arms of blonde, petite, and perfect Emily Reynolds with her venomous smirk that said,you have no chance, ever.
All the promotions I got looked over for.
“Why did you like him?” Rhys asks, zeroing in on Brett.
Why indeed? I've asked myself that question many times on too many wine-soaked evenings. Tonight is when I'm finally honest with myself. “He promised me the moon, and stupid me fell for it.”
“You’re not stupid, Dani,” he says. “You are smart and talented. I can draw, but what you create is real art.”
“What do you draw?” I ask, genuinely curious.
It’s the tiniest ripple, but in the tight confines of the truck, the energy shift feels seismic. Rhys rearranges himself in his seat and it strikes me that he wants to say something unpleasant.
“Things that catch my attention,” he says vaguely.
“You never mention drawing in any of your posts,” I say, unable to stop myself. But whatever. The cat’s out of the bag.Brand me a super fan and call it a day.
“Believe it or not,” he says, “I’m an introvert. Sharing my sad excuse for art is too personal, and the world already knows enough about me. I need to hold some things close to my chest.”
“I’d like to see some of your work.”
He glances at me with a look I can’t figure out. Pensive? Nervous? Worry? A little of all three. Maybe what he draws is actual garbage, and he knows it. I don’t push the matter.
Instead, I circle back to his question that I left unanswered.
“You asked me if what happened at the vineyard turned me on. The answer is yes, if that wasn’t glaringly obvious.”
A ghost of a smile flickers on his face. “I’ll never forget that.”
I swallow hard and say nothing. Embedded in his reply is a hint of nostalgia, as if Osoyoos and I are already a distant memory. Was I reaching to believe we were back on track, even if the direction was still unclear?
Damn you, Sawyer. For nailing it.
Because in what rational world does Rhys leave Greece to shack up in an old tractor shed and demean himself with double-doubles from Tim Horton’s?
I stare out the windshield at the headlights slicing through the dark, illuminating the sparse landscape with cold slivers of light, making everything feel distant, suspended in time. Maybe this is the Rhys-less world I need to prepare for, but all I can think about is the moonlit memory of us, naked on the raft under the stars, when I thought I could live inside that moment forever.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
RHYS
I would rather be anywherethan here. Weighted down with heaviness, my legs are like two pillars of concrete, doing everything in their power to slow down the inevitable.
To walk headlong into the past I ran away from.
“I think this is it.” Dani points at a hallway that looks like all the others we passed. “The waiting room is at the end.”
Her grip is steady on my hand as we shuffle down, passing rooms I’m too freaked out to look into. Money may buy you the privilege of a private room—of course, Dad has one—but the end game in a hospital is the same whatever number lives in your bank account.
