Page 37 of Cuffed (Everyday Heroes 1)
“Kissy, kissy.”
“Ewww, gross.”
“Yeah,” he says as he picks up an escaped grape and throws it into our bowl. “She gets all giggly and then my dad will dance with her in the family room and sing horribly and then the grossness happens—they kiss.”
“Ick.” I giggle but hate that feeling in the middle of my belly that loves the idea of dancing and laughing. “My parents never kiss.”
“They had to have kissed at least once because that’s how babies are made and they have you, right?”
“True.” I lean forward and grab a bowl as I try to forget what will happen when I go home in a bit. “But if your mom and dad kiss now, doesn’t that mean they’re going to have another baby soon?”
“That’s not how it works, silly.”
“Then how does it work, then?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
The asphalt bites into my shoulders as I lie down on the tarmac in the chilly, early morning air. I needed to escape the loft and the fear that hung in the air from first my nightmare and then from the confusion I felt after the memory resurfaced of Grant and me as kids in his backyard.
“You don’t need to be scared, Emmy. I’m taking karate now. I could protect you.”
Guess I should have known he’d end up like his dad, protecting and serving—being the hero.
It suits him. The question is, does he suit me?
It’s a tricky questi
on, and one I’m not sure I’m ready to know the answer to. I’ve lived my life escaping my past, hiding it from anyone and everyone so that no one can ever look at me and blame my lack of success on it. Or just plain look at me differently.
But he knows.
He knows more than I might even know, and that’s scary as hell to me.
So yes, I’ve blamed him unfairly, but it’s so much easier to believe that truth—that he is more at fault than my own flesh and blood.
I’ve always thought of myself as a fair person.
There’s no reason not to believe he isn’t a good man.
And, as I sit here on the closed runway with the sun slowly rising in the east, I know I need to step outside the box I’ve carefully constructed and fortified around myself. I need to listen to Desi and her whacked logic and remember what Grant said to me when we were nothing but kids.
I need to do the one thing I do every day in my professional life but can’t seem to ever do personally: Leap before looking.
I need to follow my motto: Head up. Wings out.
Me: For the record, I still think it’s a bad idea, but you’re right. You wore me down. Maybe we can get together sometime for a few drinks. Your call.
Grant: I knew you’d see my ways. How about tomorrow at six at McGregor’s?
Me: That works.
I stare at the string of texts and feel as if my throat is closing up on me. At the same time, I’m excited and nervous and more than anything, afraid. My interactions with men are fleeting. I don’t use them for their conversation skills. Sure, we go out and have a good time, but on my part, things are superficial. The first time they lie, they’re gone. And if they can make it past that first test, then when they start wanting more . . . when they want to talk about our pasts and have that kumbaya moment where we realize we are meant to be together forever, they stop being of interest to me.
I only live in the now. I only live in tomorrows. I can only cope with the future I make for myself.
But there is something about agreeing to meet for drinks with Grant that is making me nervous.
“You are not chickening out. I will not let you,” Desi says as she applies another coat of mascara to my eyelashes.
