“That sounds like Jock and Levi, but the painting can’t be very good. I was just a kid when I made it.”
“It’s beautiful and I love it.” He was holding her gaze, stirring those butterflies that had been swarming in her belly and chest since last night when Grant had put his arm around her and she’d rested her head on his shoulder. She’d allowed herself to pretend that they were more than friends, and that had felt really good. Almost as good as when they were standing outside her apartment door last night. She’d wanted to go up on her toes and press her lips to his so desperately, she’d almost done it. Instead, she’d hurried inside, rambling like a nervous wreck. She’d closed the door and leaned her noodle-legged, swoony-headed self against it. Bellamy had called half an hour later, talking a mile a minute about the phone call she’d had with Grant. Jules admitted that she’d run into him after leaving work and that they’d hung out while eating dinner at the beach, but she’d been careful not to make it seem like more. That was the first time Grant had initiated a call to Bellamy since he’d returned to the island, and Jules had taken that as another sign that she was on the right track and was supposed to be spending time with him. It was obviously helping. He’d already admitted that painting was helping him, and now she couldn’t help but feel like the painting he’d made for her when she was little was another sign.
“I’m glad you like it,” he said.
“Love,” she corrected him. “I love it, and now that I know you painted it, it feels like a sign that we were supposed to connect like this.”
She swore she saw a flash of something akin to regret before his expression turned serious, and he reached for another slice of pizza. But that flash had disappeared as quickly as it had come, and she wondered if she’d imagined it.
“I don’t believe in signs,” he said evenly.
“What do you believe in?”
“Reality, I guess. Cause and effect.”
As she dished fruit salad onto her plate, she said, “You don’t think there are bigger forces at play in any part of your life?”
“If there are, then they’re bastards to have blown off half my leg.”
“This is going to sound wrong, but maybe it happened for a reason. Maybe you’re supposed to discover more about yourself and what you’re capable of.”
He cocked his head, giving her a quizzical look. “There you go again with that uniquely Jules outlook. I wish I knew how to think that way, but I’m firmly grounded in reality. My leg was amputated because our vehicle ran over an IED on a rescue mission.”
Her heart ached, and she put her hand on his. “That’s awful. You must have been terrified.”
“There was no time to be terrified. I went in and out of consciousness, and I was too focused on surviving to be scared. I vaguely remember feeling like I was on fire, trying to see through smoke, my head ringing. Then I woke up in the hospital and my leg was gone.” He paused, his eyes shifting away. His muscles flexed, and he wrung his hands. “Then came months of hell. My leg was swollen for weeks. It was all a nightmare—the recuperation, physical therapy, learning to balance, to walk, to deal with this life I never imagined. My physical therapist was merciless, and it was a good thing, because I had so much anger, a wallflower would have quit two days in. And my regular therapist…” He shook his head, jaw clenched. “That woman was a saint to deal with my vitriol.”
Her eyes dampened thinking about him going through all of that alone, and she blinked repeatedly to stave off the tears. “Why didn’t you come home and let everyone help you?”
He cocked his head, darkness hovering in his eyes. The muscles in his jaw were so tight, it had to hurt. “A lot of shit went down when my family came to visit me in the hospital. It was awful, and this island isn’t the end all to me, like it is to you, Jules. I’ve got good memories, but I’ve got family memories that cloud them all over. I didn’t want to come back, but where else could I go? I had no fucking clue what to do with my life, and this place…” He motioned around them to the bungalow. “This is where I came when I was a kid and I had a hard time. When I closed my eyes, this bungalow is what I saw. I thought I could come out here and figure it out. But I’m no closer to knowing what I want to do than I was when I got here, and the looks, the discomfort, the family shit…” He huffed out a breath. “I’m sorry, Jules, but I don’t want to talk about this.”
“I’m sorry.” She leaned over and hugged him, blinking away tears. His every muscle was tense.
He sat rigid for a moment before running a hand down her back. “It’s fine.”
She felt his discomfort and stifled her emotions, sitting up again. “It’s not fine that you went through any of it alone. And I’m sorry, but I have to say one more thing. As horrible as that must have been, you could have been killed, Grant, and you’re still here.”
“Jules…” He shook his head.
“I know you think I’ve got my head in the clouds like everyone else does, which used to bother me, but it doesn’t anymore. It’s better up there at times like this. It’s too easy to see all the negative stuff in our crazy, mixed-up world and to get bogged down in it. I get you’re angry. It makes sense to be angry after everything you’ve gone through, and to feel lost. But if you believe in some bigger reason for things to happen, it all feels better and more hopeful. I’m not talking about anything religious, or pushing God on you. I’m just saying that opening yourself up to the idea that the awful things you went through could possibly lead to something even better than what you had might make you feel like there’s light at the end of that angry tunnel, and you just have to find your way to it.”
“If only it were that easy,” he said evenly.
“You should try it, just for a day, and see how you feel.” She bumped her side against his and popped a piece of fruit into her mouth. “Maybe I’ll wear off on you.”
His lips curved up in a genuine smile. “You mean you’ll sprinkle more of your pixie dust on me.”
“Something like that.”
He stared at her in silence, making her pulse quicken, and finally said, “It must be something living in that beautiful head of yours.”
She reveled in that compliment, tucking it away to revisit later, and said, “I like it,” earning the laugh she missed so much.
“It’s really hard to stay angry around you, when your heart is dripping down your sleeve.” He put his arm around her, giving her a quick squeeze, before reaching for more food.
Their conversation turned lighter while they finished eating, and as they cleaned up, Grant told her stories about the guys he’d worked with. Some of the stories were hysterical, like the jokes they’d played on each other, and some were heart-wrenching, like when they’d lost one of their teammates to machine-gun fire. But in every story, she learned more about the depth of his relationships with the men he’d fought with. It was no wonder he wanted to get back to them.
“Then there was the time my buddy Critch found out his girlfriend had made a calendar out of all of the pictures he’d sent her, and she was selling them on social media.”