“Good morning.”
I jump with a gasp, dropping the spatula on the floor with a clatter. Grant steps forward, one hand raised in apology. Feeling silly for being so jumpy, I reach to pick up a dish towel. There’s some gunk on the hardwood floor, and I wipe it up.
“Sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry for scaring you. People say I’m quiet on my feet for such a big guy,” Grant says, reaching down to pick up the spatula before I have the chance.
I get a nice long look at his muscular arms, testing the seams of his T-shirt sleeves. My breath escapes my chest in a whoosh.
“You are a big guy, yeah.” I laugh, and then immediately correct myself. “Broad, tall, muscular.” Why am I describing him to himself? Breathe.
Grant doesn’t seem to notice my awkward fumbling. Instead, he carries the spatula to the sink and rinses it off before bringing it back to me. “What are you making?”
“French toast.”
“I haven’t had French toast in years. It smells good.” He focuses on the pan on the stove before turning back to me. “Did you sleep okay?”
“Yes,” I say, my anxiety slowly melting away like butter in the pan. “Hobbes too.”
“Good to hear,” Grant says with a grunt as the coffeemaker beeps. “Mind if I turn on the TV?”
“Nope, all good. I’ll finish making breakfast.”
Grant pours two cups of coffee, then slides one across the counter to me. He doesn’t bother telling me where the cream and sugar live, since I’ve already acquainted myself with his kitchen. He steps into the living room, his bare feet leaving imprints in the blue wool carpet that spills out from underneath his couch. I really like that carpet.
As Grant flips through the channels, voices carry into the kitchen. Commercials, news reports, entertaining morning shows. For some reason, it reminds me of when I used to cook dinner for Dad while he watched the Monday night football game. My heart swells at the unexpected memory, and I’m suddenly positive this will be the best French toast I’ve ever made.
When I carry two plates to the living room, I find Grant on his feet, the remote suspended in his hand. He stares at the screen, his mouth pulled into a grim line. I follow his gaze to see one of those entertainment newscasts.
“We’re back from our break,” a male journalist says in a deep, smooth voice. “And just like we promised, we have breaking news on everyone’s favorite hockey team.”
Suddenly, Jason’s face is on the screen. My chest seizes painfully as I hold my breath.
“Jason Kress, left winger for the Seattle Ice Hawks, was caught on film this week in a physical altercation with a woman he’s reported to have been in a relationship with for two years. Please be warned the footage you are about to see may cause distress to viewers, so please turn away if needed.”
The screen changes to black-and-white security footage. I recognize it as the hotel hallway adjacent to the spa where I work.
There’s no audio, but a large man yells at a small woman before taking her roughly by the arm and yanking her down the hall at a pace she can barely keep up with. While they wait for the elevator, she speaks to him, placing a timid hand on his shoulder. The doors slide open and he forcibly shoves her inside, where she crumples to the floor like a rag doll, broken, fearful, and crying. He steps inside, and as the doors slide shut, the woman and the monster hovering over her disappear.
I watch the entire exchange as though it happened to someone else.
The journalist is back now, but I can only make out a few words and phrases like abusive, domestic violence, physical, and something about potential suspension. The announcer’s voice sounds garbled, like I’m floating in deep water.
When I realize I haven’t breathed for nearly half a minute, I pull in a deep, shaky breath, but my gaze remains locked on the photo of Jason that now fills the television screen.
“Ana, look at me. Let’s sit down.”
Recognizing Grant’s steady hand on my shoulder, I nod and sit on his couch, never letting my eyes leave the screen. They play the footage again, this time in slow motion, and I’m instantly thrown back to that moment. I was scared of the look in Jason’s eyes, scared of how far he’d go. Then the screen goes black.
I blink and turn to look at Grant, who gently sets the remote on the coffee table. He’s looking at me, concern drawn with heavy lines into his expression.
“We don’t need to watch that again.” His jaw is tense and his face is unreadable, aside from those dark brows that are pulled together in concentration.
I wish I knew what he was thinking. Wish I knew what it means when his full lips press together in a solemn line. Wish he never had to see that.
“Okay,” I whisper, clutching my hands together in my lap to stop them from fidgeting.
“When did that happen?”
“A couple weeks ago, I think.” My voice comes out hoarse. I’d completely forgotten that it happened. I’ve been in survival mode for so long . . . I must have wiped it away. So much easier that way.
Grant’s phone starts ringing from the kitchen, but he ignores it. And then I hear my own phone, back in the bedroom, buzzing with text notifications too. I ignore it as well.
“So I’m supposed to believe he really isn’t ‘normally rough’ with you?”
I bristle at the question and don’t respond. Grant’s tone isn’t harsh, but his words do sting. He looks like he has more questions. But rather than ask them, he clenches his jaw, locking his words away, and I’m grateful. I don’t know how much more humiliation I can take in one sitting.
His eyes are deep, soulful. They might even be pretty if it weren’t for the look of flat resignation reflecting back at me from their depths. The most infuriating thing about him, though, is that he seems to lack all basic human emotion. I’d rather he yell at me, scream, admit he thinks I’m an idiot for staying with Jason—anything but that deep, haunted look he’s giving me.
I told him at my apartment that Jason isn’t normally rough with me—and he’s not. But sometimes, well, sometimes he is, and those situations have the potential to get really bad. But he always stops himself before things get out of hand. That’s the truth.
But I can see, based on Grant’s expression, that’s not good enough. I can also tell that Grant’s the kind of man who would never lose his temper and turn violent.
Unable to take his silence any longer, I swallow and sigh. “I think I’m going to call my friend again,” I murmur.
His expression is dark and brooding, and he says nothing.
Rising to my feet, I wander like a ghost back to the guest room.
My phone has been plugged into its charger, and now it lights up with missed call notifications. Jason. Jason. Jason. Georgia. Jason. Georgia. Elise. Becca. Jason.
I stare at the phone, my fingers numb against the smooth screen. It lights up again, and my heart skips a beat. Georgia.
“Hello?”
“Oh my God, Ana! Are you okay?”
“I’m okay,” I hear myself say, not sure if that’s entirely the truth. I quickly realize it’s my go-to response these days.
“I’m so, so sorry I missed your calls. I took one of those sleeping pills, early, at like eight last night, because I’m a practically a grandma and— Oh my God, you don’t need to hear this! I need to hear about you! Where are you right now?”