When I open the door, Grant is standing there in a T-shirt and jeans, pulling on a pair of slip-on deck shoes.
“I don’t need a ride; I called an Uber.” I glance around the room, making sure I grabbed everything, but I’m too busy trying to keep my dress on now that the zipper is ripped to really notice if I left anything behind.
“Great,” he says with a sigh, kicking off his shoes and removing his shirt and jeans.
My shoulders drop and I sigh. “Look, Grant, I’m sorry, I shou—”
“Hey, we’ve all been someone’s mistake, Leigh.” He holds his palms out, an angry smirk marring his usually smiling face. “And sometimes we end up being their pity fuck.”
My mouth snaps shut and tears instantly spring to my eyes. I know I have no right to be hurt or offended by his words, but I am.
“You’re a fucking prick, you know that?” I say, removing my sky-high heels and marching to the door. I slam it behind me, my bare feet slapping against the marble hallway as I run to the elevator to catch my Uber.
6
Grant
I’m exhausted. I drag my hands over my face, trying to scrub some life back into it as I splash cold water on my cheeks. Heavy bags hang beneath my dull eyes. My diet of caffeine and too little sleep has caught up with me. The life of a doctor is stressful and demanding enough—throw in a commitment to two hospitals hours apart and some unresolved sexual drama with Leigh and I’m ready to slip into a coma for a month.
“You don’t look well, dear,” my mother points out as I emerge from the bathroom and walk over to the bar in her sitting room.
“Thanks, Mom. You look refreshed as ever.” I smile, pouring myself a generous amount of whiskey before sitting on the loveseat next to her.
“Botox and Ambien, dear. You should try it.” She laughs, patting my knee.
“I’ll be okay, Mom. Just need to get through this week and sort a few things out. How’s your social life these days? Still leading on poor Mr. Wilcox, or you got another old rich guy trying to seduce you?”
Since my father’s death, my mom hasn’t dated seriously, even though I’ve tried to encourage her. I know when you have a love like she had with my father—and for so many decades too—it’s not like you just wake up one day and get over that person.
“Mom, it’s time,” I say, grabbing her hand. She looks up at me, a small tear on the edge of her eye, but she just smiles.
“I know, dear, and actually, Mr. Wilcox is quite the gentleman. He’s respectful and,” she pauses briefly, a small smile spreading across her lips, “he makes me laugh.”
“Good. You deserve to be happy, Mom.” We sit in silence for a few moments, with me enjoying my whiskey as I watch the flames dance in the fireplace. It could be 90 degrees out, but my mother will always have a small ambient fire going in her sitting room.
“So, sweetie,” she starts, and I already know what’s coming.
“No, Mother, I’m not seeing anyone.” I stare into my glass with images of Leigh spread across my bed last week dancing through my brain. A pang of guilt follows. I’m not sure if it’s because of what I said to her or the fact that I never followed up with a phone call to apologize. It was a dick move, even if she started it by saying hooking up with me was a mistake. I roll my tongue around in my mouth like the word left a bitter taste.
“Are you still in love with August?” Her question catches me off-guard and I look over at her as I shake my head.
“No. No, I’m not in love with August anymore . . . not even sure if I ever really was.” I stand and walk over to the fireplace, placing my hands on the mantle. It’s funny, I can picture my father doing this exact same move when I was a kid.
“Don’t say that, sweetheart. Just because things didn’t work out between you two doesn’t mean you should sell yourself short on the experience of what you felt for her.”
“It’s not that, Mom. I cared for August, deeply. I know that. But when I think about love, the kind you and Dad had—I’ve never experienced that. I think August was a person of opportunity when I was feeling lonely. She was kind and beautiful and offered me something I couldn’t seem to find here in Denver.” I look back at my mom and see that a sadness has settled over her face. I walk back over to her and sit beside her, taking her hands in mine.
“Don’t worry about me, Mom. I’m sure I’ll find someone. When I ended things with August, it wasn’t just because she was clearly in love with someone else, it was also because . . .” I hesitate. Do I really want to admit this out loud? “There was someone else for me too.”
Her eyes grow wide. “Who?”
“You don’t know her, but there’s a woman in Grand Lake who caught my eye. I knew when I started to be more than just attracted to her while dating August that I was in trouble. And no, nothing happened between us while I was with August. This woman . . . she hates me.” I chuckle when I say it, because it’s pretty much the only way to put it.
“Oh, she doesn’t hate you, Grant. She couldn’t.” My mom playfully smacks my hand, and while I love how much she wants to believe it isn’t possible for someone to hate her wonderful boy . . . she hasn’t met Leigh Brooks.
I barely drink the whiskey I poured myself. I spend another few hours with my mom, and she catches me up on the local drama of her garden club and I try not to let my mind wander—like wondering what Leigh’s doing tonight.
Is she on a date? I push the thought from my mind, focusing on my mom’s story about Doris Clyburn, who, rumor has it, is getting awfully flirty with Mr. Carter even though his wife isn’t dead yet. Good to know this kind of drama is still going on with people in their 70s.
“Thank you for a lovely evening, Mom, but I really should get home. I have a full schedule of patients tomorrow, so I’ll be up before the sun.” We exchange goodbyes and I promise my mom I won’t give up on finding love, even if it means letting her set me up with the single daughter of one of her friends.
By the time I drive across the city and park in my building, my thoughts are consumed by Leigh.
Is she dancing in the arms of some worn-out wannabe cowboy back in Grand Lake? Is he touching her right now? Is she letting another man kiss her the way I did last week? I hate this. My stomach is in knots and I can hear my heartbeat in my ears.
I decide a nice, long steam in my shower should help calm me down before bed. I strip out of my clothes, walking into the bathroom. I go to set my phone on the counter when I miss and it clatters to the floor, bouncing beneath the overhang of the vanity cabinets. That’s when I spot it: a delicate gold watch. I grab it and turn it over in my hands, and that’s when see a small set of initials engraved on the back: LHB.
Well, now I have to text her. I’m sure this is a family heirloom, being that it’s vintage Cartier, so I can’t not tell her I have it. I pick up my phone to text when I double-check the time: it’s late. No, I’ll wait till I’m back in Grand Lake tomorrow, then she’ll have no choice but to see me.
Me: Hey, I think you left this at my house? I’ll be at my place in Grand Lake all day today if you want to stop by and pick it up.