Page 9 of Brother in Law with Benefits

Unknown:This is Grant. Mom gave me your number. Hope that's okay.

My heart does something undignified.

Unknown:Just wanted to confirm tomorrow. 7:30 AM?

I sit on the edge of my bed in my work clothes and look at the text from Grant Guilligan, who is back in Copper Falls, who is going to be here for three months, who has my number now.

I should save it. Just add it to my contacts. His name and that's it, completely normal.

I definitely should not think about what photo I'd choose.

Me:Yes, 7:30 works. I'll meet you there.

Grant:You don't have to. I've got it covered.

He's giving me an out. A clean, reasonable, professional out. I should take it.

Me:I want to make sure the transition goes smoothly. For Patty.

For Patty. Sure. That's definitely why.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again. He's typing and deleting something. The thought of Grant Guilligan typing and deleting a text message does something to me that I'm not going to look at directly.

Grant:Okay. See you tomorrow.

Me:See you tomorrow.

Then I shower, put on an old t-shirt, and get into bed.

Sleep takes me immediately. The kind of deep, unconscious drop that happens when your body finally stops tolerating your nonsense and just shuts down.

I dream about the wedding.

But this time, when the song ends and Grant steps back, he doesn't walk away.

This time, his hand is still on my waist. His eyes are still on mine.

"I wish I'd met you first," he says. Low. Just for me.

And I say what I've been not-saying for five years.

"Me too."

He leans in. His hand moves from my waist to my face. The space between us disappears.

Right before his lips touch mine, I wake up.

4

Grant

Five AM. Body still on Kabul time.

I get up instead of fighting it. Pull on shorts and a t-shirt, head downstairs. The house is quiet — real quiet, the kind I've forgotten exists. No generators. No distant construction crews. No 0600 prayer call rolling over the rooftops. Just the hum of central air and birds starting up in the neighbor's oak tree.

Copper Falls.

I make coffee in Dad's pot, the carafe permanently stained at the two-cup line. Sophie's instructions are still on the counter, neat handwriting on a sticky note: medication timing, 7 AM sharp, with breakfast not after. I take a photo of it in case I lose the note. Then I make the coffee and stand at the window looking out at the backyard I mowed yesterday.