Page 110 of Worth the Fall

GRANT

“I fucked up.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” Grady says as he pulls his attention away from the preseason football game just long enough to glance at me in the kitchen.

“No. Seriously.” I look at my phone for what feels like the hundredth time and debate calling Emerson again. Her last text, the one from three days ago telling me she’s super busy with a week-long jump class, still doesn’t sit right with me. I didn’t ask her to do anything. I didn’t even text her. So her sending a random text to explain why she can’t see me for a few days feels hinky.

Especially after how she asked to be taken home from the lookout and then jogged up the stairs, saying she had a stomachache. I was left to stare at the shut door to her apartment with my apology getting lost in the night around me.

Something is definitely off. Maybe she just needs some space. Fuck if I know.

“Hey, Romeo? You gonna finish your sentence or are you interrupting my date with the 49ers for a reason?”

“Are you in my house drinking my beer, watching my television, and eating my pizza?” I ask, and he nods. “Then shut the fuck up because I seem to be the one footing the bill for your romantic evening.”

“Well, then get to the point and stop standing there like someone pissed in your Wheaties. What gives?”

“I don’t know.” I sip my beer as I cross the distance and take a seat across from him—my view of the backyard while his is of the game. “Watch those files, will you?” I say, pointing to the stack of cold case files I’m working on that are sitting on the opposite end of the couch as him.

“How can I watch them when they’re freaking everywhere? On the couch. Falling off the couch. On the floor. On the coffee table. On the desk. I mean, Jesus, do you take them in the bathroom with you, too?”

“You make fun, but when you’re sitting outside on my new patio with a built-in barbeque and flat screen television, you’ll be thanking me.”

“Doesn’t seeing this shit every day ever get to you? Don’t you need a break from it?”

“Sometimes.” I sigh. “Recently, a lot of the time.”

For being such a little shit, he’s smart.

“Something’s going on with her. She’s shutting me out.”

“I’d shut your ugly ass out, too.” I kick my foot out to knock his feet off my table, more to antagonize him than for any other reason. “But considering you just switched topics and left me in the dark, should I assume we’re talking about Emerson, again?”

“I’m serious.”

“Apparently you are,” he says as he smirks.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“This thing with Emerson. You’re supposed to be fuck buddies, right? Well, that was the plan anyway. Either you’re getting too deep into it or she is because this is way more complicated than your normal run-of-the-mill one nighter . . . so what gives?”

“It isn’t different.” But it is. “She’s not.” But she is. “We’re not.” But we are. “We’re just fucking.” But it feels like so much more than that.

“Yeah, you keep thinking that’s all there is, and I’ll start putting money down on the 49ers to win the Super Bowl with this shitty ass team they have this year.”

The game drones on, Grady groaning with every turnover—and there are a lot—while I stare out the windows to the backyard and watch the sky change colors as the sun sets. I’m supposed to be relaxing and preparing for my upcoming interview, but all I can think about is Emerson. Did I push her too far and get too personal when she is so obviously used to running away?

“Hey, Grant?”

“Yup,” I say distractedly.

“I think I’m gonna head out.”

“What?” I look at him, confused as to why he’s leaving at halftime when I know the cable is jacked at his house. “What about the second half?”

“I have shit to do.” I narrow my eyes at him at the same time he juts his chin toward the front door.

I turn around and find Emerson standing on the other side of the screen. Her face is expressionless and her hair is pulled back, but it’s her eyes that are shadowed and sad.