Page 37 of Defended By Love

We pass by a skinny, decorative table as we walk towards the staircase heading downstairs. On it there’s an array of family pictures throughout the years. One of a collection of six boys catches my eye. The youngest one in the picture has a mop of brown curly hair that nearly completely covers his eyes. His smile is impossibly big. I know in an instant that it’s him.

Closer to the end of the table, there’s another picture of him. This time he’s a gangly teenager who’s seemingly made entirely out of elbows and knees. His curly hair still flops in front of his eyes. His smile, if possible, is even wider than before. In his hands he holds a trophy out for whoever’s taking the picture. It looks like he just won one of those card game tournaments—not the poker kind. The kind where you collect and deck build. His happiness radiates from the picture.

I swipe the picture, tucking it surreptitiously into my shoulder bag. The lawyer in me argues that it’s for evidence. It will provide clarity and talking points if need be. The truth is that I just need more time to look at it. Between his bright yellow braces elastics and his thumbs up pose, I need more than a couple stolen glances to take it in.

To take it in and marvel at my own stupidity for not seeing completely through his suave penthouse routine immediately.

The basement suite is definitely a basement and debatably a suite. In the part that I can see, there’s a full bathroom, a living room and bedroom, but no kitchen or eating area. I would bet my law degree on the fact that he eats at least eighty percent of his meals with his mom.

I’d bet my bachelor’s that he eats ninety percent with her.

“Hey Hailey,” he says with shifting eyes. He looks uncomfortable. God, did he just bring me to another person’s house? Again? One with a random lady sleeping upstairs?

“Yeah?”

“I know I brought you here to talk…”

This is it. The avoidance. Classic misdirection from someone who doesn’t want to answer questions. He’s going to make something up and then stall until he comes up with a plausible lie.

“Can I just grab a quick shower before we talk?”

I cannot roll my eyes hard enough. Seriously? That’s the best he can come up with?

“No.”

He groans, trying to run his hand through his hair before shaking it out with an exasperated groan.

“I know we really need to talk, but I got all sweaty when we were… you know. And when I sweat in this thing, it makes me break out into hives. It’s a really cheap costume. When we… you know, at that penthouse, I waited too long to get it off and I was itchy for the rest of the day. It was brutal.”

A simpler lie than I thought he’d go for, but it’s almost effective. If I were a more welcoming or kind person I’d buy it. I’d let him shower, come up with his perfect little excuse, and have the wool thoroughly pulled over my eyes.

Nice try.

The thing is, liars count on the kindness of others. They count on people being too polite or just trusting them. It’s how they get away with small indiscretions like cheating to larger ones like ocean contamination.

“Okay, show me,” I challenge him. I steady my gaze and set my jaw.

He shuts his eyes painfully.

“I already admitted to you that I live with my mom. Can’t I keep any of my dignity?” he whines.

“You can have your dignity or my trust. You can’t have both right now.”

He takes a slow breath in. “I really want your trust, Hailey. It was stupid of me to lie to you. I, uh, just wanted to impress you.”

Well, yes it was. It’s stupid of anyone to lie to me. I always find out the truth.

Grant reaches behind and starts to unzip his suit. It catches after a few inches.

“Stupid piece of…” he grunts, yanking on the zipper at an awkward angle. He shoots me a contrite grin and turns slightly away, like somehow that will block my vision of what’s happening right in front of me.

“Do you need a hand?”

Grant pauses and smiles. “Oh no. I can’t let the zipper win. Besides, it can sense fear,” he answers with dead seriousness.

He hops around a little more, stretching and tugging at the zipper that’s apparently being held together by steel rods and super glue.

“Dress up as a superhero,” he mutters to himself. “Chicks dig superheroes. Stupid… Ahh.”

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