Page 132 of Mr. Wicked

“I love you,” I said softly.

“I love you far more.”

I rounded the corner of the kitchen, and the two men were facing each other, lost in a conversation about the Red Sox.

Or the Pats.

I couldn’t keep up, as they seemed to be switching between the two.

I handed Grayson his wine, staying at his side of the couch, smiling as I listened to them, my eyes bouncing back and forth like a tennis match.

Mom had returned to the kitchen and brought out the charcuterie board I’d thrown together before we’d come, keeping it simple with a few of my dad’s favorite meats and cheeses, fruits, and crackers. My mom placed it on the coffee table in front of the couch.

Dad made a sandwich with some roast beef and crackers, spitting a few crumbs in my direction when he said, “I like him.” He even pointed his thumb in Grayson’s direction to add emphasis.

“Have I mentioned that Dad is known for his bluntness?” I said to Grayson.

“I am, too, so I appreciate that,” Grayson replied. “I also appreciate his knowledge of Boston sports.”

“A topic he could talk about endlessly,” I said. “As you just experienced.”

“First boy you’ve ever brought home, baby girl. I had to give Gray the once-over, make sure his knowledge of sports met my approval.”

I laughed. “I’m glad to hear that it does.”

“Ernie, honey, take a napkin”—Mom handed him the one she was holding—“before poor Grayson is wearing your next bite.”

My father wiped his mouth with the paper towel and took a slice of pepperoni, chewing it while he said, “You want to know something, young man. I was nineteen years old, working at the 7-Eleven down on Commercial Street not more than ten minutes from here, when the prettiest girl I’d ever seen came in for a Coke. I asked her if she wanted a can instead of the bottle she’d set on the counter for me to ring up. Cans were cheaper, and I was trying to save her money, or if she wanted to pour a drink from the fountain, which was also a little less than a bottle. She told me she treated herself to a bottle of soda every day, even if that meant it was a couple of cents more. She said she liked to hear the fizz when she twisted off the cap, knowing the treat waiting for her would be fresh and sweet. The cans, she said, tasted like metal, and the fountain sodas sometimes came out stale.” Dad looked at Mom as he spoke.

I looked at Grayson, wondering if he was connecting the story from the first night we’d met.

His eyes told me he had.

“That was when I knew she was going to be my wife,” my dad continued. “She didn’t wear makeup. She didn’t have on fancy clothes or purses or any of that shit. She didn’t need it. She was gorgeous just the way she was. But she knew what she liked, and it was that small, little indulgence that made her different than all the other girls.” Dad smiled. “I asked her out right then and there. After three dates, we were married.” He made another sandwich, this time adding cheese and a piece of apple, folding the salami in fourths before placing the cracker on top. He gave it to my mother, and while she took it from his hand, he said, “Best decision of my life.” He looked at Grayson. “When you know, you know. Am I right, son?”

Grayson nodded, slowly moving his gaze over to me. “You’re right about that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Grayson

The moment had come. I’d just asked Ernie if I could speak to him alone and he’d brought me into Jovana’s old bedroom. Since his and his wife’s bedroom was the only other room, I assumed this space was less personal.

As soon as I stepped through the doorway, I wasn’t shocked to find more romance novels on the shelves across from her small twin bed. There were a few pictures of her and Sloane and some with her parents—most of those taken at the beach. I assumed it was Nantasket, the same one my dad had always brought me to. There was a corkboard where she’d pinned her achievements, along with multiple acceptance letters from colleges she must have applied to. All the way to the left was a letter from Tufts University. Followed by Boston University and Northeastern University. The last one was from Boston College.

Fuck them.

I hated that school for what their newspaper had published about me.

I was happy as hell she hadn’t gone there.

I shifted away from the board and checked out the few framed photographs on her walls that were of sites I wasn’t familiar with, but they were just like the ones that had hung in the bedroom of her apartment.

The biggest thing I noticed was that this room lacked character.

Warmth.

Color.

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