Page 57 of Her Pretty Words

“What about your family. Where do they live?”

There’s a long stretch of silence. I almost think he won’t answer, but eventually, he says, “I don’t like to talk about them.”

Here I am again, balancing with my arms out along the tightrope between us. “You aren’t close with them?”

I take his silence as a yes.

“I see,” I say. “Maybe one day you’ll patch things up.” I squeeze his hand that holds the steering wheel, and when he glances at me, I give him an encouraging smile. I don’t knowwhat happened between him and his family, but I hope for his sake they work it out. He doesn’t deserve to have no one.

He clears his throat. “Tell me about your family.”

“My mom is a little…high-strung, but she means well. At least that’s what I tell myself. My dad just goes with whatever my mom wants. They are day and night, but hey, they make it work,” I say. “I’m an only child, but I’ve always wanted a sister.” I sigh. “I was closest with my grandparents. I mean, I could tell themanything. They would never judge or lecture me.” I focus on the raindrops on the window, watching one pool into the other until it gets so heavy it drips. “The summer going into my junior year of high school I told my grandma I was ready to have sex for the first time and she slipped me a pack of condoms to bring home.” I laugh to myself, picturing her buying them at the store. But I never used them, because when the opportunity presented itself that year, I realized I wasn’t ready. And that was okay too. I look at Grayson to gauge his reaction, and smile at his wide eyes. “My grandpa was pretty go with the flow…a lot like you. You would’ve liked him,” I say.

“Your family sounds great,” he says. “I already like them, and you’re very fortunate to have them.”

He’s right. It’s easy to take what you have for granted until you look at those who aren’t as lucky. I think of those who have negligent parents or even abusive ones. I close my eyes and take a moment to appreciate what I have. Who I have. Even though it aches knowing I’ll never see my grandparents again in this lifetime. The memories and time we shared are a privilege in themselves. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

It’s nearly the end of daylight. We sit in comfortable silence and the melody of rain pounding at the car nearly puts me to sleep. Right as I’m at the cusp of a dream, Grayson curses beneath his breath.

I crack my eyes open. We aren’t moving and there are countless taillights before us. It’s raining impossibly harder now. I look farther and that’s when I see red and blue lights blocking anyone from entering the bridge to Sanibel.The one and only bridge.

Grayson picks up his phone and calls someone. “Hey man,” he says. He laughs at something the person on the other line said. “You know what’s going on at the bridge?” He listens for a while, then says, “All right. No worries.” He listens for another moment, then hangs up.

Car horns blare and then a white pickup truck makes an illegal U-turn, making its way out of the standstill traffic and away from Sanibel. Grayson makes the same move as the truck, earning several honks of his own. He takes us onto the highway, farther away from our houses. I can hardly see past the wind shield, even with his wipers at full speed.

“That was Elliot,” he says. “There was a bad accident on the bridge. Five or six cars piled up. Probably from the storm. It won’t be cleared for anyone to leave or enter for hours. Possibly even tomorrow morning.” He doesn’t take his eyes off the road for even a moment to gauge my reaction.

I bite my bottom lip, something I tend to do when I’m worried. “Where are we going?”

“There’s an inn by my office.”

I pictured taking a bath tonight and then curling into bed with a book. I steal a glance from Grayson. His body isn’t tense, and his face is relaxed. It dissolves some of my anxiety.He makes me feel safe.

Once we get to the Inn, the rain has slowed to a drizzle. It’s a small two-story building with a neon sign in the parking lot. We walk empty handed to the office to check in, no bags or clothes to change into. The jingle above the door makes the sleeping oldman behind the desk stir awake, then he smiles warmly at us. “I was just resting my eyes,” he lies. “Need a room?”

“Two, actually,” Grayson says.

The old man looks down at a piece of paper, then worries his lip. “You coming from Sanibel?”

I nod.

“I’m afraid a few people already beat you to it. We have one room left.”

Great.“We’ll take it,” I say.

He hands me a key and directs us to room thirteen. I walk behind Grayson, who climbs the stairs slowly. We’ve shared a room before; this isn’t anything new for us. Once he opens the door, any lingering amusement on his face falls away. I drag my eyes away from his expression to see what made him so upset. Once I look at our room, it’s evident.

One bed. No couch.

I’ve written this exact scenario before, but now that it’s happening in my real life, rather than a fictional one, I regret putting my characters through such a compromising situation. Perhaps this is karma.

I feel the heat of his stare. I’m exhausted, hungry, and the chill from my wet clothes hasn’t left. I want to get into a warm shower and order something to eat, so I walk in and say, “We’ll make it work.”

Grayson follows, shutting the door behind him. He removes his shoes and sits on the bed. “Do you like pizza?” he asks.

“I love it.” My stomach rumbles.

He makes a quick call to order a pie. Once he sets down his phone and meets my eyes, he slowly rakes them down my body. “You go shower and hang your clothes to dry. You can wear my clothes,” he says, which brings me back to the night we painted his wall. I wore his shirt, and it smelled likehim. I vividly remember what happened shortly after, how he asked forit back and then touched me in such pleasant ways. My face must be crimson, because Grayson grins up at me, as if his thoughts took the same turn as mine. I look away and tuck myself in the bathroom. I remove my clothes and hang them to dry. Luckily, my underwear isn’t wet.

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