Page 104 of Falling for Grace

“He has the ears of a wolf when it’s a private conversation,” she says more loudly, “but then ignores me when I need help with something.”

“It’s called selective hearing, dear,” he adds and she tuts.

I grab the keys off the console table in the hallway and head to the car to face my fate.

The rehabilitation centre is at the end of a long gravel driveway, and I can see Brandon standing in the distance, his lone figure looking small against the imposing marble pillars at the front of the building.

My pulse has picked up, and there is a tightness in my chest and throat that wasn’t there this morning. It has grown progressively worse the closer I’ve gotten to the centre.

I turn the car so that it’s pulled up alongside him, and he opens the back door, throwing his duffle bag in before opening the passenger door. His sunglasses are hiding his eyes from me again.

But saying that, so are mine.

“Grace?” My name escapes his lips on a whisper, and so much passes between the two of us that I can feel the particles charge in the space between. He climbs in and faces me, and I take my glasses off, reaching over and grabbing his hand and pulling him to me in a warm embrace.

I haven’t spoken yet, too scared that the words will get stuck behind the sob that is sitting at the back of my throat. He pulls back and holds me at arm's length, pulling his own glasses off.

Green eyes meeting grey again.

“You are the last person I was expecting to pick me up. Are you really here?” he asks and I nod. He moves one of his hands to my cheek and I lean into it, turning my head and kissing his rough palm.

“We have a lot to talk about.” I finally find my voice,quiet but firm, and he nods his understanding. “I have so many things to say to you, but I can’t do that when I’m driving, so for now, I’m just going to say…” I lean forward and press play on my phone. The sound of Incubus’s song “Drive” comes through the speakers.

He squeezes my hand and I know he gets it.

I was never very good with words as a teenager, the awkwardness of a troubled childhood and a turbulent relationship with my father. I couldn’t convey my feelings well and I used to drive Brandon insane.

More so than Danny.

But then I guess I was in a relationship with Brandon. He would feel like hitting his head against the wall some days when he was trying to get me to open up.

So I’ve done what I used to do.

I’ve tried to convey some of what I am feeling through the song lyrics. I let the music talk where I can’t.

I follow the satnav through the winding country lanes, our destination about a 20-minute drive. It’s such a beautiful day. A walk feels like the perfect environment to talk to him, and I want to show him something.

The chorus comes on, and I find myself singing the lyrics out of habit.

Because I will be there. It’s just a question of whether he will let me. Soon he’s joining in, looking out the window at the passing scenery as I concentrate on the road. He picks up my phone, which is linked to the Bluetooth. I know he wants to pick his own song and I prepare myself to have to unlock it for him.

“I remember,” he says, pressing the buttons to unlock it. “Bike lock code, right? I really hope your bank account pin isn’t the same as this.”

I look over and grin. His shades are back on but his lips crease at the side, and I find myself really, really wanting to look at his eyes.

I turn my attention back to the road because if I sit and look at him anymore, I’ll either cry, eye-fuck him, or crash the car.

He flicks through my songs, and I’m apprehensive as to what he’s going to put on. What will he choose? What will he try and say? If the tables were turned, I would struggle to find the song that had the lyrics “I’m an absolute idiot” in them.

Linkin Park’s “What I’ve Done” comes through the speakers. I push my temporary anger towards him to the pandora's box and listen to the lyrics. It’s the final verse that really resonates with me and makes me realise where he is. Because during his time at the facility, he has forgiven himself. Or at least he’s trying to.

The song ends and I grab the phone, but before I get a chance, he has already selected another one. Puddle of Mudd’s “Blurry.”

“This was on repeat when you ended it with me at Dad’s 60th Birthday. When you called things off. This was me, I wanted to call you up and play you this down the phone.”

“That would have been weird.” I glance at him and smile slightly. The atmosphere in the car shifts.

“But you would have got it.You could be my someone, you could be my scene, you know that I’ll protect you, from all of the obscene, and oceans in between us, but that’s not very far.”He sings the lyrics, and I want to smack him around the head.

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