Page 111 of Grace on the Rocks

Bryan nodded, his own throat too clogged to reply.

Cameron poured them each a drink and held his up in toast.Bryanmirrored his father before wetting his parched throat with a sip.

“Would you like to use the community center for your shindig?”

It was a touching offer, but he’d imagined the party outside on the beach, and he was none too eager to set foot back inside the community center any time soon.

“Thanks,Da.ButIwas going to hold it out back ofGrandad’shouse.”

His father nodded. “Youshould stop calling it that.It’syour place now.”Helaughed a little sadly. “Alwayswas.”

The distance between them was palpable, but his father was trying to bridge it.

“He was always different with you than he was with me.EvenwhenIwas young.”

Bryan turned in surprise to study his father’s face and found it tense with grief and regret.

“IfIwas hard on you—about the stammer—it’s because that’s how he was with me.AndIoutgrew mine.Ithought—feared—that you didn’t because with you he was always too soft.”

Standing there with his father,Bryan’sworldview titled sideways, likeUranus, spinning along with an unfamiliar view.

His father’d had a stammer?

“I was so afraid it would stop you living up to your potential, and you always showed so much potential.ButIguess we just needed to get out of your way.”

Bryan shook his head, eyes watery, unable to speak.

Before turning to go back inside, his father cupped the back ofBryan’sneck, the closest they’d come to an embrace in decades.

“Tag, you’re it!”Samshouted, tappingBryan’sleg and darting away shrieking with delight, asBryanset down his whisky glass and chased after the kids to peals of joyful barks and summer laughter.

ChapterTwenty-Nine

Space and perspective were a pair of double-edged swords.Somehow, after everything,Gracefound the ending of her book.Itcame to her fast and hard, sneaking up like an orgasm, as her fingers flew across the keyboard.Hercharacters were finally being honest with each other, of all things, and it was somehow exactly the ending she’d been searching for.

When she was finished, she sent it to her agent without stopping to run spellcheck—better to let objective critics have the first pass than to second-guess herself into oblivion and another missed deadline.

After a few minutes, the euphoria wore off and she just felt sad.She’dgiven her characters the ending she wanted for herself.

Bryan had suggested she write about the love between friends, and soMayaandBlake, who started off as rivals irritating the stew out of each other, had become the best of friends.Inthe end, their platonic love had developed into something more, and the two teens were planning for futures that would include each other, whileGraceandBryanwere preparing to go their separate ways.

In less than a week, she andWeswould climb aboardTeàrlach’splane having accomplished what they came here for.Butin light of what could have been, finishing her novel felt almost hollow.

She couldn’t stop wondering howBryanwas holding up.Weshad mentioned running into him and reminded her about the welcome reception for his investor, but she’d conveniently dodged questions about his picketing neighbors.Whatwould the investor do if they arrived to find a hostile crowd surrounding his beautiful home with torches and pitchforks?

To take her mind off the fact that her brother still hadn’t texted her back after his game-ending injury, or maybe just to torture herself about her impending departure, she went for a walk down the beach, eventually winding up outsideBryan’sbackdoor.Afaint smokiness from last night’s bonfire still tinged the salty sea air, tugging at her heart.Wouldshe ever smell smoke, or evenBand-Aids, again without remembering him and longing for his whisky-flavored kiss?

Without stopping to overthink it,Gracemade her way up to the patio and tapped hesitantly on the back door.Therewas no answer, but a sudden urgency to see the finished house came over her.Ofcourse, she could wait until the reception tonight, butGracewanted a private viewing, where no one could observe her in a state of overwhelm.

She tried the handle that he never seemed to lock and let herself in.Thescent of him overpowered any new construction smells—his soap, his cologne, his whisky.Itwas intoxicating, and tears stung her eyes.

A tea mug still sat on the kitchen counter alongside his ever-present tablet.Gracedrew her fingers over the smudges of his fingerprints, as though she could touch his hand, and the screen woke up, showing a document he’d been working on.

As a writer, she knew better than to read it.Thatwould be the utmost invasion of privacy.Sheabsolutely wouldn’t do that.Butas she turned away, her eye caught a word here and there and a flicker of recognition lit inside her brain.

It was his speech to the town—the one she’d offered to help with—the one she’d told him to write from his heart.

Licking her lips, she pulled the tablet closer.Thiswas merely a professional courtesy, no more an invasion of privacy than him reading her published work, right?He’dbeen open to help from her once, after all.

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