Page 8 of Never Always
I reply with the time and he doesn’t respond, so I head back to my house to get ready. When I pass by the full-length mirror after I put the dress on, I actually scare myself. A stranger stares back at me. Instead of picking myself apart, finding the things that not even makeup and chemicals can change, I snap a photo with my phone and text it to my sister. A second later, before she replies, I add,Heading out on a date. #miracle
Grabbing my oversize brown sweater from the bed, I vow to only put it on if I get really cold. I slide my phone into a small purse and make my way to my car. I know the way to Clover’s house because it’s in a section of town that everyone knows. I double check the house number and see cars lining the street already. The deep breath I take in is dual purpose. To calm my nerves and to blow my silky straight hair out of my face with the exhale. Whatever makeup was used seems like it will last for at least a month.
I read the series of pep talk texts from Sue-Ellen before getting out of the car and ringing the doorbell. When no one answers after a while, I open the heavy door and peek my head in. Clover rushes to me, a pair of high heels clutched in one hand. “Do you think these go with my dress?”
“Of course,” I say, clearing my throat. Her dress is a light blush and the shoes are black. Doesn’t black go with everything? “You look beautiful,” I say. A waiter appears, a tray of champagne glasses held out in our direction. She returns the compliment as she grabs my purse and sweater and hangs them on a rack by the door.
She grabs a flute and thrusts it at me. “Drink up. I’m watching my alcohol consumption.” Clover winks at me. I swallow hard, trying to decipher what exactly that means.No. It can’t mean that.She lays a hand on her flat stomach and my eyes widen. “As promised, Grey is in the formal living room, regaling people about a bacteria bloom in the bay.” She points to the right at the open door. Patting me on the back, she sends me in his direction before I can ask if she’s pregnant or if I can grab my phone from my purse.
I take a sip of the fizzy champagne even though I almost never drink. I’m breaking all my own stereotypes tonight. Swallowing the rest, I clutch the glass by the rim at my side. When I walk in, several pairs of eyes light on me. I’m used to this. What I’m not used to is the fact they continue staring. Tonight, it’s not a passing glance. Grey’s eyes widen—a wholly shocked expression crosses his face. “Good evening,” I say, swallowing down my fear. “Clover told me I could find you in here.” I meet Grey’s eyes and he looks flustered, opening and closing his mouth.
“Tennyson, you look… you look, not like yourself,” Grey says, wincing. “Beautiful, you look beautiful, I mean.” He’s just as smooth as I am. That’s a good thing if not a bit horrifying. What does that say about our profession? Our education? Literally our whole lives?
I smile and finally take in a deep breath when he makes his way across the room so I don’t have to speak to him across several people. He’s looking at me as if he’s never seen me before, a slow perusal of my body, face, hair, the whole package. “I, uh, didn’t know you would be here. Clover told me there would be opportunities to get grants for the Aquatic Lab and it was a last-minute thing, so I zoomed on over, of course. I didn’t know you’d be here, or that you knew the Ballentines,” he says, finally regaining composure. “I mean, the accents, I should have guessed you were all from the same place.” Grey pauses, brow furrowed. “Not that the accent is a bad thing or anything, just that I should have known. Oh man, now I’m rambling.”
Clover stands next to her husband in the doorway, grinning in my direction. She’s smoother than I gave her credit for. I bet she will even make good on her word and have grants ready and waiting.
Grey interrupts my thoughts. “Can I get you another drink?” He extends his arm, reaching for the empty glass I forgot I had.
“Please,” I say, handing it over, shaking like a leaf. “Thank you.”
His grin is shy, hopeful. “Be right back.” Grey turns, stumbling over his own feet to the foyer where champagne is flowing freely. Glancing around, I notice that there are just as many people casual, in jeans and tee shirts, as there are those mingling in business casual attire. Mercer’s Teammates are easy to spot. They look like Grange or some form of Grange, and I hate that I know that.
They have on the same watch. The kind that tells the time and has extra dials and such. There’s a confident swagger in the way they move that says they know how to do and handle anything that comes their way. Observance of everything, even if I don’t understand it fully, is part of my genetic makeup. Those that can’t do or be, study, right? Grey interrupts my assessment by forcing another champagne flute into my hand. I thank him and try my best not to screw up conversation.
Work is easy to talk about, but it’s also what we always talk about. He tells me about some of the people here and how impressed they were with the work we’re doing. Specifically, the study regarding the bacteria in the bay and the effects on marine life.
I spot a chess set on a swanky shelving unit in the living room, and in a lull, I find the nerve to ask, “Want to play a game of chess?” The second I say it, I know it’s literally the last thing folks at a party deem acceptable. Grey’s eyes light, and I find myself relieved as I retrieve the heavy box. A weighted set, nice.
The party is eclectic in guests. Clover makes friends with everyone and her house right now proves it. There are Navy SEALs with red cups in the kitchen which is not a practical place to play chess anyhow. There are her salon friends and their husbands, neighbors, and a politician or two because Clover was born into a political family. It makes sense she’d have connections on a local level here in Cape Cod. Clover and Mercer are entertaining a few of them at the moment as we make our way back into the formal room that most have moved away from in order to socialize.What you’re supposed to do at a social gathering,I remind myself.
Grey seems happy to participate in my atypical party game, so I shrug off my self-conscious nerves and move on to worrying about beating him instead. Surely I will. Surely his confidence will suffer. We round the corner, and I see him. Grange. He is talking to a beautiful brunette woman who appears… panicked. At his presence? At having to speak to him? There’s no way I can hear what they’re saying from here, but I can read the uncomfortable body language. Everyone can. Grange must have just arrived as they’re in the foyer, and his hands are balled into fists by his sides. The woman, who has to be his ex, talks with her hands—waving them around like she’s conducting a symphony. I can’t see her face, but I can tell she’s not happy. With the knowledge Clover told me about their relationship, I feel like an intruder. I’m about to let my gaze drop to the floor, where it belongs, when another man walks up to Sierra. He’s tall, lean, well dressed, in other words, he looks like the opposite of Corrick Granger right now. He takes Sierra’s hand in his and presses his body close to her side. I see the moment Grange takes it all in. He winces. The pain flashes across his features. I’m aware his friends are approaching him, a slow stalking in case they’re needed for an eruption of heaven knows what.
It’s impossible for them to know that he’s not angry or about to explode for no reason. Grange is heartbroken. Sad. Beaten down and trodden on. They can’t see it because they can’t relate. I can. In that space of a heartbeat, I saw the man no one else can. Grange lunges for the man, a scream on his lips and rage laced through his fists. Violence. That’s how he copes.
Mercer rushes over and a few more of his teammates hold him back, and everyone else gawks as Grange struggles to get out of their grasp to attack. Like some wild, rabid animal poisoned and hungry. It’s painful to watch. Embarrassing, even. A weak moment playing in front of a band of judges. Sierra and her perfection moves away, turns her back, still clutching the other man. Grange doesn’t calm down, no, her retreating with the other man only stokes his fury.
His teammates are grappling with him, trying to find purchase on his bulging muscles and blind rage, and I have a million questions, mostly,why did you come here, Grange?I don’t hesitate another second, though. They can’t get him to calm down and leave. After an apologetic glance at Grey, I tuck the game of chess under my arm and take the hardest steps I’ve ever walked.
“Corrick Granger,” I scream, and it is most definitely an ear-piercing decibel because the crowd winces, and all gazes, again, focus on me. They aren’t the ones I’m worried about though. He responds to my shout—his eyes meeting mine from across the room. I take another tentative step toward him and try to ignore the heat prickling on the back of my neck.
Grange stops struggling, and his friend’s faces relax as they look at me curiously. Swallowing down my nerves, I say, “You have one option, Corrick.” I’m only a few feet away, so I know he can hear me clearly. His eyes are raking my body in an unfamiliar way. Certainly not in the same way when he’s insulting me. This is different. I remember I look different tonight, though. “Come with me right now. We have a score to settle.” The command is simple. There aren’t details, but this is his escape clause from tonight’s nightmare, and he knows it.
His eyes flick to the game under my arm, and I see his body relax. Grange apologizes to Mercer and his friends. “Okay,” he says to me, tone low. He lets his gaze find Sierra once more, and I look away. I don’t want to see that pain again, I can’t. I close the remaining distance and offer him my hand—it hangs in the air between our bodies. For a moment, I assume he won’t take it, but he does, a second before my arm starts trembling. He jerks initially but settles into my hold effortlessly. His other hand takes the chess set from me. This isn’t me; I remind myself. This isn’t a good man who needs saving. He is a cheater. He deserves embarrassment, and more. He is angry and volatile, and oddly enough, I saw a bit of myself in him tonight and that was enough to offer a reprieve.
Glancing over my shoulder, I see Grey standing in the doorway of the formal living room, arms crossed and face grim. I mouth “I’m sorry” while maintaining eye contact with him, he turns his back on us. That’s destroyed. Someone, I don’t know who, thrusts my purse and sweater into my free hand. Sighing, I pull Grange out into a cool northeast night and I walk him down the street to my car. I don’t let go of him until we’re in front of my car.
“What were you thinking?” I say, hissing under my breath. “You could have ruined your whole life again if you hit him. If you touched a hair on his head.” This time it comes out like a shriek. “Grange, you’re so close to having your life back. How can you be so senseless?”
“I don’t want my fucking life back,” he says, voice hoarse.
I ball my fists. “Oh, that sounds like the truth. Not.” He leans against my car and tilts his chin up to look at the sky. “What were you thinking?” I ask again, quieter this round.
He looks down at me—emotions schooled into submission. “That I could go for a game of chess. That’s what I was thinking.” Hmm. He can play chess. That’s surprising.
That simple. That complicated. The board game is still clutched under his arm, I realize belatedly. “Well, we’ve stolen it, so we might as well play a few rounds. We are partners in crime now.” The plus side is I won’t feel guilty when I beatthisman.
He gets in my car without an invitation and slams the door. “Okay,” I say to myself, rounding the car to the driver’s side. The second I get behind the wheel, I know I can’t.
