Page 138 of Grim
“I’m okay, Mom.”
“No, you’re not. Don’t insult me. I can hear it in your voice. You sound like you’ve been crying.”
“I’m hormonal.”
“You’re terminal.”
“I met someone,” I blurt out. I’m not sure if I’m more interested in sharing this truth with her or if I’m simply trying to change the subject, but it’s out now anyway.
“I take back my previous comment. There aretwoacceptable reasons to not call your mother. Tell me everything. Who is he? Or her? Where did you meet? What does he do? How?”
Juliet levels of pining for Kane take over as visions of him dance in my head at her enthusiasm. Her final one-word question pours ice water on that.
“Wow. Thanks, Mom,” I reply dryly.
“I’m kidding.”
“Turn it off,” I tell D coldly.
If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, then it does not make a sound. If he turns this off and I do not bear witness, it will not happen. Everything can change.
“Nothing can change now, Kane,” the prick replies, reading my thoughts.
“Then let me out of these fucking chains and take me to her.”
He cocks his head, considering, as a smirk forms across his face. “Can’t help you with the latter,” he says at last, almost cheerfully. “But I don’t see why I can’t accommodate the former.”
He snaps his lithe fingers, and the grey chains instantly release me from the confines of the chair.
I roll my wrists and stare helplessly at the framed screen playing out this ghastly scene.
“Make yourself comfortable, reaper,” D says behind me, almost bored.
“Fuck you.” I seethe.
He sits back in his chair, propping his legs up on his desk.
“Shh.” He presses his fingers to his lips. “This is my favorite part,” he whispers, and we both turn our attention back to a conversation we should not be watching.
“His name is Kane,” I tell my mother, deciding there can’t be any harm in bumping up as close to the truth as I can.
“Ohhh,” she hums, drawing the sound out. “Strong, vaguely ominous. I like it. What’s he do?”
“He’s a doctor. Wildly intelligent, and, boy, does he know it.” I chuckle softly.
“Oh, confidence, bordering on arrogance? We do love that, don’t we? Tell me more.”
“He doesn’t smile much,” I admit softly. “But when he does, it’s earned. And his eyes—Mom, his eyes speak volumes in a look.” I pause for a moment before adding, “He’s a bit of a sarcastic ass as well.”
“Well, you’re used to that with me,” Mom interrupts. “You’re welcome. Where did you meet?”
I smile wistfully, remembering the first feel of his mouth against mine. Remembering every beautifully imperfect moment we shared since.
“Dumb luck,” I murmur. “The wrong place and the right time. Or maybe it was the right place at the wrong time.”
“Sounds like the right place at the right time to me. Fate,” Mom exclaims, and my heart physically shudders at the word. “Is it serious?”
Her continued litany of questions keeps dragging me back to the present. Guilt begins to creep in as I fear I might be misleading my mom or giving her a false sense of hope. But I want her to know this. I want her to have this.
