Page 37 of The Best Wild Idea
“You read it?” I ask, walking toward the cart to open the bottle of red wine to offer her a glass. I don’t want to scare her back into her room, afraid her disdain toward me will keepher locked up in whatever bedroom she’s checked into over the entire length of our trip if we keep going like we are.
“No, I thought I’d fly all the way here and then toss it out the window,” she says, sighing but staring longingly at the glass I’ve filled. I side-eye her for a beat, not handing her the glass until she cuts the sarcasm. “Sorry,” she relents. “Yes. I read it.”
Without a word, I close the space between us and hand her the glass, then grab another empty one for me.
“And?” I ask.
“He said he wants me to havefun,” she deadpans.
I snort before I can stop myself. Her head cocks to the side.
“Sorry,” I say into my hand. Then I bring the glass up to my lips, distracting myself from unleashing into a second full-blown chuckle. The irony of that statement, mixed with the deflated look in her eyes, is too much. I quickly pull the glass back as a wide smile stretches over my face, and, before I can stop it, I let another snort roll out.
“What’s so funny to you?” she asks, but when our eyes meet, I can see humor lifting her eyes too, fighting to stay hidden.
“Jules,” I start, “I can’t think of anything less fun than taking a trip with a guy you hate in place of your late fiancé. So, for him to suggest that to you is almost comical. No, notalmost. Itiscomical.”
I take a big swig of the wine, before clenching my teeth in an effort to stop laughing, but I can’t. Another chuckle escapes me.
Her lips turn, tempting a smile, but she holds strong by biting her lip back before it can go full-blown rogue.
“Glad you get a kick out of that,” she deadpans again.
“What else did he say?” I ask, hoping she’ll let it all out instead of keeping everything about him bottled up. I know from experience how toxic that can be.
“That you were a real piece of work at school,” she adds before making her way over to the couch in the sitting area. Sheplops onto it and takes a long gulp from her own stemware, turning the inner half of her lips a deeper shade of red.
“Is that right?” I ask, following her lead. I sit in the chair farthest away from her, fully aware that I’m treating her like a caged animal. One wrong move and she might retreat back into her habitat, only to be coaxed out again with red wine and sustenance.
“He said you brought him out of his shell.” She looks down at her glass and swirls it around a bit. “And that every time you two got in trouble at boarding school, he believes his parents were slightly proud of him because it meant that he was having fun. With you, he enjoyed a memorable childhood, which is what they really wanted for him when they sent him.” She finally smiles and her blue eyes pool in mine. “I’m glad he got to have that experience with you.”
I think back at the memory of meeting Grant for the first time. That day I walked into our dorm room and saw this stiff kid sitting with his back to me. His maroon tie all cinched up around his neck, even though classes wouldn’t be starting for two full days. Then the way he looked at me like I was an undiscovered specimen from one of his biology slides — something he’d never seen before.
I’d only ever felt invisible while home. What I’d never told Grant in those early days of our friendship was that he was the first person to look at me like I was anything worth seeing. I needed him as much as he needed me, and we fed off each other from the moment we said hello. Him needing someone to pull him out of his shyness, and me needing a true friend, which is exactly what he turned out to be.
“I might have pulled him out of his shell, but he gave me what I needed the most back then,” I admit to her, taking another long sip of my wine. It’s going down smooth and quick.We may need to dive into whatever’s under those silver domes pretty soon so we don’t immediately get drunk off this burgundy.
“And what was that?” she asks. “A wingman? Someone to follow you around on all your silly antics just like you needed after—” She cocks her head, stopping before she saysafter your father died. And although it’s not exactly an invitation for a full-blown conversation, or really one I want to have, I’m happy she’s willing to talk to me at all right now.
“I needed a friend,” I answer, shrugging. “If I think back at my life before meeting Grant, the first word that comes to my mind islonely. Theninvisible. I was an only child, raised by a collection of nannies and a father who was married to his business. I always had a hunch that I reminded him of my mother, so Dad rarely looked in my direction. By the time I arrived at Fox Glenn, the only long-term companion I’d had was trouble. Grant was the first friend I ever had. He kind of took the place of familyandfriends in my head. And my heart. He was like a brother to me.”
She lowers her glass onto her lap and scrunches her nose.
“I never knew that about your childhood,” she admits. “I only ever heard stories from after you met.”
“I’m sure Grant never really talked about my past all that much,” I say, brushing it off, wondering why I felt the need to disclose something so personal right now. “When I came in and saw him in my dorm room that day . . . oh boy.” I pause to laugh. “I honestly didn’t know what to think. He was the textbook definition of a dork. But I loved that about him. You know how some people just fit together like a puzzle piece? Even though nothing about it makes sense?”
She nods, amused. “Of course.”
“That was us. We were meant to fit together, even if none of the edges matched.”
“Opposites attract,” she agrees and her eyes shine. “Grant had a way of fitting together with lots of people who weren’t like him.”
“That’s becauseno onewas like him.” I smile.
She looks wistful for a beat. Almost,almostwith a tinge of admiration thrown in my direction, like I understand something she thought only she understood.
“He was good in practically every way, which is not a quality many people share,” I tell her.
