Page 120 of All These Beautiful Strangers
And I had been distant, cold even, at times. I knew that.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “I don’t know—maybe it was stupid. But that’s how I felt. And I went from hurt to angry to that person who said those things. And I’m sorry.”
Part of me felt like I should apologize too, for treating him the way I had. But a larger part, the more stubborn part, felt that apologizing would mean that I was apologizing for what he had done—that the way I had treated him had caused him to treat me the way he had, and that wasn’t true. Was it?
“I didn’t come here expecting anything,” Dalton went on. “I just came over because I wanted you to know how sorry I am about what happened.”
“Well, thanks, I guess,” I said.
He stood in front of me, his shoulders all slumped and his eyes all remorseful. He looked genuinely sorry. And I mean, this was Dalton. This was the guy who had put his arm around the back of my chair in the dining hall. The guy who had defended me against his friends. The guy who had held me as if I were fragile and might break when he kissed me. The guy who looked at me like—like no one had ever looked at me. Before the other night, he had always treated me with the utmost care and respect.
“Well, I’ll go now,” Dalton said. “Thank you for hearing me out.”
“Sure,” I said.
When he left, Greyson came back in and closed the door. “Glad that’s over,” he said.
“Yeah,” I said.
“It is over, isn’t it?” he asked.
I didn’t answer him.
“Charlie?”
“It’s just—what if he really is sorry?” I asked. “I know that sounds stupid, but what if he got upset the other day and just made a mistake? What if it was never about the game, and he just said that to hurt me in the moment? If I’m being honest, I haven’t always been very nice to him, either.”
“You’re right,” Greyson said. “You are sounding really stupid right now.”
I glared at him. What right did he have to talk to me like that? And really, what did he know about Dalton?
What if Dalton really did care about me, and we were good together, and I let him go? What if I had something good here, and I was letting it slip through my fingers because my pride was hurt?
“Maybe this was a bad idea, you coming here,” I said. “Maybe you’re confused about what we’re doing here.”
“And just what is it that you think I’m confused about exactly?” Greyson asked.
“Me,” I said. “This. Us. I don’t—I don’t have feelings for you,” I said.
Greyson scoffed. He looked as if I had slapped him. “Charlie—I don’t—” He stopped. “I came here because you’re my friend. And because you seemed like you really needed someone. That’s all. But you’re right. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea.”
He picked up his bag and started throwing his things into it.
“You’re leaving?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. He zipped up his bag and set the files he had brought over on the edge of my desk.
“Greyson?”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for, Charlie,” he said. “I really do.”
Thirty-Four
Grace Calloway
August 1, 2007
The letter, if you could really call it that, had only two words on it. In thickly drawn, all-capital letters, it read: I KNOW.
