Page 125 of Butter My Biscuit

My eyes go wide as I look at the calendar on my phone.

I’m late.

Remi’s mouth falls open. “Holy fuck.”

I grab my phone and text Harrison.

Grace

Can we meet tomorrow for coffee around dark?

28

HARRISON

When I walk into the coffee shop, Grace is sitting in the corner by the large windows, sipping her coffee. She’s watching two people in the town square throw a neon-green Frisbee back and forth, but she’s deep in thought. The sun is beginning to set, and I suck in a deep breath when I see her skin glowing in the golden hour.

Then, I notice she cut her hair to her chin, and my mouth falls open.

When she sees me, she immediately smiles.

“Hi,” she says. There’s a thick spiral notebook on the table with one of her favorite gel pens.

“Hi. Your hair … it looks … incredible.” I stand awkwardly for a moment too long, then nervously sit.

This woman is my kryptonite. Always has been.

“Thanks. How have you been?” she asks.

“Great. You?”

We’re holding a conversation like we’re strangers, and I hate it.

“Perfect.” She shakes her head. “Sorry, we should probably get started with planning this wedding.”

“Grace,” I whisper. “You really don’t have to do this, especially if it’s weird.”

“I know. But it’s my gift to you. Before I go.”

“Where are you goin’?” It catches me off guard.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and …” She swallows. “Well, it doesn’t matter. Can’t worry about things before they happen, ya know?”

I meet her eyes, waiting for her to continue, to explain because she seems off. Something isn’t right.

She swallows hard, looking at me with pain in her eyes. “I might be pregnant.”

“What?” My mouth falls, and then I realize what she’s saying. Then, my mind starts spinning. “Have you taken a test?”

She shakes her head. “I didn’t want to. I wanted you to be there. If …”

I can see she’s visibly shaken up, and there are too many wandering eyes on her. Now, when we’re together, it’s like everyone is watching us to see if we cross the line so they can go back and tell Stephanie. That shit started when we returned from Hawaii. After she confronted me and asked if I’d been with Grace.

“Gracie”—I stand and hold my hand out to her—“let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The air feels too thick, almost as if I’m suffocating, as my mind goes through what this could potentially mean.

She takes it, and I lead her outside and to my truck.

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