“Me, too,” I breathe out weakly. I don’t know what I’m doing here. Don’t know what I thought might happen between us. I feel foolish. Naive. Sad. Angry. Well, maybe not angry, but anger adjacent.

I probably should’ve left when I realized what he’d done, but I didn’t want to embarrass him or myself in front of Gil and Marigold. Besides, when Gil went in for that unexpected hug, he whispered, “He’s freaking out about his feelings for you. Try not to hold it against him.”

So I tried not to. Gil’s words restored a little hope, and I played along, thinking Grady might come to his senses and want another chance. All I got was Bothered Grady, Grouchy Grady, stubbornly refusing to end this charade, no matter how much Gil pushed the limits.

But the piano pushed me to my limit. I glance at it across the room. Its glossy black exterior shines in the dying sun, and with the lids closed, it reminds me of a coffin. Grady keeps a coffin-like reminder of his bad memories, and I’m his human version of this. He keeps me around to make himself miserable. I’m not his piano. I refuse to become Grady’s unloved, unplayed, token of guilt and regret.

I don’t want that for him. I don’t want it for me, either.

I force a smile. “It was a lovely dinner. Thanks for inviting me. I’m going to head out, though. Best to avoid any more embarrassing outbursts, right?” I chuckle, though nothing is funny.

A beat passes with his face fixed on distress.

“I shouldn’t have said that around them,” I say. “That was my mistake.”

Pause. Nothing.

“Say my goodbyes for me?” I motion to the window. “And tell Marigold to keep the game. She’ll get a lot more use out of it than me. Maybe she’d like to play with Peter.”

He hesitates again, like a million thoughts might be spinning through his head, and he can’t latch on to any of them. He wrings the towel, unfairly drawing my eyes to the muscles tightening in his forearms. Stop it, Marnie. The silence lingers like he wants to speak but can’t.

“Nothing?” I challenge, shrugging my shoulders. “You can’t think of anything to say to me?”

He scrubs a hand over his head. “This isn’t what I wanted to happen.”

In a warm flood, tears fill my eyes and threaten to spill over. His words force me to zoom out from this awful farce of a “date” to our beginning—he never wanted that to happen, of course, but he never wanted anything that came after, either. Not the responsibility. Not the guilt. Not me.

“Yeah, I got that. Goodbye, Grady.”

I don’t breathe again until I’m outside, the door slammed shut behind me, and that breath comes with a choking sob.

34. Grady