The bed dips behind me like he’s sitting on the edge, but still, I don’t turn around. He caresses my fingers, warming and relaxing me. I don’t care if he’s a stranger. I soak up his comfort like a dry sponge, cracked and broken and desperate. Why didn’t I feel this relief when Ashe was here? Is that why I pushed him away? For the comfort that should have been?

Grady’s hand is rough and calloused, but I like it. In the inconceivable string of absurd events today, this grounds me. His hand feels… real. Consequential. It’s here for me.

I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve made something completely about me.

When I contracted the awful norovirus after a field trip in second grade.

At home after The Sound of Music in high school.

The next day, my birthday, when Mom left.

Now, this. This is about me. And I need someone holding me, even just my hand.

The tears spit from my eyes like they’re making up for lost time, and, for once, I don’t care about being a crybaby. I’ve earned it. Right? And if nobody likes a crybaby, then that’s okay. He doesn’t know me, let alone need to like me. A terrible day binds us—nothing else.

His breath hits my fingers. “I’m sorry,” he whispers again. I hear the tears in his voice, feel them on my fingertips. We ache in different ways, but it’s a relief to ache together. And the sad, pathetic, hurting part of me wants to lock him there forever.

But I don’t get a lifetime-hand-holder. Even with Ashe. Cursed to be alone.

Soon, my tears slow. And the ache I feel lessens. It’s okay. Everything’s okay.

Stubble grazes my fingers as his second hand joins the first. He clasps my fingertips with one and my palm with the other, gently caressing. Soon, unexpectedly, tiredness overrules my agony. The lights moving by outside the large window, the world going on regardless of me, glisten through my blurry eyes, hypnotic. With the soft press of lips against my fingers, his breath warming them, I drift into a fitful but necessary sleep.

5. Grady

CHAPTER FIVE

Grady

Scratching wakes me, soft and faint. My eyelids feel heavy as I force them open, like they’re not ready to take in the world yet. I know I’m not.

Yesterday’s nightmare replays, kicking up my heart rate and making my head spin.

Then, I remember holding her hand, and the anxiety whirlwind stops. It centered me, made me feel needed, and allowed me to do something for her.

I scrub a hand over my face, wanting to be there for her again, but knowing I’m not that guy.