The Deal

Him: Whole body hurts.

Sympathy flutters through my belly. Garrett had called earlier to say they’d lost the game, and apparently he’d taken some brutal hits tonight. Last time we talked, he was still icing his entire torso.

I’m too lazy to type, so I dial his number and he answers on the first ring.

His husky voice slides into my ear. “Hey.”

“Hey.” I lean back against my pillow. “I’m sorry I can’t come over and kiss all your boo-boos, but I’m working on the song.”

“It’s okay. There’s only one boo-boo I want you to kiss, and you sound too distracted for that.” He pauses. “I’m talking about my dick, by the way.”

I choke down a laugh. “Yep. I got that. No need to clarify.”

“Did you decide which song you’re going to sing?”

“I think so. It’s the one I sang to you last month when we were studying. Do you remember it?”

“Yeah. It was sad.”

“Sad is good. Packs more of an emotional punch.” I hesitate. “I forgot to ask you earlier—was your dad at the game?”

A pause. “He never misses one.”

“Did he bring up Thanksgiving again?”

“No, thank fuck. He doesn’t even look at me when we lose, so I wasn’t expecting him to be chatty.” Garrett’s voice is thick with bitterness, and then I hear him clear his throat. “Put me on speakerphone. I want to hear you sing.”

My heart squeezes with emotion, but I try to hide the response by donning a casual tone. “You want me to sing you a lullaby? Aren’t you precious.”

He chuckles. “My chest feels likes it got hit by a truck. I need a distraction.”

“Fine.” I hit the speaker button and reach for my guitar. “Feel free to hang up if you get bored.”

“Baby, I could watch you watching paint dry, and I still wouldn’t be bored.”

Garrett Graham, my own personal sweet-talker.

I settle the acoustic on my lap and sing the song from the top. My door is closed, and although the walls in the dorm are paper-thin, I’m not worried about waking Allie. The first thing I did after Fiona told me about the duet was give Allie a pair of ear plugs and warn her that I’m going to be singing late into the night until the showcase.

Weirdly enough, I’m not angry anymore. I’m relieved. Cass had turned our duet into the kind of flashy, jazz-hands performance that I despise, so as infuriating as it is to get dumped, I’ve decided I’m better off not having to sing with him.

I run through the song three times, until my voice goes hoarse and I finally have to stop to chug the bottle of water on my nightstand.

“Still here, you know.”

Garrett’s voice startles me. Then I laugh, because I honestly forgot he was on the line. “I couldn’t put you to sleep, huh? I don’t know if I should be flattered or insulted.”

“Flattered. Your voice gives me chills. Makes it impossible to fall asleep.”

I smile, even though he can’t see me. “I need to figure out what to do about that last chorus. End high or low on the last note? Oooh, and maybe I should switch up the middle section too. You know what? I have an idea. I’m hanging up now so I can figure it out, and you need to go to sleep. Night, dude.”

“Wellsy, wait,” he says before I can hang up.

I take the phone off speaker and bring it to my ear. “What’s up?”

I’m greeted by the longest pause ever.

“Garrett? You there?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Still here.” A heavy breath reverberates through the line. “Will you come home with me for Thanksgiving?”

I freeze. “Are you serious?”

Another pause, even longer than the first. I almost expect him to rescind the invitation. And I don’t think I’d be upset if he did. Knowing what I do about Garrett’s father, I’m not sure if I can sit across a dinner table from that man without reaching over to strangle him.

What kind of man hits his own son? His twelve-year-old son.

“I can’t go back there alone, Hannah. Will you come?”

His voice cracks on those last words, and so does my heart. I let out a shaky breath and say, “Of course I will.”





35




Hannah


Garrett’s father’s house is not the mansion I expected it to be, but a brownstone in Beacon Hill, which I suppose is Boston’s equivalent of mansion living. The area is gorgeous, though. I’ve been to Boston several times, but never to this ritzy part of it, and I can’t help but admire the beautiful nineteenth-century row houses, brick sidewalks and quaint gas lamps lining the narrow streets.