Page 89 of Frat House Fling

He set everything down by the dresser and immediately pulled something out of the duffel bag. Then he handed me the dark blue robe.

Seeing it was like seeing an old friend. “Thank you,” I said. “That’s the second time you’ve rescued it for me.”

To my surprise, a shadow crossed his face. I’d never seen Grant reluctant to take credit for something, but he was now. “ Yeah, but one of those times I was responsible for taking in the first place.”

I hugged the robe to my chest and looked away for a moment even though I assumed as much. And I also assumed it hadn’t been his idea. “You were partly responsible. And when you saw how upset I was, you brought it back.”

I threw the robe over my shoulders and slid my arms into the sleeves. As good as the weighted blanket had felt, this felt better. This felt like home.

Grant down at my feet. The robe ended above my ankles, so there was no danger of it tripping me. “I guess your grandpa wasn’t as tall as me,” Grant said.

“Few people are as tall as you.”

He gave a small smile at that, but mostly he seemed miserable. His next question surprised me. “What was your grandfather like?”

The question made me happy and sad at the same time. I missed him so much. Since Grant was hovering awkwardly by the door, I gestured towards the sofa in the sitting area. If he really wanted to know, I’d tell him.

“He was a good man,” I said, after Grant sat on the sofa, his legs looking impossibly long. “I didn’t tell him everything I was going through, like how I was having problems my senior of high school, and the year after when I had so many jobs, but I could have. You know? I could have if I’d wanted to.”

“What else?”

“He liked the jokes from Reader's Digest. And to white.”

Grant cocked his head to the side. “Really?”

“Yes,” I said somewhat defensively. “They had different hobbies back in his day.”

“I know, I’m just surprised because I whittle, too.”

“Really?” I couldn’t tell if he was making fun of me, or not, but I soon landed on the side of not. He told a story about how when he was a kid, he and his friends would play in the woods, pretending they had to survive out there. They were able to swipe a couple of real knives from their parents’ house, and sometimes when no one else had any time to play. He would grab a stick and start carving on it.

“What did you make?”

“Smaller sticks, usually,” he said, and I laughed. “Eventually I got good enough to make rectangles.”

I smiled at that. “I never would’ve guessed that you had something in common with my grandpa.”

“Me either. Are you ever going to sit down?” He waited until I was curled up in the armchair opposite him before he spoke again. “You really miss him, don’t you?”

“Yes. Every day. He was so excited when I got into Langley, he?—”

Grant’s head whipped around. “When you what?”

Oops.

“Seriously? If you’re a student, why the hell did you choose to spend the summer being our maid?”

Partly for that very reaction he had just had, I thought to myself. But I explained a bit about my scholarship and what it covered versus what it didn’t.

I wasn’t very surprised by his next question.

“Why didn’t you tell us?”

“Do you mind if I table that for now? Maybe we could talk about it another time.”

“Sure.” He pushed to his feet. “You must be tired. I’ll just let you?—"

“I didn’t mean for you to leave.”