Page 22 of Really Truly Yours

When I return to the dining area, he’s scrolling through his phone with one thumb while his opposite hand is massaging his shoulder. His trash is balled and tossed onto the otherwise empty tray.

He closes the screen when he sees me and stands. “My turn. I didn’t want to leave your purse.”

“Thank you,” I say, mostly to his retreating back.

In the process, I notice the teen who delivered the food leaning to eye Grayson. Yep, it’s who you think it is. His name got big last fall when he was the pitcher on the mound who pulled off a dramatic game five win, landing his team in the championship series. His teammates lugged an orange cooler onto the field and gave him a sports-drink bath. He dodged, and the poor reporter trying to conduct an interview with the night’s hero got the brunt of the dousing instead.

That and a couple of other, not so flattering stories made the news.

I’ve watched lots of games with Donny, and he’s made sure my otherwise sports-clueless self knows what’s happening.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Sam. “Hi.”

Without reciprocation, my brother launches into a litany of reasons why he can’t make it to my house before seven. A car he promised to finish today. A customer who can’t get there until after work, whose check Sam desperately needs because the first of the month is days away.

“Yes, I really need to get to the pharmacy.” I roll my eyes to a rusty sprinkler head in the ceiling. “Sam, is there any way? Couldn’t Mike cover you while we run—” I pause for another excuse. “Can’t you at least—”

Accepting fate, I sigh. Who am I to argue with cashflow problems?

I resign myself to a restless night and probably a painful day tomorrow. It’s my own fault my immature brother is all I have. I drifted out of church last year while I was sick, but never drifted back in, effectively severing what few connections I had. It would be nice if someone remembered I still existed, though.

“Yes, I understand. I’ll be alright.” In the long run. When I’m home, I’ll let out the tears.

“Everything okay?”

The phone clatters to the table. How long has he been standing there? I scoot from the booth. “Great. Ready?”

Grayson’s cinnamon eyes burn a hole through my sweater as I blaze a path to his car.

No. I drive a car. Grayson Smith drives a highly engineered luxury machine. I lift the handle, which clicks ineffectively.

“You need a ride somewhere, Sydnee?”

“Nope.”

“You said something about the pharmacy?”

I spin. “You were eavesdropping!”

He laughs.

Laughs. “Would you open the door, please?”

“Uh-uh.”

I glare up. Oh, so far up.

He leans his rump against the front quarter panel and crosses his ankles, bobbing the key fob in the cup of his hand. A hot breeze lifts a lazy lock of hair off his forehead. “I’ll open it when you give me an honest answer. Do you need to stop by the pharmacy, Sydnee?”

I could stand here all day, except…I can’t stand here all day. I still feel tired, I lied about not being hungry, and the next dose of the prescription that I’m not out of is already overdue.

I release my shoulders and my pride. “Yes.”

The fancy car beeps. “Great. Just tell me where to go.”

Chapter 6

Grayson