Grayson (15 page)

We took a long shower together and made love again in his bed. It was slower this time, leisurely and just as wonderfully satisfying. He did work on his computer while I cleaned and organized items from a new crate I’d found. This one was from Ireland. I handled everything I’d found with meticulous care, trying to salvage whatever I could of his disordered past.

By the time dinnertime came, I was starving. Grayson offered to make me something to eat, but there wasn't much in his kitchen. I knew going out to dinner wasn’t an option, so I asked about take-out. His eyes widened. He looked at me as though I’d asked him to get on a rocket and fly to the moon. I was able to convince him to order Chinese food, but he would only allow the delivery man to come as close as the gate. He refused to allow him anywhere near the house.

Grayson didn’t eat any of it. He sat and watched me, smiling as I devoured everything on my plate with unabashed enthusiasm. He teased that all our sex had worked up my appetite. Although he encouraged me to eat, he wouldn’t touch any of the food. Literally and figuratively. At one point, I asked him to pass me one of the food containers and he refused to touch it. Between large bites of the sandwich he’d made for himself, he simply explained that the paper from the cartons emitted biochemical toxins that were poisonous to his body. I stared silently for a few moments, wondering deeply about this man I was coming to know.

When I was done, Grayson asked that I tie the leftovers in a bag and deposit them in the metal garbage can outside the house. I discovered that he only ate meals he prepared with his own hands. Apparently, groceries were delivered to the house once a week and left at the gate. From what little he told me, I gathered they weren’t from a local supermarket. They were shipped from an organic farm somewhere out of state.

My time with Grayson was amazing. When he wasn't teasing me, or making me laugh, he was satiating my body with endless pleasure. We enjoyed each other’s company. Our love for books was something we shared. For a few hours, we sat in the upholstered chair and read from a collection of Robert Frost’s poetry that I’d discovered in the piles.

I learned many things about him: his habits, his idiosyncrasies, and everything that made him wonderfully Grayson. Whenever he came out of the shower, which he took several times a day, he had to towel himself off immediately. It was okay if his hair was wet, but not a drop of water could linger on his body. It was a quirk with which I didn’t mind assisting him.

Grayson suffered another paranoid episode that occurred in the early hours of the morning and revolved again around Charles. He was convinced that Charles was planting bombs around the perimeter of the house. I tried hard to be strong for him, to help him rationalize, but it killed me to see him so angry and terrified, especially because his primary concern this time was that I’d be hurt.

This episode, thankfully, didn’t last too long and I was able to convince him to come back to bed. There, we held each other, entwined as I slowly stroked his hair and whispered reassurances that he was safe into his ear. Eventually, I heard the even snore of his breath and then I let myself fall into a dreamless sleep.

Grayson seemed fine on Saturday, but sometimes I could see from his facial expression that his thoughts were weaving and scattering, unfurling in every direction. Anxiety carved a deep fissure between his brows. I could also see his struggle, his desperate attempts to keep the ideas logically tied together.

I wished I could help him. It pained me to see his mind work so hard at something I took for granted. He rarely slept. He went to bed with me at night, holding me until I fell asleep, but I’d wake a few hours later to find him sitting in the dark on his computer down the hall, or restlessly pacing back and forth. Once or twice I even found him running like the hounds of hell were at his heels on his ancient treadmill.

Early Sunday morning, I discovered him upstairs in the room with the books. They were piled all around him as he scratched at something on the floor with an old shovel. The room was saturated with an early morning chill, so thick I could feel it seeping through my skin. I hugged my torso, scrubbing my palms up and down my arms. I approached him hesitantly and asked what he was doing. My heart was in my throat because I never knew what to expect with Grayson. He stopped and leaned against the handle, his cloudy gaze finding my face. He was fully dressed. He must have gotten dressed again after we’d made love earlier.

“Digging,” he acknowledged casually. “Digging a trap.”

I swallowed hard, emotion stacking like bricks in my chest. I shook my head, my mind grasping for purchase, trying to understand. “For what, Grayson?”

“Danger. I have to be prepared. I have to protect us. I have to protect the house.”

I reached out a hand, trying to keep it steady. “You’re safe, Grayson.”

His gaze shifted to my proffered hand, but he didn’t move. He didn’t believe me. Fear and skepticism drew a roadmap of worry on his face. His jaw squared and he tightened his lips into a brittle line. I watched his body uncurl as he grabbed the shovel and silently started scraping at the floor again. That’s when I saw it. There was a large, jagged crater in the dusty wood that must have been covered up by the scattered books. It was directly over the small cracks I’d seen in the ceiling downstairs, the network of spider veins I’d noticed soon after starting here. I wondered how long he’d been working at this trap. I could already see exposed beams and fluffy insulation. If he kept this up, eventually he’d put a hole right through the wood floor.

“Go back to bed, Angie.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I’m staying with you, Grayson,” I said sternly, plopping myself down on the floor next to him.

He stopped again and stared at me, his blue eyes almost cobalt in the gray dawn. His hair was a loose mane framing his face, giving him an unruly look. “You’ll be tired. You haven’t gotten much sleep.”

I squeezed my eyes shut, hurting, thinking of the reason I’d been up most of the night. We’d held each other, made exquisite love, bathed in a temporary utopia where I could pretend he was okay.

But Grayson wasn’t okay, and as I spent more time with him, I realized the extent of his fractured thoughts. My Grayson was funny and brilliant. My Grayson was tender and passionate. My Grayson could melt my heart with the tiniest smile. But this man, too, was my Grayson, a man who was sometimes out of touch with reality, who lived in the distorted world concocted by his brain. It was a world of doubt, fear, and distrust.

“I’m not going to bed without you,” I said, hating the way my voice broke with emotion.

“Go back to bed. It’s chilly in here,” he urged softly.

I shook my head, drawing my legs up to my chest to keep warm.

Grayson’s shoulders lifted with a resigned sigh and he looked around the room. I watched him lay down his shovel and take the few steps toward me. He stretched out a steady hand, and like a lifeline, I grabbed hold of it and pulled up to my feet. I tried to blink back my tears, but they snuck out silently as I buried my face in his shoulder and snaked my arms around his waist, twisting my fingers into the soft fabric of his T-shirt.

I loved the solid feel of his body, the warmth of his embrace, and the rise and fall of his chest. They were tangible, corporeal. His body was healthy and strong and offered me comfort. It kept me grounded despite my feeling of overwhelming helplessness. I hated seeing him like this. I hated how this disorder deceived this beautiful man and filled his head with lies.

Grayson’s lips brushed against my forehead as he gently guided me.

“Let’s get you back to bed. You’re freezing.”

I nodded against his chest, too emotional to speak. As we walked down the hall, I thought about his drawer full of medications. At least if he took them, he’d get some respite from his rambling thoughts.

I woke up a few hours later in an empty bed. Early light snuck into the room, drawing a beautiful rainbow across the wrinkled sheet. Sighing deeply, I thought about the man I could hear pacing in the other room. I couldn’t begin to imagine what his world was like. My senses gave me input about the world and I trusted my brain to honestly interpret the data and make accurate conclusions and predictions. What if the conclusions were often wrong? How could I ever stay grounded? How could I ever feel safe? How could I ever put my trust in anything around me?

By the time I’d showered and found Grayson, he was busily working at his computer. He told me a little about his company, Global Systems, and how he ran it from home. I was amazed. He had an entire network of people working for him all around the world. He targeted distressed companies, evaluated their financials and monitored their stocks. He bought when the stocks were undervalued, invested funds to restructure the company, and then sold it for a large profit. It was so extensive that I could hardly wrap my brain around it.

Sunday afternoon, we sat together in my oasis, reclining on the upholstered chair. I leaned against his chest with my feet up on a small stool that he’d rescued from the debris. Sunlight filtered in through my circle in the window and sliced across our torsos, dappling the space with a warm glow. We were both quiet today and I knew we both pondered the inevitable. I’d be going back to my apartment tonight. Classes resumed tomorrow, and I was scheduled to work the night shift.

Grayson was playing with a lock of my hair, holding the dark strands up to the sunlight and watching the elusive colors jump out. My hair was really chestnut, with subtle hints of red, but it was so dark that most people just called it brown.

I sighed heavily and snuggled deeper into Grayson’s body, finding tremendous comfort just listening to the soft thump of his heart.

“I don’t want to go,” I confessed sadly against his chest.

He dropped my hair and wound his arms around me, squeezing tight.

“I don’t want you to go either.”

I chewed on my bottom lip, then turned and lined up our gazes. “Don’t shut me out again, please. Last week was unbearable.”

He tucked a finger under my chin and scanned my face, his eyes boring deeply into mine. “I promise. I won’t lock you out again. I’m sorry about last week. I was scared of my feelings and I was afraid of you getting hurt. I had a lot going on in my head.”

“I was worried about you.”

“I—I don’t want you to think of me as weak.”

I gasped, turning to face him fully with my eyes wide. “Oh God, Grayson. Never. It must take tremendous courage to deal with your illness every day. You possess an inner strength that I can’t comprehend. I could never think of you as weak. You saved me from almost getting raped, remember?”

I leaned forward and kissed him gently, trying to erase the dark look that came over his face at the mention of the incident. “I’m here if you ever need me, you know that, don’t you?” I asked.

“I do.”

“I mean it,” I said earnestly. “I’m on your side.”

A hesitant smile touched his lips and a shadow crossed his face. I canted my head and looked at him, wondering what he was thinking.
Did he not believe me?

“What?” I asked.

He gave a slight shake of his head, his gaze sliding away from mine. “My wife used to say that.”

I swallowed away my surprise at his confession. He’d never spoken of his wife.

“I’m sorry about the accident. Sorry you lost her.”

His head dipped with a barely perceptible nod.

“That must have been very difficult.”

He was quiet for a moment and I held my breath, tension winding through my body.

“She was everything to me,” he whispered. “After I lost her, my life derailed.”

I didn’t know what to say. I held him tight, hoping that he knew what was in my heart. In that moment, I felt the profoundness of the losses he’d experienced. I understood how he could lose himself and succumb to despair, how he could veer off track. I could only hope that he’d let me help him find a new path. I squeezed my eyes shut.

“I’ll
always
be here for you, Grayson.”

He brushed the back of his hand along my cheek and kissed the tip of my nose. He gave me that look I loved. It liquefied my insides, left me lethargic and slightly breathless.

“I mean it,” I affirmed.

“Yes. I know. And that’s great, because I experienced a hallucination the other day that was terrifying.”

My heart sank and I gazed into his somber eyes. I didn’t think he hallucinated. He suffered greatly from a distortion of thought, but I didn’t think he saw or heard things that weren’t there.

“What was it?” I asked, bracing myself.

“Well.” His brows came together and he lowered his head. “A few days ago I had a hallucination that you were throwing stones at my window.”

I stared blankly, nonplussed.
Okay. Was he serious?

The corner of his luscious lips kicked up, and issuing an oath, I punched him playfully in the arm.
This man drove me seriously batty!

He blocked my hands, laughing. “No, really. It was terrifying. You were throwing like a girl. I don’t think you hit the window
once!
You were dodging the stones as they were bouncing back down at you!”