Grant answered part of my conundrum for me, closing the truck door a minute later. By the time he’d come around to the driver’s side and slid behind the steering wheel, the fervent lines drawn on his forehead were gone.
“When are you going to take your Benz out for a spin?” He lifted his chin at where the white gleaming car sat inside of the garage as he fired up the engine. “Mrs. Kent told me you had a cab take you to and from your appointment today.”
How did I explain this? How did I explain it gently?
As I warred with getting out the first word, Grant continued. “If it has anything to do with being nervous about driving in New York City traffic, I get it. I could go out with you until you get more comfortable if you want.”
My head shook as my hands wrung at the hem of my dress. “It’s not that.”
Grant shrugged as he pulled out of the driveway, waiting for the gate to open. “Then what is it?”
Realizing there was no gentle way to put anything like this, I exhaled. “I don’t think I should be driving anymore. I’m not sure it’s safe.” I paused to take a breath, focusing on the dashboard when I could feel Grant’s focus on me. “Back in Texas, before we flew up here, I had a bad bout of chorea while I was driving.” I heard the breath hiss past Grant’s teeth when he realized what I was getting at. “Charlie was in the car, and even though I didn’t crash, it was only because luck or angels or something was on my side. I couldn’t control my body, Grant. I couldn’t do it.” My hands were shaking from the memory. “I shouldn’t drive anymore.”
It wasn’t so much this first loss of freedom, of the many I knew were coming, that made the tears start—it was acknowledging what could have happened to Charlie as a result. I should have stopped driving weeks ago, maybe even months. I’d known that. Hell, my doctors had advised it, but I hadn’t listened. I’d been selfish and determined that I could hold off. I hadn’t been ready to give up this first form of independence, and it had almost cost me my daughter’s well-being.
She was already an unwilling victim, being the daughter of a parent with Huntington’s—what in the hell had I been thinking almost making her one of a vehicular accident?
Grant had always hated watching me cry. Legitimately hated it. It was no different now.
“Come here,” he said quietly, draping his arm around me and pulling me close until my head could rest on his shoulder. “It’s okay. You’re fine. Charlie’s fine. It’s okay.” His arm tightened around me the harder I sobbed. “I’m sorry about the car. I should have stopped to think. I should have known . . .”
My head shook against his shoulder. “Don’t apologize. That is, by far, the nicest gift anyone’s ever gotten for me.”
I wiped at my eyes and made myself smile. This was supposed to be a date. My first one in seven years. And I hadn’t even made it out of the driveway before bursting into tears. God, what had happened to me? The strong, crying-is-for-babies girl I’d been before? It was almost like being around Grant made me weak. Why else would I be crying so much?
Or maybe it was the opposite. Maybe being around him made me stronger. Strong enough to be vulnerable and express my emotions. Whatever it was—strength or weakness—I knew I felt better with him that I had before, when those silent tears had been shed alone.
“Even if all I ever get to do is sit in it and pretend to be driving, I’ll still enjoy it.”
He kissed the top of my head, ringing his arm around my neck. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, holding me so tightly it was almost like he thought he was fighting some invisible force trying to rip me away. “I’ll hire a driver. Keep one on stand-by so you can come and go whenever you want.”
My head had started to shake before he’d finished saying driver. “No, I’d rather call a cab or catch a bus when I need to go somewhere. That way Charlie won’t get suspicious. If you go and hire a driver to take me wherever I want to go, she’ll know. She’ll know something’s wrong.” My head shook against him. “No driver.”
Grant was silent for a few minutes, nothing but the rumble of his truck and the sounds of traffic outside filling the quiet. When I heard him take a breath, I braced myself.
“You’ll have to tell her sometime, Ryan. Sometime soon.” His hand on the steering wheel tightened. “She’ll figure it out—she doesn’t miss anything. Or else . . .” Another pause, this one longer. “Or else the media will find out and blast it the hell out there until every last hermit, loner, and recluse will know about Grant Turner’s woman having Huntington’s. You don’t want her to find out that way. Trust me.”