Touching Down(72)

“Tempting, but I could smell you from the parking lot.” When I tossed the towel at him, he caught it.

“So? You didn’t seem to complain when I worked up a sweat last night.” His grin made my stomach twist before he wiped his face off with the towel.

“I need to talk to you first.” I turned around and roamed the room, guessing space was a good thing with the way he was looking at me right now and the way I could feel my body responding to him.

After pulling his wet shirt over his head, he tossed it into one of the laundry carts. I swallowed, trying to pretend I was not noticing how his muscles looked twice as large as normal thanks to him just finishing up his weight session.

From the smirk that formed, he knew I hadn’t missed it either.

I looked away and closed my eyes, just to be doubly protected against the sight of him overruling my better judgment. “It’s about Charlie.”

“What about Charlie?” The husky tone was gone from his voice, his mindset totally eclipsed.

“I talked with her earlier. About what’s going on with me.”

There was a moment of silence. “You told her about your HD?”

“Yeah, I did.” When my eyes opened, I saw Grant’s face had changed as well. Worry lines were drawn into his forehead, creased into the corners of his eyes. “She took it pretty well. At least as well as any child who just found out one of their parents was going to die sooner than they’d thought could.”

He took a seat on the weight bench close by. “Where is she?”

“Back home with Mrs. Kent. She’s working on some school work. I think she was happy to have something take her mind off of it for a while.”

Grant nodded, staring at the floor at his feet. “Do you think I should talk to her?”

I had to take a seat on the weight bench a few down from him. Seeing him hurting already . . . I didn’t want to crush him with what came next. “Probably. I’m sure there’ll be lots more talks we’ll all have to have.”

He wiped the towel across his face again. “You could have waited for me to be there with you. We could have done it together.”

“I know, but you’re going to have to deal with so many of those conversations alone after . . .” I balked at the word again, but no more. No more being afraid to say it, because it wasn’t going to be afraid when it came to taking what it wanted. “After I die”—across from me, Grant flinched, his jaw pushing against his skin—“you’ll be who she turns to. I wanted to take care of this one.”

“You’re not dying,” he ground out, glaring at the floor.

“Grant, yes, I am. Experimental drug or not, I’m going to die. There might be a miracle that helps slow the symptoms, but there isn’t a miracle cure.”

“So what? That’s it? You’re just going to accept that this is going to kill you?”

My eyes latched onto his. “I’ve accepted that I’m going to die with Huntington’s, and I wish you would too.”

He jolted off of the weight bench, his arms quivering. “Fuck, Ryan. I’m going to die. Charlie’s going to die. We’re all going to die.” This time, it was my turn to flinch, but he didn’t stop. He didn’t pull his words; each one boomed louder than the last. “But I’m not going to use that as an excuse not to live. To not try my damndest to live as long as I can.”

I took a few slow breaths before I could reply. “I am going to do everything I can to live as long as I can. I will take any experimental drug that gives me one more day with you and Charlie.” My eyes cut to him, daring him to challenge me once more. His lips stayed closed. “But I’m not here to talk about me. I’m here to talk about Charlie.”

The flicker of anger extinguished from his eyes as he paced with his hands at his hips. “What about our daughter?”

My lungs felt like they were collapsing. It didn’t matter how hard I tried to gasp for breath. “Do you know how a person gets Huntington’s?”

Grant waved his arm. “It’s something in your DNA. You told me that.”

“Yes, it’s in a person’s DNA. Something they’re born with.” I paused to swallow. “And do you know why a person’s born with it?” My voice wasn’t recognizable to my own ears.

Grant stopped pacing. “No, I don’t.”

I tried to lift my eyes to his, but they were too heavy. “It’s hereditary.”

Another stretch of silence passed.

“So you got it from . . .?”

“Whatever loser my mom was sleeping with the night I was conceived. At least I think so, because as far as I know, she never showed symptoms of it before she died.” Thinking of my mom made me choke up. She’d died young too, but from a different kind of disease.