Touching Down(74)

“Want to give me a hand?” He lifted his chin at the pool house door as he moved closer. Now I could see that he was carrying a big box. One that could have held one of those mini-fridges I’d lived with during my first few years alone.

Opening the door, I walked inside and held it for him. Then I turned on a few lights and moved toward the kitchen counter he’d just dropped the big box on.

“Grant?”

When my hand dropped onto his arm, he turned around slowly. He looked down at me, the storm still raging in his dark eyes, but he’d managed to harness it. He was controlling the storm; it wasn’t controlling him.

His arms wound around me, one at a time, before he pulled me against him. “I’m sorry I ran like that. I’m sorry I left you alone.” His voice was thick with emotion as his arms tightened their hold on me. “It will never happen again.”

My arms found their way around him too. I dropped my forehead into his chest, breathing him in. My angel was real. Solid. Tangible. As my fingers curled into his shirt, I wasn’t sure they’d ever be able to let go. “It’s okay. I understand.”

One of his hands moved beneath my chin, lifting it until I was looking into his eyes. He lowered his head until our foreheads were touching. “It will never happen again,” he repeated solemnly.

I inhaled, nodding. His words boded no doubt. Neither did the look in his eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I should have. I just don’t want to believe it. I don’t want to admit it. I don’t want to face the fact that our daughter might have to go through the same thing as me.”

Grant’s eyes clamped shut for a moment, his body shuddering against mine. Then he recovered. “Might. She might go through the same thing as you.” When my eyebrows came together, he pulled back, keeping one arm around me as the other dug inside the box. “I’ve been reading. Studying. You know, those things I should have done more of back in school.” He winked and flashed a couple of books in front of me. They were books about Huntington’s. I’d read one of them last year. “Charlie has a fifty-percent shot that she doesn’t have Huntington’s, which, by the way, I’ve renamed.”

“You’ve renamed?” My head tilted.

“Grass,” he stated.

My face pinched together. “Grass?”

“Yep. Grass.”

My shoulders lifted. “Why that?”

His jaw ground before his mouth opened. “Because I can take a shit or a piss on it. I can light it on fire, tear it apart, stomp it out, pretty much annihilate that son of a bitch any way I can imagine. I’m sick of calling this thing something that makes everyone shiver in their boots and keeps telling me there’s nothing that can be done.”

Flattening my lips, I nodded. “You might be a little or a lot crazy.”

“I’ll take either label just so long as we all stop looking at this thing like there’s nothing we can do about it and all just need to lay here and let fate have its way with us.” Grant dropped those books on the counter then dug out a few more.

Leaning over the box, my eyes widened when I saw what was inside. Notebooks, copies of articles paper-clipped together, journals, manuals, books.

“I didn’t know there was this much information on Huntington’s.” When Grant shot me a look, I exhaled. “Or Grass.”

“Yeah, there’s tons of stuff. I got Ravi on it when I found out you had it, and he’s been working on putting this all together. Half of it I can’t understand, but what I spent most of my time reading about was medical advancements being made to help slow or stop Grass.” Grant dug back inside the box and pulled out a stack of articles that had been printed out. “There’s all of this stem cell research, gene editing and silencing stuff, new medicines—they’re making progress, Ryan. There’s going to be a cure one day soon.”

Opening one of the books, I absently flipped through a few pages. I’d probably read some of the same articles on these “promising” cures, but they were a long shot. Injecting iPS or embryonic stem cells into a person’s brain, or manipulating a person’s genetic code seemed like more the stuff of science fiction than real life.

“You’ve been busy.” I smiled as he flipped through the pages of an article, his face creased with concentration.

“You’ve got Grass. My daughter might have Grass. I won’t rest until I find some way to kick this thing’s ass.”

I nudged him. “Your ass is grass, Grass.”

Grant huffed. “Good one.”

I didn’t realize how little sleep he’d gotten last night until I turned on a few more lights around the pool house. “Where did you go last night?”