Made in America (23 page)

“That puts that mystery to rest,” I mumble, reading down the page.

Dear Mr. Huffman,

As of September 1
^st
our rates for long-term care will be increasing by 5%. Since you have already pre-paid without the use of insurance, your current credit may be depleted sooner than expected.

We ask that you please make the necessary arrangements so that we can continue to offer the best care possible without interruption.

Please call our offices before August 31
^st
to receive your current credit balance, and to hear about our pre-paid discounts that can save you money.

We look forward to continuing to service all your health care needs.

Sincerely,

Julie-Ann Bright

Accounts Receivable

I read the letter again, and again, and again. It only adds to the confusion I feel inside, leading to more questions than answers. Long-term care? No insurance? What the hell is that all about?

Grabbing the phone, I dial Grant’s number but like the first time I tried in the kitchen of the beach house, there’s no answer. I haven’t heard from him since before Tito and Frankie took me out to breakfast. He’s not at work, I know he’s not at home, and seeing as how the only other places we’ve ever been are Drake’s and the beach, my options are limited as to where I should start looking for him.

Fingering the letter from Johns Hopkins, my mind furiously calculates all the locations he could be. When I look at the paper—when I see those four initials staring back at me—a lightbulb goes off.

He’s in Maryland
.

And I don’t know why I think that because what sort of hospital calls you in the middle of the night, but when that thought enters my brain, the hairs on the back of my neck instinctively prick up, and if I’ve learned anything in this world it’s to always trust your instincts.

“Fuck it,” I say, reaching for the phone.

I dial another number and wait for the call to be received. A gruff, manly voice answers, “Yes?”

“Abel, it’s Raven.”

“Ah, Miss Raven. How can I be of service.”

“I’d like you to make preparations for a flight. I’ll be leaving to meet Mr. Huffman in Baltimore as soon as possible.”

There’s a slight pause on the other end of the line before Grant’s driver/bodyguard asks, “You…know about Baltimore?”

“I do,” I say quickly, biting my tongue so as to not ask the questions I’m dying for answers to. “Mr. Huffman and I have no secrets.”

“Very well, Miss Raven. I’ll notify the terminal and pick you up in twenty minutes. Is that sufficient?”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Abel.”

“Till then, Miss Raven.”

He disconnects and I sit there, phone still in hand, staring into space. Grant likes to call himself a risk taker, but that little white lie I just told Abel proved to be my biggest risk to date.

Meeting Mr. Huffman in Baltimore?

He didn’t deny it, so it must be true.

Grant’s in Baltimore.

And soon I will be, too.

Stepping outside of the building into the hot August haze, I search the street for Abel and his black SUV, but he has yet to arrive. Throngs of New Yorkers stride the sidewalk in front of me as taxis honk at one another, and I stand there, chewing my nails while patiently waiting for Grant’s driver to show up.

I think about what I’m going to say to Grant when I see him. Different scenarios play in my mind, but the reality is I have no idea what I’m walking into, so thinking about all the various ways to react to something I can’t even fathom does nothing but make me anxious. Is he sick? Is someone else sick? I mean, every thought imaginable runs through my mind, and I know when I get to Baltimore it’s going to be nothing like I expect.

“Excuse me?”

The voice interrupts my thoughts, and I look to see a scrawny man around my age standing in front of me. He’s dressed rather dingy, in a pair of blue jeans and a Metallica t-shirt, and he holds his hands behind his back.

I gaze back at him rather disapprovingly, thinking maybe he’s a homeless person. Not that there’s anything wrong with homeless people, other than the fact they don’t have homes, but I’m not in the mood to be badgered for change this morning.

“Yes?” I ask.

“Are you Raven Young?”

I flinch. Okay, now this maybe-homeless person knows my name. What the fuck?

“Yes.” I reply.

A wide smile breaks out on his boyish face and he brings his hands around front of him. It takes me a few moments to register that he’s holding an expensive looking camera, and before I know it, a flashbulb is going off in my face and he’s shouting, “I found her!”

“What?” I ask, totally clueless.

The next thing I know, there’s a horde of people running down the sidewalk, coming at me with picture cameras, television cameras, microphones, and I think one guy even has an iPad on a selfie stick, I’m not sure. They’re all screaming over one another so it’s hard to make out what they’re trying to ask, but I hear bits and pieces of it before I start to try and slink my way back inside the building.

“…relationship with Grant Huffman?”

“Is it serious?”

“…are you getting married?”

“…carrying you out of Drake’s.”

“…you love him?”

Son of a bitch, it’s the bloody paparazzi. I knew one day they’d manage to dig up some dirt on my relationship with Grant and eventually figure out it was me he was seeing, but this couldn’t have happened at a worse time.

“Get away!” I shout, batting them off like flies as I open the door.

Thankfully Bruce is working the security desk, and he seems to have a good grasp on handling situations like these. When I get the door open enough, he pulls me inside and steps out onto the sidewalk, towering over everyone. His voice is muffled through the windows, but I can still hear him shout in that deep, baritone voice of his, “Everybody get the hell out of here. This is private property owned by Grant Huffman and you’re trespassing. Failure to do so will result in the authorities being called, and arrests being made.”

I appreciate his efforts, but this is the media we’re talking about. Freedom of the press, and all that. The crowd doesn’t seem fazed by Bruce’s threats, and they continue to howl all around him, snapping pictures of me through the glass while I try and shield my face with my purse, but it’s useless. Most of them have already snapped the pictures they need, and soon my image will be all over the gossip websites.

The only saving grace is they have yet to snag a picture of Grant and I together, but I’m sure now that I’ve been outed, it’ll only be a matter of time.

“Get back,” someone calls out, but it’s not Bruce’s booming voice this time. It’s firmer, almost parental-like in nature.

The crowd of photographers parts and I see Abel making his way down the middle like Moses parting the Red Sea. His eyes are fixed firmly on mine as he gestures for me to come out of the building, extending his hand for me to take. The paparazzi sees this as the perfect moment to snap more pictures, so when Abel leads me back through them and into the waiting SUV, there isn’t much resistance because they’re too busy clickity-clacking their little cameras.

Fucking vultures.

Abel slams the door shut and has a few choice words for some of the braver individuals with microphones and TV cameras. He shoves one of them out of the way and hauls himself into the driver’s seat before speeding away, cutting off a couple of irate taxi drivers in the process.

“Thanks, Abel,” I say, feeling anxious and out of breath. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

He glances at me in the rearview and nods. “You have to be aggressive with those people, otherwise they’ll never stop. They would’ve camped outside on the sidewalk all night if it meant getting a shot of you.”

“I think they got plenty,” I sigh. “Do you think Grant will be—”

I catch the last word before it comes out of my mouth. What does it matter if Grant’s mad over a few gossip columns and pictures?
I’m
the one who should be mad. Still, just having a thought like that tells me that despite his secretive nature—despite what he’s hiding in Baltimore—I still care about him, and how he feels.

I just wish it went both ways.

“I think he’ll be fine, Miss Raven,” Abel says as we head toward JFK.

I clear my throat and look out the window.

Will he be fine?

Will any of us?

- 24 -

Grant

Pacing up and down the hallways of Johns Hopkins was a ritual of mine in the beginning. Now it’s become a nightmare I feel like I’ll never wake up from. One long corridor that goes on and on, stretching endlessly like the ocean.

The ocean.

The beach.

Raven.

I lean up against the wall and wait for her arrival. The flight from JFK to BWI takes about an hour. From there, it’s another twenty minute drive to the hospital.

I check my watch.

Any minute now.

I don’t know how she found out about this place, but it was only a matter of time. God bless Abel for calling me after speaking with her. Sometimes I think he’s the only person I can trust. I instructed him to let Raven have her way, and arrange a car for her when she gets to Baltimore. I also instructed the hospital staff to give her no resistance. To let her find me on her own.

I didn’t want to tell her like this, but I’ve no other choice. If I try and block her approach, it’ll only add fuel to a fire that’s already burning out of control. A fire that I
let
get out of control. There’s no one to blame but myself. If I’d just been honest with her from the start none of this would be happening. I wouldn’t be standing here with my heart ready to explode in my chest. I wouldn’t be standing here with palms that feel as if they’ve been dipped in sweat.

I wouldn’t be standing here waiting for my entire world to come crashing down.

Again.

Pushing off the wall, I make my way down the vinyl floor, my shoes echoing off the cream-colored walls. I think about what I would have done different in all this.
When
I would have told Raven. It could have been when we first met, or the night of Tito and Frankie’s engagement party.

The morning after.

Or it could have been in the middle of the night after I got the call that beckoned me here. I could have woken her, taken her hand, looked her in the eyes, and cracked open my heart for her to see.

I could have.

But I didn’t.

Whether it was fear, ego, depression—it doesn’t matter. The only thing that matters is I didn’t, and when I round a corner, there she is coming toward me. Her face is a mixture of confusion, anger, consolation; she’s never looked more beautiful, and I’ve never been so scared.

“Grant,” she whispers softly. “What’s going on?”

I expected her to lash out. To yell and scream and demand answers. Instead, she shocks me by displaying compassion. Raven always shocks me.

“Raven,” I begin. “How did you find me?”

“Didn’t you want to be found?”

I stare, unsure of how to answer. I guess in a way I did, because it means I don’t have to hide anymore, and whatever the outcome, at least she’ll know the truth about me.

Raven reaches in to her purse and pulls out a letter. Handing it to me, I take the single sheet and read it over, smirking. It was a mistake. That’s how she found me. A letter that was supposed to be mailed to my home address, rather than the office. A simple twist of fate, and now here she is.

I can’t help but laugh, which isn’t helpful to anyone.

“Is this funny?” Raven scolds. “Because I don’t think my boyfriend cutting out on me in the middle of the night to come to some hospital is very amusing.”

“No,” I shake my head, tucking the letter into my pocket. “It’s not funny at all, Raven.” My tone turns serious, and so do I.

“Grant, what is going on? Why are you here? Is something wrong with you?”

I fight the urge not to chuckle. Is something wrong with me? God, where do I begin?

Taking her by the hand is a nice start, so I do, leading Raven back the way I came. A male nurse passes by us, catching my eye for a moment. His name is Clarence. He’s married and has one daughter. I know this because I know the names and backgrounds of all the nurses on this floor. Lord knows I’ve spent enough time here.

“Where are you taking me?” Raven asks, her voice quieting.

I lead her around another corner and we enter a room. I shut the door behind us and take Raven to the end of a bed. In it, a woman lies dormant. Her blonde hair is splayed out on a blue pillow. She looks so peaceful. Like she’s sleeping.

Because she is.

She’s been sleeping for nearly ten years.

“Grant?” Raven asks, looking down at her. “Who is that?”

“Her name is Amanda,” I begin. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. We grew up together, played together, fought together. Since the age of five we were attached at the hip. She was always a bit of a tomboy, you know? Hanging out with the boys, playing in the mud. Playing catch on a Sunday afternoon. I remember this one time her and I were throwing the ball around and I missed. Damn thing nearly took my eye out. I had to wear a patch for a week, and Amanda—despite being a tomboy—glitzed that thing up with bright pink and yellow beads.”

A long, slow sigh escapes my lungs. This is the first time I’ve spoken of her like this to anyone, and the fact that it’s Raven makes me feel like I’m going to throw up at any moment. But I press on, saying what needs to be said.

“She always knew how to make me laugh, and Lord knows she made me cry enough times. When we got to high school we kind of drifted apart a little. You know how it is. Fresh faces, fresh experiences. Somehow I knew we’d always find our way back to one another, though. We always did. No matter how big of a fight we got in to, or how shitty we could make each other feel sometimes, we always came back for more, because that’s who we were, Raven. We were like two addicts, and our only fix was each other.”