Chapter 2
In the rearview mirror, the bus pulled further and further away from the stop.
In a daze, my mind drifted back to the very first time Grant and I met. It was outside the emergency room entrance.
Back then, he was dirt poor.
He stood there, covered in grime, wearing an old coat that was clearly two sizes too small. His face was pale from the biting cold, and his hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"My mom is really sick. Just save her. I'll do anything. Anything."
People walked past, avoiding his gaze.
Only my father, Dr. Richard Bennett, reached out a hand.
Dad fought to get Margaret admitted for inpatient treatment and helped her apply for the hospital's financial assistance program.
For the out-of-pocket expenses she still couldn't afford, Dad quietly paid a massive sum himself.
Soon after, Margaret's condition stabilized.
Dad brought Grant to our house.
"Claire, I found you a private after-school tutor."
Grant was tall. He stood in our living room, hands clasped nervously in front of him, the tips of his ears burning red.
"I... I've always been at the top of my class. I can tutor you in any subject."
He was being modest.
The truth was, he wasn't just good at school. He could teach me almost anything.
He could glance at a math problem and instantly spot where my logic fell apart. He could flip through two pages of an economics textbook and explain what my professor had spent an hour rambling about.
With Margaret's illness stabilized, the crushing weight lifted off his shoulders, and his brilliance truly began to shine.
He later earned a full scholarship to the Boston University Questrom School of Business.
And I, as Dad liked to joke, rode Grant's coattails.
I got into the same university through my own application and recommendation letters, eventually getting pulled off the waitlist.
Academically, I relied heavily on his tutoring.
But life has a way of swerving when you least expect it.
During Grant's freshman year, Margaret relapsed and passed away.
Dad didn't want Grant to feel like he owed our family a lifelong debt for his mother's medical bills.
"You help Claire because you want to, Grant. Not to repay anyone."
But Grant looked Dad in the eye and said:
"Dr. Bennett, I will never forget what you did. Taking care of Claire isn't about paying off a debt. It's my choice. I'm going to take care of her for the rest of my life."
I rubbed the small cut on my finger.
The bleeding had stopped, but it still throbbed with a dull ache.
Looking back now, I was so young.
He said it, and I believed it.
I clung to him, so desperate and devoted that it was embarrassing.
We had it all planned out. Once we made some money, we'd buy a modest little house in Boston.
We would get married right after graduation.
We would live a quiet, stable life, just like any other ordinary couple.
But no matter how good Grant was to me, his ambition always came first.
The year we graduated, he took a project in Atlanta.
All those promises scattered like ash in the wind.
He was consumed by cross-state projects, fundraising, client dinners, and endless business trips.
Nine days out of ten, I couldn't reach him.
When he finally did pick up, before my joy could even fully register, I heard him say:
"Claire, I've decided to stay here."
No apology.
No breakup.
Not even an explanation.
Dad was older then, already retired.
He couldn't stand watching me cry every single day.
"You can't force love, Claire. When it's time for it to go, you have to let it go."
But four years. I refused to let four years mean nothing.
That very day, I packed a bag and booked a flight to Atlanta.
The entire way there, I bombarded him with texts, iMessages, and calls that went straight to voicemail.
"Grant, I'm coming to see you."
"It's okay if you stay in Atlanta. We don't have to break up."
I sent him my flight info and arrival time.
I wanted him to pick me up.
He didn't.
It was pouring rain in Atlanta that day.
My flight was delayed. I stood outside the terminal with my suitcase, unable to hail a cab.
I crouched in the freezing rain and cried for three hours.
Blood began to run down my legs.
A tearing pain ripped through my abdomen, and reality slammed into me.
It wasn't my period.
It was our baby.
It had come without me knowing, and it was leaving just as silently.
I looked up in sheer panic, desperately searching for someone to help me.
Grant was walking toward me under an umbrella.
He wore a dark gray trench coat and gold-rimmed glasses. He looked so pristine it was almost surreal, as if the torrential rain and my pathetic state had absolutely nothing to do with him.
There was blood on my legs. Blood on my clothes. Blood on my hands.
I grabbed his sleeve.
"Our baby... The baby is gone."
His expression remained completely flat. If anything, there was a flicker of anger.
"Who told you to come?"
The rain hammered against his umbrella.
Grant's face was livid as he asked again:
"Claire, who told you to follow me here?"