Chapter Text
Lyra didn’t want to go to the next grief circle session, but when she let it slip to her mother that she’d gone to one, her mother insisted she continue going.
“Give it a try,” she’d said. “What’s the worst thing that could happen?”
Grayson Hawthorne could figure out I’m the girl who called him. But Lyra kept her thoughts to herself. And when the following Thursday came around, she found herself sitting in the circle once more, a little plastic cup of lemonade in hand. She drank from it, keeping her eyes fixed to the ground. She didn’t want to catch anyone’s eye—especially a certain someone’s gray ones.
At six o’clock on the dot, Matt, the session leader, sat in the seat at the head of the circle, exactly like last week. He looked around the circle, catching everyone’s eye before settling on Lyra. She gulped. He smiled warmly.
“Lyra,” he began. “Why don’t we start with you this week? Do you mind?”
She swallowed hard. “Uh, no, I guess not.”
“Perfect. So, what brings you to the grief circle?”
Lyra’s eyes darted around the circle. Everyone was so open and understanding last week—why would it be any different this time around? Still, she was nervous.
“My mother,” Lyra said, repeating what she’d said to her individual therapist, Lisa, last week. No one laughed. Lyra realized people must think her mother was the one who died and quickly backtracked. “Well, I mean, my mother is the one who wanted me to keep coming. I wasn’t sure.”
Matt nodded. “That’s understandable. It can be difficult opening old wounds, especially around so many people.”
Lyra nodded and bit her lip. She looked down to the floor, clasped her hands tightly together. She didn’t want to talk about this. She should’ve stayed at her dorm. Lyra looked up once more, and her gaze caught Grayson Hawthorne’s. He was watching her intently, gray eyes trained on her face.
A Hawthorne did this.
“I’m here because of my father.” The words spilled out of her mouth before she could stop them, ripping her stare from Grayson back to Matt. His face was thoughtful, open, clearly expecting her to continue on. So she did.
“It was my fourth birthday,” Lyra said. “My mom had dropped me off to spend time with him. He wasn’t really in my life, but for some reason, I was with him. He—” Lyra paused, sucking in a breath. “He shot himself.”
“You remember that?” Matt asked.
“I didn’t,” Lyra said, “but I started having dreams about it three years ago.”
“And how has it affected you?” Matt prodded.
“I don’t know, I—” Lyra cut herself off. Did she really want to air all of her dirty laundry in front of these random people—and Grayson Hawthorne? But she pushed through anyway. “I quit dance. I can’t sleep, and when I do, I have the dream. I’m not who I used to be, but I don’t know who I am now either. I guess I’m kind of… caught.”
“Like you’re in limbo,” Grayson said. Lyra blinked, looking at him before she could stop herself. She squeezed her hands together harder.
“Yeah.”
“You mentioned dreams,” Matt said. Lyra realized she’d been in a staring contest with Grayson Hawthorne and quickly looked back to Matt, hoping her face wasn’t red. “Or, more specifically, one dream. Can you talk a little more about it?”
Lyra’s hands were starting to go numb, but she did as was asked and recounted the dream. The calla lily. The half-eaten candy necklace. Lie-ra. But she stopped short before she could say his last words to her. Her gaze flicked to Grayson before going back to Matt.
“And that’s it,” she lied.
Matt nodded once more. It was clear he had no idea what to do with that. “Thank you for sharing, Lyra. Who wants to go next?”
Lyra picked up the forgotten cup of lemonade at her feet and took a sip. Her throat was dry and scratchy from talking. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d talked so much. Usually, when she and her mother FaceTimed, her mother dominated the conversation, and Lyra let her. She hadn’t made any friends so far, and her classes were all two-hundred plus student lectures, so there was no need for her to talk. It was kind of nice—weird, but nice.
Zoning back into the session, Lyra listened as the other half of the circle shared their stories. By the time some girl named Cherry was done, the session time had ended. Matt let them go with a call to grab cookies to go. Lyra bypassed the cookies, throwing her empty cup in the trash and heading out the door. Behind her, there was the sound of people talking, laughing. Lyra paused in the doorway, glancing over her shoulder and wondering if she should try to make friends here, but everyone was in little groups by the cookie table. She didn’t want to force her way into a conversation. Maybe she would try next week.
Lyra hiked her backpack higher up her shoulders and started on the path back to her dorms. Then, there was a hand on her shoulder. She started, whirling around with her fists raised at the ready—though what she planned to do with those fists was up in the air—but then she caught sight of gray eyes and blond hair. She relaxed. Minutely.
“Hi,” Grayson said.
What the hell was Grayson Hawthorne doing talking to her?
“Um, hi?” Lyra said.
“I’m sorry if I startled you,” he began, “but I remember you.”
“I mean, I was just here last week,” Lyra said.
“No, the phone calls,” Grayson clarified. Lyra froze, ice crawling up her spine.
Shit.
“I, uh, don’t know what you’re talking about,” she said, glancing around, hoping someone from the grief circle would come out and save her, but no one appeared.
“You called me last year, twice,” Grayson said. “I thought I recognized your voice, but then you talked about the flower and the candy, and I remembered.”
Lyra was frozen. What was she supposed to say? Was he angry? Was he going to sue her for finding his number and calling him? Was that something you could sue for? Who was she kidding—he was a Hawthorne; he could sue anybody.
“There was a riddle, too,” Grayson continued, oblivious to Lyra’s worry. “‘What begins a bet? Not that.’”
“How—how do you remember all of this?” Lyra asked.
Grayson gave her a small smile, so handsome it was devastating. “I’ve got a pretty good memory. My grandfather made sure of that.”
At the mention of his grandfather, Lyra’s heart started galloping.
A Hawthorne did this.
Grayson frowned. “I remember that, too.”
Oh, shit, had she said that out loud?
“Look, I’m not trying to cause any trouble,” Lyra said. “I don’t want money or anything. I just… I wanted answers, but clearly, you don’t know anything.”
“I don’t know much,” Grayson agreed. “But I know your father’s name was Thomas Thomas. And I know he was on my grandfather’s list.”
Lyra looked up at that. “What list?”
“The list of people he’s wronged,” Grayson said.
Lyra sucked in a breath. “Oh.”
“Unfortunately, I don’t know what he did, or why your father…” He trailed off.
Lyra picked it up: “Killed himself.”
Grayson didn’t wince, but he did look at her apologetically.
“It’s okay,” she said, and she meant that for everything. It was okay that he didn’t know anything. It was okay that this was a mystery she may never solve.
For a few moments, they were silent. Lyra watched Grayson swallow, her eyes tracing the movements of his throat before she mentally smacked herself and drew her gaze back up to his face.
“It’s getting kind of late,” Grayson said, glancing up at the overcast sky, clouds heavy with rain. “Can I walk you back to your dorm?”
“It’s like seven-fifteen,” Lyra said.
Grayson gave her another small smile, and her heart flipped.
“Okay,” he said, taking a step back. “Self-sufficient. Noted.”
Lyra pointed at the sky. “It’s still light out.”
“Sue me for trying to be a gentleman,” Grayson said. He’d shoved his hands into his pockets—another suit, this one pitch black.
Lyra was dumbfounded. What was happening? She shook her head and turned to go.
“Good night, Lyra,” Grayson said, almost too soft for her to hear. Her heart stuttered at the sound of her name on his lips. But she left without saying goodbye.