Grace Grows Read Free Page B

stay home and play with his Wii. I kissed him, bundled up, and walked out the door just as Tyler Wilkie was letting Blitzen and Bismarck into Sylvia’s apartment.
    “Hey, Grace!”
    “Hi.” I smiled back.
    He stood in the doorway, unleashing the hounds. “Where you going?”
    “The Cloisters.”
    He tossed the leashes inside and pulled the door closed behind him. “What’s that?”
    “A museum. Medieval art.” We started down the stairs together.
    “That sounds cool. Can I come?”
    I faltered on the first landing. Could I politely say no? “Well, sure . . . if you want. It’s kind of a ways on the train, you might have other things you need to do this afternoon—”
    “I’m free all day!” He waved his hands expansively. “Not counting the dogs.”
    He opened the door for me downstairs and when we got out on the sidewalk he pointed at Big Green. “Do you want me to carry that for you?”
    I shifted the bag to my other shoulder. “Oh, no, I’m fine, thanks.”
    “It looks kinda heavy.”
    “It’s just my wallet, cell phone, keys, a book.”
    “Looks like you got a lot more than that in there.”
    “Well, also emergency snacks, things like that.”
    We headed down into the subway. “Emergency snacks? You can buy something to eat just about everywhere in this city.”
    “I like to be prepared.” I knew I might sound huffy and decided to explain. “One time I was on a train that was stuck between stations for three hours. I was glad to have a protein bar with me.”
    “Three hours, no shit?”
    I slid my MetroCard through the reader and went through the turnstile. He was still on the other side digging around in his coat pockets, so I found my backup card and held it across to him.
    “Hey, thanks, I’ll pay you back.”
    I waved a casual hand and smiled. “My treat. Welcome to New York.” I tucked the card away and we headed down the platform.
    We stood there awhile. He was wearing the same thing as the first day we met, a fatigue jacket and jeans and Converse sneakers and a knit hat. I saw a plaid flannel shirt peeking through the turned-up coat collar. His throat looked vulnerable in the chill. He needed a warm scarf.
    He saw me looking at him and smiled that insanely appealing smile. He had such a nice face, so good-natured. Warm eyes. I couldn’t help smiling back.
    “You look pretty,” he said.
    I flailed my hands and muttered something about my beat-up old shearling jacket.
    “You had all that makeup on, last time I saw you. And your hair,” he picked up a strand and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger, “I didn’t realize it was so long.”
    Okay, so the guy was a player. I could handle it. I’d been flirted with before.
    “Yeah.” I pulled a band out of my pocket and whipped my hair into a ponytail. “I need to cut it.”
    “I just cut my hair, right before I came here.”
    “Cut it yourself, did you?”
    “Yeah. My friend Bogue said I couldn’t come to New York City looking like a freaky redneck. We were drunk and he was showing me some pictures in GQ magazine, telling me I should try to look metrosexual.”
    It was impossible not to laugh. “How long was it?”
    He held a flat hand about an inch below his shoulder.
    “That’s pretty long. What’d you cut it with?” I figured a steak knife.
    “My sister’s fingernail scissors. It took a fuckin’ long time! Especially doing the back. And then I get here and see these long-haired men, all over the place. And nobody here gives a rat’s ass what your hair looks like, anyway!”
    Unless it looks like a rat’s ass, I thought, remembering him hatless the other night at Herman’s. I smiled.
    “What?” he said.
    “I’m just . . . so happy that you have that hat.”
    He told me a lot more about himself during the twenty-minute train ride to Inwood. His childhood best friend/fashion adviser, Bogue (rhymes with Vogue , appropriately enough), had come with him to the city. They’d found an apartment on