Read Online Grace Grows by Shelle Sumners - Free Book Online

quick reply in return. This gentle weaning strategy goes on for four whole weeks, and seems to be working.
    Then he leaves you a note on the doormat:
Hey Grace are you alive? I miss you. I wrote a new song. Check it
out. I will play it for you if you come Monday.
TGW
calling
well the time has come for calling
and I know that your in town
I heard you cry the other day
and I think I’ll try and tell you
I love you, do you love me
lets get together again
well I never could stop falling
and I know that your around
I saw you smile the other day
and I think I’ll dial and tell you
I want you, do you want me
lets get together again
where did you go to, baby
who did you run to see
why in the world did you leave me, honey
aint you glad to see me again
now the time has come for calling
and your somewhere around
I caught your eye the other day
    I was dumbstruck. Did he actually mean me, with the crying? When could he have heard that? Oh, I realized. Just about any January weekday morning, before work.
    Why was he doing this? He had volumes of girls fawning over him. Did he really need another conquest? It was exasperating. There was no way I was going to go hear that song.
    Then Peg called me. “Do you want to go hear Ty Monday night? You’ve missed a lot. He has a band now.”
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, a drummer and a bass player. And the crowds have grown exponentially. I got there a little late last time and almost didn’t get in.”
    “Wow.”
    “He keeps asking where you are. He thinks you’re avoiding him.”
    “I left him a message. It’s just been too cold to go out at night.”
    “I think his feelings are hurt.”
    This was crazy. “What’s the big deal? We’ve only known each other for a couple of months!”
    “Well, you know those artistic types. They’re very sensitive.”
    I sighed. “I’ll see if I can come for a while.”
    “I’ll try to save you a seat.”
    I hung up. There were predictions of a massive winter storm late Sunday into Monday. I crossed my fingers.
    Those people on the Weather Channel are liars. It barely snowed at all. So I went. When I arrived at the bar Ty was already playing with his band. The place was packed. Peg waved to me from the back of the room and I squeezed my way toward her, peering over my shoulder at Ty. I was hoping he’d register that I was there so I could leave soon.
    The song finished and people clapped. Ty said into the microphone, “Hey, Grace.”
    I turned around and gave him a little wave.
    “Aw, I embarrassed her,” he said. Mass laughter. He began another song.
    Peg was sitting with Bogue and a tall, emo-ish, black-haired girl who turned out to be Rash. She was pretty, in a wan, purple-lipped way.
    “Rumor is there’s a New York Times reporter here, doing a story on Ty,” Peg said.
    “Really?”
    “Yeah, for a series on singer-songwriters in the city.”
    I ordered a glass of wine and asked Rash about herself. She was from Virginia, a psychology student at NYU, and a performance artist. She was working on a new piece, to be staged in front of the New York Stock Exchange. She was going to dress in a man’s suit and run a half-marathon on a treadmill while reading aloud from the Wall Street Journal .
    “How are you going to power the treadmill?” I asked.
    “Generator. And my friend has a van to haul it in.”
    “There are a lot of police down there.”
    She shrugged. “If I just get five minutes of video, it’s cool.”
    I asked about her experience of living with Bogue and Ty.
    She leaned closer and spoke confidentially. “Bogue’s a total slob. And he doesn’t have a job yet. But he’s rich, so I guess maybe he doesn’t have to get one if he doesn’t want to.”
    “He’s rich?”
    “Yeah, his dad owns grocery stores.”
    Who knew? “What about Ty?”
    “He’s a little better. He hangs up his wet towels. And makes his bed. Which is more than I can say for Bogue. And neither of them jerk off where I can hear them, unlike other guys