Where It Ends

| After 5 | Forty Hours Later

When Grady comes back to the apartment, he has clean laundry and my favorite flavor of Blue Bell ice cream—Pecan Pralines 'n Cream.

"I can't believe you remembered." I set the computer aside to take the very full bowl. It even includes caramel sauce and whipped cream.

There are only two distractions that I'd consider worthwhile right now, and ice cream is one of them.

"How could I forget? You got me hooked on it, too." Grady pulls off his shirt, and it reinforces the other.

I take note of how, uh, ready I still am. It's getting late, though, and he's been up since dawn. His eyes look heavy. They've been like that for days. We may be at the end of it, but we're still in crisis mode. It might be a while before leisure activities are resumed to their full capacity. Much to my dismay. . .

In just his boxers, he goes into the bathroom, and I hear the shower start.

He didn't leave me wanting earlier, but it isn't just about me. I could certainly go for another round and get results that are just as satisfying, if not more so, but I'm not typical, and this isn't that late for me. I went from supporting myself through college, to finals and graduation, and then right into the Quinn fiasco. Throw in some jet lag, a few all-nighters and long day-naps, and I shouldn't really compare my needs to Grady's.

As much as I may want to push things forward, it might not be what's best for him. He seems to prefer quality over quantity, and a man like that may dwell too much on greatness. I wound egos all the time, but I actually care about his. All in all, I should clear a path—a complete assignment and no clothing—but leave it up to him.

While I'm rushing to finish everything up, the ice cream headache seems fitting for the memory attached to it. Like so many things, it's bittersweet.

Sharing things with Grady was one of the highlights of my childhood. Our bond may have otherwise been forgettable from his standpoint. And I was usually pretty stealth about it. I had to be. It was my guilty pleasure, and I understood the risk, even at a young age, of getting caught.

It's fairly safe to assume, since he brought the flavor home for me, that Grady has only fond memories of Pecan Pralines 'n Cream. I'm glad for that and wish I could say the same. It was my special treat when I was "good." When it came to chores, I was easily bribable and that brought it to the freezer every so often. I was the only one who supposedly liked it, though, and yet it never seemed to last very long, and that became a bone to pick. One time, my mother dug up a reason to pay attention and gave me the full interrogation when there were two bowls in the sink. I blamed Quinn, who was picky and weight conscious at the time, so it was an obvious lie, almost too obvious to my vain, nitpicky mother. She must have seen or suspected something as well, and I was "grounded" until I told the truth.

It took a week for me to break, and I tried all kinds of fake excuses. But she didn't give me an end date until I told the actual truth. I guess it was the one time I was caught, and, of course, the flavor stopped showing up in the freezer.

Compared to a lot of kids out there—like Grady—I was undeniably spoiled. This example, taken by itself, wouldn't exactly absolve me of anything. You might think I'm just looking for another reason to hate my mother, and when a person does that, they usually succeed. Still, if I really sat here and thought about it, the subtle acts of cruelty would be in the double digits. In recent days, the cruelty has been outright, the examples adding up in that regard as well.

I know the wounds are still raw, but I think it's safe to say, it's over between us and will be for good. Forget see her. I never want to speak to her again.