Three Guilty Pleasures (Blindfold Club 6)

My mouth felt sticky with the lie. “Yeah. High end wines.”

His back was to me as I sat on the couch. He studied the titles and the framed photos placed on the shelves. “Like a sommelier?”

“Not really. More like a broker.” I repeated the line Joseph had taught us girls over the years. “Specialty brands and exclusive labels that are difficult to find.”

“Is there a lot of research in that?”

My pulse sputtered. I needed to get him off this line of questioning. “No, it’s mostly negotiations. Can I ask you something?”

He turned to face me. “Sure.”

“Why did yo

u leave South Africa?”

He hesitated for a moment, as if deciding whether to answer, then strode toward the couch. He sank down beside me, one seat cushion away, plunked his beer down on the coffee table, and laced his fingers together, his forearms resting on his knees.

“My family has a lot of money and clout, but if there’s one thing they really excel at, it’s being racist.”

I stiffened in surprise.

Grant’s tone was matter-of-fact. “For my whole life, I thought it wasn’t their fault. It was just ignorance. Everyone we were surrounded with was white. Neighbors, coworkers, their friends. They didn’t know anything else.”

I sensed more coming when he took in a preparing breath.

“My final year of school, there was this girl. She was beautiful and sweet, the smartest person I’d ever met, and she was black.” He tilted his head toward me, and his blue eyes clouded with shame. “I was stupid. I thought I could just show them this wonderful girl and open their eyes. I asked her to dinner with my parents. She didn’t want to go because, like I mentioned, she was smart. She knew what was going to happen. But I convinced her it was going to be all right.”

My voice was tight. “What happened?”

“My parents were caught off guard at the beginning, but then we had a lovely evening. They were so nice to her, and really impressed with her plans for university. I remember thinking, ‘I’ve done it. I’ve shown them something outside their bubble.’” He straightened and smoothed his palms down the tops of his thighs. “The first thing my mother tells me during the car ride home is that it had been the most uncomfortable dinner of her life.”

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but it did. “Oh, Grant,” I whispered.

“There was nothing that girl could have done to change my parents’ view. She could have fucking cured cancer, and still my mother would have preferred not to share a table with her. All because she wasn’t white like we were.” He snatched up his beer and drank before continuing. “I spent so much of my life trying to fit into the box they wanted to put me in. I had to leave before they did it. I applied to Randhurst University here in Chicago that same night.”

“What about the girl?”

“She could have said she told me so, but she didn’t. I think it made her sad to be proven right, but she understood why I had to get out.” His smile was soft. “We’re still friends on Facebook.”

The conversation lulled for a beat as we both drank and contemplated what had been said.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered.

“For what?”

“That you couldn’t make them see.”

He played it off like it was no big deal, but I could tell it was. “They don’t see anything beyond themselves.”

I knew all about living outside the box. “We’re a lot alike.”

He looked at me with an intensity that made the air go thin. “Except I’m a terrible dancer.”

“I’m sure you’re better than if I tried to play the cello.” I put my beer down and pulled out my phone. “Which reminds me, I have some ideas.”

“Yeah?” He brightened, ready to move on to a lighter subject. “Let’s hear them.”

I cast YouTube from my phone onto my TV and showed him the different videos I’d liked from earlier, but he watched with an unchanging expression. I couldn’t get a read at all.