Page 82 of Piece By Piece

Grant pressed his hands together between his knees.

The answer was actually so simple, it almost embarrassed him.

This man who built fifteen-by-fifteen grids with interlocking themes and hidden messages couldn’t solve a puzzle that any child could see.

“I want to stay,” he said. “I want to stay here in Seagrove. I want my shop and the island and those stupid fairy lights and that cookie jar.” He stopped. His throat tightened. “I want Liza.”

Dawson nodded, like this was the answer he’d been waiting for.

“Then the deal is the easy part. You call up the publisher, and you say no. That’ll take you five minutes. And Liza? Well, that might be a little harder, because she’s not a deal you can accept or decline. She’s the person that you hurt. The only way to fix that is to stop hiding and let her see you. All of you, even those scared parts you try to keep behind a wall.”

Grant stared out at the ocean.

Pelicans had landed on the water and were bobbing in the swells.

“I don’t know how to do that in person,” he said. “You know, every time I try to say what I mean, the words just come out all jumbled and wrong. They come out too small, and she deserves something more than small.”

Dawson looked at him.

“You’re a man who builds puzzles for a living. You put words together better than anybody I’ve ever met.”

He paused.

“So write it down.”

Grant was quiet for a moment.

“What if a letter isn’t enough?”

“Well, it’s not about the letter being enough. It’s just about the letter being honest.”

Dawson leaned back in his chair.

“When I hurt Julie, and trust me, I’ve done that more than once, the thing that fixed it was never the grand gesture. It was just telling the truth. Not the ‘I’m sorry, I was wrong,’ but ‘I’m sorry I did this specific thing, and here’s why I’m sorry, and here’s what I’m going to do differently next time.’ Be specific. That’s what people need.”

Grant nodded. Specifics. He understood that. Precision was his native language.

“And one more thing,” Dawson said. “Don’t deliver it yourself. You need to give her space to read it without feeling like she has to respond immediately.”

Grant stood up.

“Thank you, man.”

“Don’t thank me. Just don’t make me have to do this again.”

He called Jonathan Webb at 9 a.m., which was six in the morning Seattle time and probably a little too early.

Grant didn’t care about being polite anymore.

He just wanted to be clear.

Jonathan picked up on the fourth ring, his voice groggy.

“Grant?”

“I’m not taking the deal.”

There was a long pause.