Until Then (The Blue Collar Boys #1)

1. Greer

1

Greer

L ife sucks and then you die. Or, if you’re like me, you’re the one left behind to start over.

“Mama, that one needs a blue Post-it. Blue is for books.” I gingerly lift a few weighty novels and nestle them within a medium moving box. The afternoon sun filters through the shutters, casting a warm glow on the wooden floors of my childhood bedroom. It’s moving day, and these books and I are making the journey to a new home.

It’s only a small part of my collection though. The rest remains locked away in a storage unit, a crime against books everywhere. But they’re not alone—everything from my old life is shelved right alongside them.

“Greer, honey, all the boxes are going into your new house, so what does it matter?” As my mom loads various books into the box, humming to herself, I’m brought back to another moment, to another person who didn’t always understand my particular nature.

“You got so mad at me, but you know my method was top-notch.”

“What did you say?” Mom looks at me, her eyes narrow in curiosity as she wrangles the top of the box closed, fighting with the tape dispenser.

“Oh, uh, nothing.” It’s easy to forget not everyone talks to the dead. I steal a glance at the only framed photograph on my bedside table—me with a huge smile and the man who left me too soon with his arm slung around my waist. I hardly recognize myself in the picture. It’s been a long time since I’ve felt genuinely happy and not just faking it for the benefit of those around me.

“You know my love for organization, Mama, so I’m not sure what you expected when you agreed to help me pack.” My words are gruff as I attempt to ground myself in the present even though my mind dances between the boxes and shadows of memories.

I’ve always lived on the life principle that everything has its place, organization is key, and lists are lovely. Even if, on occasion, I procrastinate until the last moment, I’ve worried about whatever it is enough and have ninety million possible plans of attack to accomplish it.

“Boy, do I know it.” Mom smiles. “I still remember when you and Brian started dating, and he asked Daddy and me what to get you for Valentine’s Day. The look on his face when we said office supplies.” She bursts into a fit of giggles at the memory. Tears well in my eyes as I try to picture it: his face, his smile, his laughter.

Mom notes the faraway look on my face. She grazes her fingers along my arm, pulling me from my reverie. Not one to push or prod, she begins folding my shirts and dresses from the closet. My mom is the kindest soul you’ll ever meet. She’s funny, adventurous, and definitely a little messy. The opposite of everything I am or, at least, everything I am now. Death has a way of altering a person, in ways not everyone can see, in ways not even we can see ourselves.

Continuing to pack in companionable silence, I can’t help but notice how much larger the room feels. Moving back in with my parents as an adult was never part of my life plans, but sometimes, Life throws you a curveball and your plan changes. I know how blessed I am to have the two people who love me most in the world, aside from Brian, welcome me home with open arms. These four walls have been a solid base, offering me a sense of safety and comfort amid confusion and pain.

A low hum of indie guitar wafts from the radio, filling the room with heavy lyrics I could get lost in. Mom continues her rhythmic packing, humming along to songs she’s heard repeatedly over the last few months. Making eye contact, she offers a gentle smile.

“Big week, huh?” she says. “Moving into your new house and the last week of school.”

Big is an understatement. Everyone talks about moving as some kind of exciting adventure. I suppose maybe it is, a fresh start, new beginning. For some, at least.

I’d rather have my old beginning.

My old adventure.

My old life.

“Yeah, I guess,” I murmur, my voice trailing off. My gaze drifts around the room as the soothing notes of the guitar wash over me, calming my rising anxiety that tightens my chest.

“You guess? Shouldn’t all this be right up your alley?”

I grab several notebooks containing hundreds of worn pages from hours of therapy. I run my hand over the leather covers as the weight of both past and present presses against me. These notebooks have been silent witnesses to my journey through grief. I load them along with a small hoard of office supplies into another small box. Little pinpricks of anticipation, of change and uncertainty, build under my skin.

Inhale. Exhale . I remind myself over and over until my heart rate settles.

The room, now filled with the scent of cardboard, seems to expand, releasing echoes of laughter and tears. I glance at the framed photograph again, the weight of its memories seem to press down on me, and with effort, I force my attention back to the task at hand.

“Yeah, under any normal circumstance it should be, but these aren’t normal circumstances.” My words linger, spoken to my mom but also to the ghost of the life I once knew.

“No, they’re not, but you’ll get through this too. I promise.” My mother, ever the optimist.

“You’re right. Gah, I don’t know, Mama. All of this”—I gesture wildly around the mess of my room—“is just pissing me off today. I don’t want to have to move, and with my new job I get two rounds of torture. Speaking of, you’re going to help me pack my classroom, right?”

“Greer, you’re not even having to pack that much.” Her voice is serious, having lost her earlier pep.

And I know she’s right. I’m not packing a whole house, just my childhood bedroom. A mere sampling of a life fully lived for thirty-two years.

“Plus,” she adds, “it could also be a good thing. If you want it to be.”

A box tucked under the bed catches my toe. I carefully take it from its hiding space, knowing exactly what’s inside. After wiping off the layer of dust, I caress the cover of the old photo album. With a heavy heart, I flip through its pages, photo after photo showcasing memories of the joy my life once contained. There Brian is, his face, his smile. My fingers trace the lines of our smiles frozen in time when life was simpler, more certain.

The slow melody from the radio fills the room as memories of Brian flicker through my mind. Each note wraps around me like a comforting embrace, a lifeline that has seen me through both joy and sorrow. It’s more than just music to me, each melody or note is like stitches binding the fabric of my memories. They’ve danced within me in moments of celebration; but in times of sorrow, they’ve supported me and made me feel not so alone in my grief.

“I know, Mama.” My fingers tremble as I carefully place the photo album in the box, close it, and drag tape along the top of it. “It’s just hard.”

“We know, sweetie. Losing Brian was hard on all of us. You know. . .” she says. “You can stay here with Daddy and me for a bit longer. Give yourself time to settle in at your new school. You’ve been through more than enough this year.” Looking at me from the corner of her eye, she loads up another box.

People always say to expect the unexpected from Life. But I never considered that in a few seconds, Death might alter my entire course and take me right back to square one—or square zero for that matter.

Sterile hospital walls became my world. Even now, I can recall the constant beeping machines, the smell of antiseptic, the murmur of medical staff discussing my prognosis, and the whispers about Brian’s death.

Shaking my head, I stack another box near the door. “Thanks, Mama, but I’ve lived here since the accident. You and Daddy have done enough.”

And they have. My parents hovered in those bleak hallways, concern etched on their faces. But even then, Mom’s smile remained. Mom always finds the joy in the face of uncertainty. I think she knew I would need that smile because it wasn’t just the loss of Brian or my injuries—ruptured spleen and broken leg—that she worried about. It was the internal wounds she knew would haunt me for weeks and months to come.

Their unwavering support was a lifeline among the shattered remains of my old life. People we once considered friends weren’t able to handle the depths of my grief and drifted away one by one, leaving me to tackle my recovery alone. Ten days I spent in that hospital; days filled with surgeries, a haze of medications, restless nights, and flashbacks.

As I reach for another box, my scalp prickles, and I recall the endless minutes I spent locked away in my own mind, reliving my nightmare over and over. As the weeks and months passed, I wondered if I’d ever close my eyes and not see the accident.

“You say that as if you’ve been some kind of burden on us,” Mom says. “Greer, sweetheart, your daddy and I would do anything for you.” Mom looks at me over her shoulder, sipping water out of a water bottle.

“I know you would.” Warmth seeps through the window and permeates my skin as thoughts tumble through my mind at a rapid pace. I never contemplated returning to the familiarity of our home after being released from the hospital. The mere thought of returning alone to the home we shared together was overwhelming. My parent’s house became my refuge—a warm and safe place to land.

My eyes well with tears as my heart beats against my ribs. Reaching down, I rub the long scar on my right calf. Numerous pale-white scars riddle my body, reminding me that I survived.

My physical wounds healed, and through intensive therapy, the mental scars have started to as well. Every day, every step, every breath, feels both intimidating and oddly familiar. I know my parents know how much this move scares me, but I don’t want to burden them any longer.

“Time heals,” the doctors always told me.

But I’m not so sure.

I’ve learned there is no script for grief or loss. For me, I know it’s time to start over, to move on, to face the unknown on my own two feet even if it feels overwhelming and unnerving. I’m moving onto the next chapter of my life even though I wish I didn’t have to write it without my husband.

“So . . .” Mom says, knowing my mind is spinning. “When should we pack up your classroom? Will the school help transport everything to your new one?”

“Um, yeah.” I startle back to the present, my voice fading as I escape down the hallway to grab a few garbage bags. I take a few moments to myself before returning to my room. “They’ve actually been really great. All I have to do is pack and label the boxes, and the school will move them over.”

Mom smiles. “Well, that’s just wonderful. Are you nervous for the move?”

“Which one?”

“Both, my love.”

“The new school will be fine. I’m good at my job and will be at any location. I’m not even worried about moving down to second grade. If anything, it’ll give me something new and challenging to focus on.”

She nods her head. “And the other one?”

“I—” I take a settling breath as my fingers toy with the hem of my pale-teal shirt.

“You what?” She rests her hands on the box in front of her.

“I don’t know, Mama. I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel. I’d rather not have had to move in with you and Daddy in the first place. I’d rather be living in my old house with Brian. But that’s not possible anymore. I can’t live in that house, not without him.” Tears cloud my vision. “I’ve imposed on you and Daddy for too long. Whether I’m ready or not, it’s time for me to move on.”

Mom ties her golden blonde hair in a twist. “You know, Greer, if I’m being honest, I’m excited for you, but also a little nervous too.”

“Why are you nervous?” I force a laugh. “I’ll be across town, not in Australia. Plus, you’ll get to decorate my new house.”

The words new house tumble around my mind. The house Brian and I filled with memories for eight years now stands empty. Shortly after I moved in with my parents, they and Brian’s parents moved our items to a storage unit. My parents used to ask me what I wanted to do with the house, and I know someday soon I’ll have to figure that out.

It’s hard to live a new (and unwanted) life when you’re surrounded by what was and the possibilities of what could have been. Constantly reminded that you lived and he died.

I’m sure if I went back to our house, I could still smell his fancy coffee in the kitchen, hear his laugh bouncing off the walls, and see the worn spot on the carpet from his desk chair. Every room, every surface, holds a memory. But the thought of stepping into that house feels like I’ll drown in a tidal wave of memories. It’s time I swim.

“I know. I know.” Mom takes a settling breath, emotion clogging her throat. “I’ve—well, we—have loved having you back home. With everything that happened. . .”

You mean nearly dying in a car crash or watching my husband die or the surgeries or the recovery or the fact that my body or mind won’t let me forget what happened? You have to be specific, Mom.

“Mama, I’ll be fine. I am fine. Everyone can stop worrying. Plus, I can’t live with you and Daddy forever.”

“Well.” She pauses her packing, looking at me with a grin.

Sighing, I stretch a piece of tape across the top of a box. The scratching of the dispenser fills the silence in the room. Walking down the short photo-lined hallway, I find my gaze catching on our wedding photo. Averting my eyes, I quicken my steps, placing the box into the stack in the living room.

“Mother,” I holler, “I refuse to be a thirty-two-year-old woman still living at home. I get that a lot of bad shit has happened to me this year, but I have to do this.” I snag another small moving box, then take my time folding and taping it into form. I grab another and another.

I finally closed on my new house a little over two weeks ago. A brand new, 2,000-square-foot house with three spacious bedrooms and a three-car garage. Why I need a house this big for one person, I’ll never know. I blame the master bathroom and view. It’s in a new community with only a few other houses on the block, and the house sits on a large corner lot that backs up to a wooded preserve.

The empty spaces wait for me to fill them with life, like blank pages eager for a story. Silent hallways and empty bedrooms in my new home whisper secrets of a fresh start. It’s pristine, untouched, and isolated. The irony of the situation isn’t lost on me: Seeking solace in a home devoid of memories will only serve to amplify the void left by those that never will be.

Mom places her hand on my shoulder, pulling me from yet another thought spiral. Shivers wrack my body. Her touch threatens to unravel me, but I can’t do that anymore; I can’t fall apart. It’s been months. It’s time to move on. Right?

I turn toward her, and she tugs me into her arms. I know it’ll be hard for them when I move out. It’s easy for me to forget sometimes that not only did they almost lose me, but they lost Brian too.

“People would understand, Greer. You know they would.”

Laying my head on her shoulder, I wrap my arms around her waist, the soft fabric of her dress tight in my grip. “I don’t need them to understand. I’m fine.”

“Are you though?” Her words are barely audible.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” The quiver in my voice betrays the knot of regret tightening in my chest.

The truth is, I’m trying, but I’m not sure when I’ll actually feel good or fine or okay . Because no one ever tells you the truth about life—it’s beautiful and unpredictable and occasionally really fucking sucks.