5. Greer
5
Greer
Unknown : Hey girl, want to meet for coffee?
Me : Who is this?
Unknown : Woman, it’s Sutton.
Me : Oh hey, how are you? Sorry, didn’t have your number saved in my phone.
Unknown : Best be changing that quick.
Unknown : So . . . coffee?
Me : What about it?
I pour steaming coffee into my favorite mug, the rich aroma mixing with the crisp summer air. I quickly add her to my contacts.
Sutton : Do you drink it? Want to meet up at Ground Up?
Sutton : 10:00?
Sutton : You’re on summer break, right?
Sutton : They’ve got those really good cinnamon rolls.
Sutton : I love those things. I think they must put some kind of drug in them.
I can’t help the giggle that escapes me as my phone pings incessantly, her messages flooding in back to back.
I am convinced there are only three types of texters in this world: those who write organized and thoughtful paragraphs; those who type in a series of never-ending texts, their thoughts flitting from one thing to the next; and then there are those who don’t text. I’m unsurprised to learn Sutton falls firmly into category two.
Sutton : Please say yes.
It’s hard to remember the last time, if there ever was one, where someone was this exuberant and desperate to hang out with me. Shuffling into the living room, I picture her already dressed to perfection, phone in hand, ready to tackle the day into submission. The perks of being a teacher are that I have zero to-do lists. I’m content to stay in my flamingo nightgown and cozy socks for as long as I want. Which, I suppose, won’t be for very long today.
Sutton : Please :)
Me : Are you done yet?
Me : Wait, don’t answer that or I might never get a word in. Why do you want to go to coffee with me?
Sutton : Because I want to.
Sutton : Does there have to be a reason?
I sigh and say aloud, “Message received, Brian.” I can do this. I don’t have to be so alone anymore.
Me : Fair point. 10:00 works.
Sutton : OMG! I’m so excited!
Sutton : It’ll be so fun to catch up and not be focused on finding you a house.
Sutton : Speaking of, I gotta run to a few showings.
Despite the early hour, Sutton’s excitement is infectious, and a reluctant smile tugs at my lips at the same time a flutter of anticipation settles in my chest.
“Oh man, Duke.” I reach down to scratch his head. “Am I really going to do this?” He barks. Even my dog thinks I need more friends.
Slipping on my house shoes, Duke and I venture into our shared sanctuary. The concrete pad under my awning, though modest, opens to a large grassy yard. A line of pine trees stands guard, creating a natural barrier between the preserve and neighborhood. If I listen hard enough, I can just make out the trickling of water from a nearby stream.
I take a deep breath, then exhale slowly, letting the subtle scent of pine trees and wet foliage wrap around me. The dew-covered grass tickles my ankles as we walk further into the yard. Duke playfully darts off to the side and circles around me.
I’m surprised at how not terrifying it’s been living on my own. Aside from my college dorm room, I’ve never truly lived alone. When I’d decided to move out of my parents’ house, I’d built it up in my mind that I was moving to some far-off land that’d be filled with monsters and orcs, pain and loneliness. But it’s not been like that at all. In fact, I almost feel more settled, more at peace now that I’m here. A bittersweet smile tugs at my mouth. Brian would be proud of me. Would be.
“You like it here, don’t ya, buddy?” I giggle, something I don’t do much, but it’s a welcome distraction from the sudden gravity of my thoughts. He continues his morning zoomy ritual around the yard, the wet grass causing occasional slips. Yet, he remains unfazed. The leg I thought might have been permanently injured appears to have mysteriously healed.
Turning toward the tree grove, I notice the trees aren’t as densely packed together as I originally thought. There even looks to be a small path that leads into the area. Peering between them, I spot a larger, more open, grassy area where morning sunlight filters through. Careful not to trip, I step over rocks and walk the last few steps until I’m standing on the edge of the tree line.
“Good morning, Brian.” The words sail away on a whisper, and I hope they reach him.
A slight breeze moves through the yard, as if the trees are whispering good morning back. Distantly, I imagine Brian, wherever he is, saying hello to me. Placing the coffee mug on the ground beside me, I stretch my arms from side to side, reaching them high toward the sky before letting them fall with a loud exhale.
“Beautiful.” A deep voice pierces the silence, jolting me from my thoughts.
“Jesus, Luke, you keep doing that!” I yell and step forward as I look over my shoulder. He’s a vision in his fireman’s uniform, matching blue pants and a collared shirt.
“Yeah, sorry ’bout that.” He doesn’t look sorry.
“It really is beautiful here and normally so quiet.” I tease, turning my gaze back to the view ahead. “Headed to work?”
“Yeah, I am. Chief asked me at the last minute to help teach a class.” He pauses, furrowing his brows and shaking his head before continuing. “But I’ve got some time off soon.” He takes a few long steps, then he stops to my left. At first, he caught me off guard, but now his close proximity feels safe, inviting even. Feelings I’ll overthink and obsess over later.
A light silence settles between us for several minutes as we enjoy the tranquility of our little slice of nature.
“You ever been out there?” He gestures to the makeshift dirt path leading into the preserve.
“Not yet. All I’ve managed to do is make my house livable. Correction: I’ve helped my mom make my house livable. In fact, it’s more than livable. It’s—shit!” I pause my sudden stream of consciousness. “There I go again.” Closing my mouth, I give him a sheepish grin.
“It’s okay.” He takes another step closer. Warmth settles over my skin. “I like listening to you ramble.”
“Rambling is one word for it. There’s something about you, Luke Bradley.” My voice fades off as I turn my gaze to Duke who’s rooting around various bushes.
“Yeah . . .” he says as a sudden smile lights up his whole face. “Okay, well, I guess I better head out. Have a good day, Greer.” His retreating footsteps sound behind me as Duke settles to my right, watching him leave.
“You too.” I peek over my shoulder to see if Luke’s heard me.
He’s standing there at the corner of his house, one hand holding on to it, watching me. He grins, nods his head, and disappears from sight.
“Alright, doggo. Let’s go figure out what I’m going to wear.” Sliding open the back door, Duke runs in and heads straight for my bedroom, making himself completely at home in the bed.
“Or maybe we can find a good reason for me not to go. We could do that, right?”
Just then my phone rings, Mama flashing across the screen. I press the speaker button as I step into my large walk-in closet.
“Hi, Mama.”
“Good morning, my Greer. How did you sleep?” The soft, rhythmic sound of whisking filters through beyond her voice.
“I slept okay.”
“Just okay?”
Her question prods at me. She knows I rarely sleep well since the accident. Some nights, I’ll pass out readily into bed and sleep soundlessly the whole night through. On rare occasions, I sleep and dream of Brian. Others, I’m unable to fall asleep, my mind a never-ending hurricane. Worse yet are the nights I’m ripped from sleep by a version of the same nightmare of the accident.
“I’m not really in the mood to discuss it. I need to figure out what to wear.”
Thumbing through my meager collection of clothes, I'm suddenly very aware of my lack of clothing. I’ve never been much for fashion. Give me jeans and T-shirt or a sundress, and I’m good to go. During recovery, I needed clothing that made maneuvering my hardwired leg and crutches easier, so my wardrobe became a collection of athleisure wear and teaching clothes.
“God, B, even my clothes are depressed.” I muse.
“It’s Mama, baby. Not Brian.” Her voice clogs with brief emotion, and she sniffles.
Only she, Dad, and my therapist know I occasionally talk to Brian. It brought me comfort when I was in the early days of my war with grief. At first, I was embarrassed. Ashamed, even. Always worrying that people would think I wasn’t quite right in the head. But my parents never judged me or made me feel silly. Talking to Brian is easy and, like now, if I slip into conversation with him, they gently nudge me back to the present, where he doesn’t exist.
“Sorry.”
“No need to be sorry.” She takes a loud sip. “Now, tell me why you’re fussing over what to wear? Where are you off to today?”
“Coffee.”
“Coffee? You’re going out for coffee and need to figure out what to wear?” Confusion pours through the line as she tries to piece together my dilemma. “Don’t you go to Ground Up at least once a week? Pretty sure no one will care or even notice what you’re wearing.”
I hear the telltale sound of a bowl and spoon clattering to the ground. “Shit,” my mom says.
I love her to bits, but unlike me, she’s a disaster in the kitchen. “Technically,” I say, “I’m meeting someone there. And before you jump to conclusions—”
“You’re meeting someone? Oh, Greer, I’m so happy—”
“And there are those conclusions I told you not to jump to. It’s not a big deal. Just meeting Sutton for coffee.” I toss a light purple sundress and white slip-on sneakers on my pale-pink bed before popping into my bathroom and turning on the shower.
“Well . . .” A sharp intake of breath is the only indication my mom gives of her excitement. If I had her on FaceTime, I know she’d likely be sporting a huge grin. “That’s just wonderful. Sutton seems like such a nice girl. I’m sure you’ll have a great time.”
“Thanks, Mama. I gotta get ready though, so I’ll call you tonight. Love you.”
“Love you!” She yelps as more clattering sounds in the background. I end the call, then toss my phone on the counter.
If there were any part of my house that I loved more than my backyard and view, it’d be my bathroom. Bigger and more luxurious than any I’ve ever had, it boasts a large walk-in shower with a freestanding tub inside. The back wall is covered in black hexagon tiles while the adjacent walls are adorned with white subway tiles. Before this house, I was never a take-a-bath type, but I’ve been converted with this shower-tub combo.
After I slap on a minimal amount of makeup—a sweep of rose blush and mascara—I slip my dress over my head. The fabric caresses my body, and goosebumps erupt across my skin. Nervous excitement flutters in my stomach as I step into my sneakers, catching sight of but ignoring the scars on my legs.
“There’s nothing I can do about them,” I say. “I’ve accepted them. I bet no one really notices them anyway, right, B?”
“Right,” I answer for him.
I head out of my room, grabbing my keys and crossbody bag. All the while, Duke matches me step for step.
“Okay, Duke, you’ll be a good boy while I’m gone, right?” He sits dutifully by the garage door. At the last minute, I grab my book (because who goes anywhere without a book?) and crouch down to his level.
“Yeah, you’ll be a good boy. I’ll be gone a little bit.” I stand and give him a little twirl. “Do I look okay?”
He cocks his head and wags his tail.
“Great, I’m gonna take that as a yes. Okay, I’m off.”
I slide into my SUV and close the door behind me. It takes a few tries before I can get the key into the ignition. People always thought I’d have trouble driving after the accident, but driving is one thing I don’t have trouble with at all. It’s the thought of socializing that’s got my nerves on overdrive today.
I reverse out of my driveway, releasing a calming breath, and head toward the coffee shop. I open the window hoping the butterflies assaulting my stomach will fly away.
“Why am I nervous? It’s just coffee.” I picture Brian sitting next to me. He always helped me make sense of things. I still remember our late-night study sessions and him unwinding the worries of my brain about some paper I had due, something a professor said, or some random thing I said when I was thirteen.
“I know, I know. But it’s just coffee with a potential new friend. Yes, I know it could be really good. Okay, fine, I’ll admit it. I might feel like I need to throw up, but I am excited. That’s good, right?” It’s starting not to hurt as much now when he doesn’t answer.
It’s a quick drive to the coffee shop and after checking the clock I nod, happy to realize I’m a full twenty minutes early. Plenty of time to make sure the coffee shop hasn’t decided to spontaneously pick up and move somewhere else. Plenty of time to internally freak out as if I’ve never had coffee with someone before.
I groan and bang my forehead against the steering wheel, cursing how much social anxiety plays a role in my life . I’ve had friends and have attempted to make new ones before. All throughout elementary and high school, I’d find myself on the periphery of various groups of people, but, no matter what I did, I never found myself in the center of one. Eventually, I’d just fade into the background and the relationship would fizzle.
When I met Brian in college, my life took a social 180. I was quiet and reserved; Brian was loud and friendly. I was more of a homebody; Brian was the outgoing adventurous type. With his help, I broke out of my little introverted bubble. When we moved back to Suncrest Valley, we stayed in contact with most of them and tried to hang out as often as we could. Although I didn’t like all his friends, it was easy and fun. For once, it felt like maybe I’d finally found genuine, long-lasting friendships.
But then Brian died and those friendships faded away, just like all the others. Maybe it was me. Maybe it was them.
“God, Greer, it’ll be fine. You know Sutton.”
I tuck my hair behind my ears, and then I flip down the visor mirror to smooth down any flyaways. Why is it that someone hasn’t created a handbook for making adult friends? It’d be like Tinder but for people who want to hang out, drink coffee, read, hike, go to shows, or sit silently in each other’s company. Until now, I probably wouldn’t have used it, but even I can admit my mom’s probably right—I need to find my people.
“You’ve got this, babe.” With confidence, I speak the words Brian would have said. After a final deep breath, I swing the truck door open and head inside.
The moment I step into Ground Up, the rich aroma of freshly ground coffee beans envelops me like a warm hug. The walls, adorned in a deep navy hue, are accentuated by rustic wooden accents, which lend an earthy warmth to the space. The usual hustle and bustle is hushed today, and I’m able to secure a table near the window with a perfect view of the street.
“Hey, can I get ya anything?” A voice behind the register greets me as I sit down.
Glancing over, recognition sparks in my mind. She isn’t the familiar barista from the morning rush. Instead, I recognize her as a former schoolmate. Her auburn hair is elegantly secured in a claw clip with tendrils framing her face. Draped in a deep-teal apron that contrasts the delicate lace of her dress, she exudes an effortlessly romantic vibe.
“Yeah,” I smile. “But I’m going to wait for my friend—I mean, my person I’m meeting to arrive.” Only I could make talking a task worthy of needing a doctoral degree.
“Oh, that’s cool. I’m normally on the afternoon and night shift, but you look so familiar. What’s your name?” She comes around the bar, wiping tabletops and throwing trash away.
“Um, Greer.” My voice catches. After clearing my throat and with more confidence and semblance of normalcy, I repeat, “Greer Ashbury. I'm pretty sure we went to the same high school, right?”
“Yes!” Her eyes light up in recognition. “Okay, now I know who you are. You were a year ahead, but I never forget a face.” She walks behind the bar, abruptly ending the conversation. If you can even call it that.
Bells tingle as Sutton energetically bursts through the door. She spots me immediately and beelines to our table. I note the black pencil skirt and white collared shirt she’s wearing, the classic pumps and smooth hairdo. Sutton’s knack for style and sophistication is unforgettable.
“You came!” she shouts.
“I came.” I know my cheeks must be bright red.
She approaches the table and sets her handbag in the chair before rounding the table. I’m already opening my arms, preparing to give her another awkward hug.
“I’m a hugger,” she states plainly.
Grinning, the butterflies in my stomach land and settle. “That’s okay. I don’t mind.” Why don’t I mind? Slipping out of my chair, wallet in hand, I ignore the thought and head to the counter. “Should we order?” When I don’t hear a response, I glance back at Sutton. She’s just standing there, staring at me with a serene smile on her face. “You okay?”
“Yep, perfect now.”
Her statement makes no sense, so I ignore it and place my order for a dirty double chai. As I finish, I motion for Sutton to place her order.
“Same as Greer. Oh! And one of your cinnamon rolls.” She elbows my arm, giving me a side-eye.
“Okay.” The barista looks from Sutton to me. “Are you two on a date?”
If we’d had anything in our mouths, it surely would have ended up on her face. Instead, our loud laughs fill the coffee shop, causing some annoyed glares from patrons.
“Well, no, not in the sense that I want to fall madly in love with her, get married, and have babies. But . . . yes? We’re on a friendship date.” Sutton’s confidence pours from her and a warm, welcoming smile lights up her whole face. She wraps her hand around my waist, laying her head on my shoulder.
“A friendship date?” The barista looks utterly confused.
“Well, you see,”—Sutton raises her head, then looks at the barista’s name tag—“Navy? Gosh, that’s a great name. Wait, you went to school with us, right?” She pauses briefly, nodding yes to her own question. “Well, Greer and I have always known of each other, but we were never friends. She called me when she was ready to buy a house, and I loved her vibe. Made me wonder why we never became friends in high school. But then I realized we weren’t meant to be friends then. We’re meant to be friends now.” She grins at me like that’s the most normal explanation in the world. My body settles further, and I return her smile, loving that she rambles like me.
Navy eyes us curiously. “Well, that was a very thorough explanation. Good luck with your. . . friendship date. Hopefully it all works out. I’ll bring your drinks and pastry out shortly.” She abruptly turns her attention to the espresso machine and begins prepping our drinks.
“So . . .” I hate the awkwardness of beginning a conversation, my fingers twisting in my shirt as I search for the right words.
“Can I tell you something, Greer?”
“Of course.” We take our seats at the table.
“I hate small talk.”
I release a deep breath. “Oh, thank god.”
“Right! There is nothing worse than small talk. I try it all the time, but it doesn’t take me long to deep dive—”
“Exactly,” I interrupt, but immediately pull back. Embarrassment crawls over my skin at my outburst. I haven’t been around people my own age socially much this last year, so it’s hard not to talk a million miles a minute. I know I’m more of an introvert, but with the right people, my extroverted tendencies seem to emerge.
Sutton places her hands over mine, providing a sense of strength to my suddenly frazzled nerves. “If you can’t talk about the deep stuff, what’s the point? Am I right?”
“Okay, on that note . . .” I pause, toying with my wedding ring. “Why did you suddenly decide, after all these years, to invite me to hang out? Like you said, we weren’t friends in high school, and we don’t really run in the same circles. I mean, technically, I don’t run in any circles these days.”
“Yeah.” She looks longingly out the window, then turns her attention back to me. “Your question is valid. But I don’t know if I have an answer for you. At first, it was all about business, right? But after working with you and getting to know you a bit, you seemed kind of—”
“Sad? Depressed? Broken? All of the above?” I supply with an expectant look.
“Actually, no,” she replies firmly. “You didn’t seem like any of those things. At least not all the time. Yes, I could see glimpses of them, but mostly I just felt a connection to you. Like maybe we might have a lot in common?”
“So, this isn’t a pity thing for the grieving, lonely widow?” I’m not afraid to admit I’m lonely because I know I am. Muriel, my therapist, is the one who helped me see just how much my self-isolation had exacerbated the emotion. We’ve been talking recently about me getting out of my bubble sooner rather than later. I know my awkwardness may contradict that desire, but it doesn’t make it any less true; I would love a few friends, just not the kind that show up because they feel sorry for me.
“Greer, come on. Give me more credit than that. This is not a pity thing.”
Navy brings our order to the table, assessing the suddenly serious nature of our conversation. “Everything, okay?”
The coffee cup’s warmth centers me. I look from Sutton to Navy before saying, “Yep, everything is okay. Just getting to the nitty-gritty of things right quick.”
“Yeah, small talk sucks.” Navy says, setting the pastry down as Sutton and I share a smile.
A few quiet moments pass as we sip our drinks, being careful not to burn our mouths. Settling back in my chair, I absorb the energy from Sutton’s presence
“The thing is”—Sutton twirls her finger over the edge of her coffee—“I don’t have very many close friends.”
I cut her an incredulous look.
“Okay, yes, I have friends. I know. It’s kind of hard not to when my brother is the town golden boy, and he’s never shooed me away like an annoying little sister. What I mean is, I’ve recently realized that I don’t have any super-duper close girlfriends and, while working with you, I wondered if maybe you didn’t either.”
“I don’t. I mean, we used to have friends, but after”—my scalp prickles—“the accident, they just kind of disappeared. If it’s not Mom or Dad, I don’t really have anyone anymore.” I don’t have anyone anymore. God, that’s depressing. Distracting myself, I take a sip of coffee, my tongue stinging from the heat.
My confession doesn’t faze Sutton. She passes me a fork and digs into our cinnamon roll.
“Was it hard?”
“Yes.”
“I didn’t know . . . Brian.” She looks at me, seeming to ask permission to say his name. I give her a nod, and she continues, “But I remember hearing about it.”
Settling my breathing, I pick up the fork and bring a piece of warm, gooey cinnamon roll to my mouth. Spices explode on my tongue while the dough melts in my mouth. I can’t help the moan that escapes.
“Right? I told you they were good.” Sutton shoves a bite in her mouth, getting icing on her chin. She may dress like a debutante, but this tiny view of her unrefined eating habits makes me curious what she’s like when the world isn’t watching.
“So good.” A genuine smile peeks through as I settle into myself. Into my body. Into this moment. In the back of my mind, I just barely see Brian’s face and his encouraging smile.
“So, how are you, Greer?”
“I’m not too sure.” I place my fork on the side of the plate.
She takes a sip of her coffee. “Okay. Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” Little ants of nervousness suddenly emerge under the surface of my skin, and I reach for my handbag. I’m actually not shocked Sutton jumped right to the hard stuff, she did warn me, but for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to talk about the past.
As if she senses my hesitation, Sutton’s hand clasps mine across the table. “Don’t go. It’s okay if you don’t want to talk. Stay, spend time with me.”
I shake out the trepidation in my body, hating how hard this is. “I’m sorry. It’s just hard to talk about it with people sometimes.” Most people. Luke’s face appears in my mind. “And I’d rather talk about other things right now?
“I get it.” Sutton smiles, and those little ants retreat. “I promise, it’ll be okay.”
“Okay.” I nod and slip my handbag back onto my chair.
And with Sutton, it really is okay that I wasn’t ready to spill my guts to her. I know if this friendship continues with her, she won’t always let me off the hook so easily, but I’m thankful that she does today. Baby steps.
We spend the next hour lost in conversation. Sutton rambles away with any thought that pops into her head, happy to lead the conversation. As the minutes tick by, it surprises me how good it feels to be here, fully present.
For the better part of a year, I’ve avoided interactions with most people. Each day started with facing my grief and tucking it away so I could function somewhat normally. One seemingly innocent question though could send me right back into the pits of despair, and then I’d have to start back over, tucking away the pieces of my broken heart, bit by bit. Isolating became my defense mechanism, but even I know it’s not something I can, nor want, to maintain forever.
“You know what, Greer?” We gather our belongings and throw away our trash.
“What’s that?”
“I think this is the beginning of a very beautiful friendship.” After another hug, Sutton hustles out the door to her car. I couldn’t wipe the smile from my face even if I tried.
“Well, that seemed to go well?” Navy stands behind the bar, arms crossed over her chest.
“You know,”—I look back at her over my shoulder—“I think you’re right.”
“Must be nice, having a friend.” She tosses the words out before disappearing into the kitchen. I watch the door swing on its hinges and an idea forms in my mind. Yeah, it is.