8. Greer
8
Greer
C ool air greets me as I swing open the door to Ground Up. I had rushed through a shower after my impromptu mowing adventure; my damp hair cascades loosely down my back. I hastily picked an outfit this time, figuring if Sutton judged me based on appearance, she wasn’t the friend I needed.
I’m still flying high after Luke’s lesson on the riding mower. It’s like he knew what I needed. I’m so used to getting myself worked up when I can’t get something, but Luke was calm and patient with me as I figured out how to drive and maneuver the mower. He was confident I could do it, and for some reason, I trusted him implicitly. I was actually surprised he left me to traverse our yards, creating satisfying lines. Although, I did see him several times in the periphery tending to various tasks in his yard.
Every now and then, I’d catch him watching me. Like the awkward dumbass I am, I smiled and waved like I was on a ride at Disneyland. And he would wink. I swear, that wink does something to me.
As I approach the door, I note how unusually calm Ground Up is this morning. Normally, there’s not an open seat, and you end up having to take your items to go. The scent of freshly made coffee hangs in the air, assaulting my senses. There’s something inexplicably comforting about the aroma.
Sutton and Navy are busy chatting at a table near the register. As I enter, Sutton spots me and springs up from her chair for a hug. For someone who’s been averse to any sort of physical touch for the last year, I find it interesting that I don’t seem to mind it from any member of the Bradley family. There’s just something about them that draws me in and makes me want to soak up their warmth.
“Hey, girls,” I say. “Sorry I’m late.” I give Navy a slight wave, and she returns it with a smile.
“Hey, Greer. What’ll you two have? Same as last time?” Navy asks while tying her teal apron around her waist.
“Actually,” I say, “I’ll have triple espresso over ice with almond milk and whip cream.” I quickly scan the pastry case. “Oh, and another cinnamon roll. Do you want to share this time, Sutton, or should we get our own? Maybe we should each get one because I could eat a dozen right now.”
Navy’s mouth hangs open and her brows knit together. “Who are you, and what have you done with the Greer I met last time?”
Sutton snorts. “Separate cinnamon rolls today, Navy. And I'll have whatever the hell she just ordered to drink.”
“Okay. I’ll have those out soon.” Navy turns, grabbing shot glasses to begin our drinks.
“Sooo,” Sutton says, “how was your morning?” She draws out each word. I shake my head.
“Well, first of all, why the hell does your brother insist on getting up at the asscrack of dawn all the time? I swear, it’s like the sun comes up, and Luke is up.”
“Sounds about right. He’s always been that way. Our dad was an early riser, and Luke takes after him in a lot of ways.”
“But it’s not even the fact that he’s up that early because I’m always up early. It’s the fact that he’s up and loud. I swear he was rearranging his garage yesterday. And the wood chopping? I think he’s preparing for the apocalypse or something.”
“He does chop a lot of wood.” Sutton doesn’t even try to hide her grin.
“Funny.” I roll my eyes. “And then today, he’s out there before the sun's even up mowing the goddamn lawn. Who mows the lawn that early in the morning on a freaking Wednesday?”
Navy appears at our table and sets our drinks in front of us. She turns to the counter and grabs our cinnamon rolls. “Here ya go. Anything else I can get for you?”
“Why don’t you join us?” Sutton asks.
Navy’s eyes widen in surprise at the invitation. “Why?”
“Well,”—Sutton takes a sip of her iced coffee—“It should be illegal how good this is.”
“I know, right,” I say. “Coffee is the nectar of the gods. But especially when Navy makes it.” She beams at my comment, her cheeks taking on a slight flush.
“Anyway,” Sutton continues, turning toward Navy. “We’re friends now. It’s clearly dead in here today, which is really bizarre. Plus, Greer is about to spill the beans about feeling my brother up.”
I sputter my coffee, coughing as it goes down the wrong pipe. “That is not what I said.”
“Are you sure?” Navy asks. I suspect she’s a lot like Sutton and me and struggles to make new friends. I sensed it the first time we were in here, like she was jealous of the friendship date Sutton and I had.
“Of course we are sure,” I say. “Now, get a drink because I refuse to relive this mortification more than once.” I raise my eyebrows at Sutton. The Cheshire Cat grin spreading across her face tells me she’s enjoying this more than any normal person should.
Within minutes, Navy pulls up a chair, cup of coffee and cinnamon roll in hand. “Okay, so what’s this about you and Luke? Which, by the way, bravo. He’s so handsome.”
“Yeah, Greer,” Sutton says, “tell us. How does one end up groping my brother? At seven a.m? On a Wednesday?” She emphasizes each phrase.
“First of all,” I say, “it wasn’t anywhere close to groping.”
“Stop delaying,” Navy butts in.
“Like I was saying, he was out there being so damn loud mowing the lawn, and then he decided to mow my lawn, so of course I went out there to give him a piece of my mind.”
“Of course.” Navy snickers.
“Anyway.” I roll my eyes. “He said he wanted to help me because he notices my leg bothers me sometimes.”
“Sounds like my brother.”
“Well, that made me even more pissed.”
“Because it’s totally normal to be pissed when someone offers to do something nice for you,” Navy deadpans.
“No, I was pissed because I realized someone told him about the accident.”
“Oh.” Sutton crouches down in her seat. “That might have been mine and Hunter’s fault.”
“Yes, I know.” Pausing, I gather my emotions and tuck them away. “And it’s fine, really. I was just really shocked to learn that Luke and Hunter were there at the scene. People don’t normally have a firsthand account of my nightmare. So then I shut down.”
“Why?” Navy and Sutton prompt.
“Because I knew he pitied me, and I despise pity.” I stab at the cinnamon roll with my fork, desperate to divert my attention from the wave of emotions tumbling through me. Heat creeps up my neck, and my scalp prickles.
“Pity?” Sutton inquires.
“Yes, pity,” I grumble. I’m not sure I want to talk about this, but the words pour out anyway. “Everyone knows about the accident, and suddenly, people feel sorry for me, wanting to do things for me. I don’t need help because they pity my situation. Sure, my leg is wonky sometimes, but I’m not helpless. I can do things on my own.”
“Of course you can,” Navy reassures softly. “No one is saying you can’t.”
“I . . . well,”—my mind falters—“I guess that could be true.”
“Okay,” says Sutton, “so you got pissed at my brother because you assumed he’s helping you out of pity? Please continue . . .”
“Here I was trying to holler at him, but instead, he apologized for overstepping. So, then I went inside to be more mad at him, only to end up feeling guilty instead.”
“And the reason for that is?” Navy’s tone is soothing, but her questions are direct.
“Are you a therapist or something?” A smile plays on my lips as I take another sip of my coffee.
A grin lights up her whole face. “My mother is, and I’m a barista, so technically no but maybe in a roundabout way?”
“Greer, why were you really upset with Luke?” Sutton's gaze is steady but gentle.
A hush falls over the table. Typically, this is the moment when I’d evade and escape any probing questions. I haven’t discussed what happened with anyone except in therapy. Yet, with these women, I couldn’t stop the words from spilling out if I tried.
“I know people want to help me and feel sorry for me, but I have to learn to navigate life on my own. I don’t have Brian anymore, and he was always the one to do everything. And I don’t want to keep relying on my parents. They’ve done so much for me already. I don’t want to burden them any longer.”
“Greer.” Sutton reaches forward, folding my hand in hers. Navy’s hand settles on my forearm, applying gentle pressure. “You are not a burden.”
“It feels like that sometimes.”
“Does it really?” Navy questions, her brow arching as she leans back in her chair. “Or is that how you think others see you?” Her words linger in the air, and my pulse quickens, like she's peeled back a layer I wasn't ready to confront.
I hesitate, unsure how much truth I'm willing to admit, and we all dig into our food. With each bite, Navy’s words begin to resonate. Mom and Dad have never expressed any negativity toward me after the accident. In fact, they leaped immediately into action to assist me. No hesitation, no questions asked. That’s what parents do, right? Even Gemma did her best in the days following the funeral, but eventually she had to go home.
Thinking back on it, no one at work treated me differently when I returned. Sure, Bill, the maintenance supervisor at my school would assist me throughout the week, carrying heavy things to the classroom or even helping me bring items from my car inside, but that was just the kind of man he was. My students also pitched in, running errands or carrying things when I needed help. But I never sensed pity from them; they were just sweet kiddos eager to lend a hand. Half the time, I don’t think they even noticed my scars or limp because they were always asking me to play with them during recess.
“Maybe you’re right,” I concede.
“Meaning?” Sutton takes a sip of her coffee.
“Meaning”—I hold the cold glass between my hands—“maybe I portrayed myself as a burden in my mind. Maybe I feel like a burden to myself. Maybe I pity myself.” The last part sneaks out before I can stop it.
“Oh, Greer,” Navy says, and both women once again cradle my hands in theirs. “You’ve been through hell.”
“I know,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper. Sutton squeezes my hand, urging me to continue. “It’s exhausting living in my mind, and I’m just really sad. Really fucking sad.”
“You have every right to be sad,” Navy states.
“It’s hard to imagine what it’s like for you, Greer.”
“I’m fucking exhausted living like this,” I blurt. “Every day, I fight the memories of the accident. Physically, I’m healed, but I’ll never be like I was. And then there are my scars. It’s so damn hard to try to move on when my body constantly reminds me that I lived and he died. Sometimes, it feels like the guilt will bury me alive. And”—I wipe the tears dripping down my cheeks, then push my plate aside—“I don’t know how to move on. And I know it's time. I know I need to.”
Sutton sighs. “Who says you have to move on, G?”
“No one. Me. I don’t know.” I cover my face.
“Do you want to know what we think?” Navy asks. “Or would you rather we just listen?”
My hands lower to cover my heart, soothing my surprise shining through. Most people insert themselves into your emotional turmoil and immediately attempt to give advice or try to commiserate, but now I’ve met two women who are willing to sit here and merely listen to me ramble if that’s what I need from them.
“Honestly,” I begin, tears lining my eyes. “It’s been me alone with these thoughts for so long, I’d really like to hear what my friends think.”
“Greer, life is hard.” Navy’s voice is resolute and filled with empathy. “Really fucking hard. More so for some than others. But you couldn’t have controlled what happened. The accident wasn’t your fault. It’s not fair to yourself to take responsibility for your husband’s death. Plus, what does guilt accomplish? Does it change what is? No, it doesn’t. It’s a dumb fucking emotion that keeps you stagnant, preventing you from moving forward, leaving you trapped in the dark.”
“You’ll never forget Brian or what happened,” Sutton adds. “But the fact remains, it happened, and now here you are. Maybe Navy is right—don’t focus on trying to move on, focus on moving forward.”
I ponder their words for a moment. I’ve had countless therapy sessions, but this, with Navy and Sutton, feels more freeing and more comfortable than most of those sessions.
“Sooo . . .” Sutton smiles. “Back to Luke and the whole grass situation.”
I chuckle. “Well, then I realized I was too harsh on him, went out to apologize, spilled my guts about the real reason I was upset, and then he offered to teach me how to use the lawn mower so I could do it myself.”
“And you said what?” Sutton asks.
“Well . . .” I hesitate.
“Is this when the touching starts?” Excitement fills Navy’s voice, and her eyes brighten.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Uh-uh, girl,” says Sutton. “Spill. What happened between you and my brother?”
“Isn’t this awkward? Me talking about this stuff when it involves your brother?”
“I mean,” says Sutton, “if you start telling me you gave him a handy or something, yeah. But if you keep it PG, it’s all good.”
Shame slithers up my spine, searing into my cheeks. It hadn’t been anything sexual, but in that moment, I’d felt things I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
“Oh god, what did I say?” Sutton’s eyes widen.
“N-nothing,” I stammer. I can still feel his skin beneath mine and hear the huskiness of his voice. He’d asked what I wanted, but I couldn’t be sure if he meant physically or something else.
“Greer,” Navy begins, “have you been with anyone since?”
“Of course not,” I say. Why would she think that was a possibility? It hasn’t been that long since I lost Brian. Yes, I’m a woman. Yes, I have needs. But it’s nothing a good memory or two and battery-operated friend can’t help. Wouldn’t moving on so quickly be disrespectful to his memory and our life together?
“Explain,” Sutton insists.
“You guys don’t really want to talk about this, do you?”
“Yes, we do,” they say in unison, making us all smile.
“Brian is— was —the only man I’ve ever been with. Sure, in high school, I had a boyfriend or two, but it was never like that .”
“And . . .” Navy keeps her eyes locked on me.
“And nothing. It’s probably too soon.”
“You’re the only person who can determine how you move through your grief.” Navy takes the last sip of her coffee.
“I like you,” Sutton tells her with a giant grin on her face.
“Yeah, well,”—Navy’s cheeks take on a rosy hue—“I like you girls too. Greer, I’m curious if you’ve ever asked yourself when will it have been long enough?”
“I—well, I don’t know.” I admit, befuddled.
“Do you do other stuff . . . like by yourself?” Sutton asks.
“Well, yeah, of course,” I say. “I’m human.” I’m not shocked or even the slightest bit embarrassed about this line of questioning. I'm not shy about my own sexuality.
“And is it Brian you still see when you close your eyes?” My heart skips a beat at Navy’s words because I can’t recall the last time a memory of Brian helped bring me to climax.
“In the beginning, that’s where I found Brian. It felt safe there, with him. I could pretend my hands were his, my words were his. I could pretend.”
“And now?” Sutton’s eyes implore me to be honest.
“Now,”—I inhale, steeling myself before confessing—“I’m not sure I want to pretend anymore, and that makes me feel guilty as hell.”
“Remember what we said about guilt?” Navy reminds me. “Guilt is a dumb emotion that keeps you where you were, not where you are.”
“I’m sure Brian wouldn’t want you to live the rest of your life alone,” Sutton says quietly.
“He wouldn’t,” I say, “but I’m also . . .” I’m embarrassed to admit the next part.
“Also . . .” Navy encourages.
“Afraid.”
“Afraid of?” they ask together. I love how easily the three of us have clicked.
“I don’t know how to be with anyone but Brian. What if I do something wrong? What if they do something I don’t like? What if, while I’m with someone else, I think of Brian? That seems fucked up to me.”
“First of all,” Navy says, sitting straighter in her chair, “you won’t do anything wrong, and neither will he. You’re clearly not the type to jump into anything physical with just anyone, so I can only assume that when it happens, you’ll communicate with each other.”
“Thoughts of Brian may come to mind,” Sutton adds. “That seems natural, and maybe it’ll be a sign that what you’re doing or about to do is too much for you at the moment. Who knows? But you’ll communicate that with him.”
“You can’t live your life worrying about what could happen, G,” Navy says. “You just have to live it fully and out loud for whatever time you have left.” Navy pops up when the coffee shop door opens, revealing a man in bike wear. She returns behind the counter to take his order.
“She’s right, Greer.”
“Of course I am,” Navy hollers over the noise of the espresso machine as she quickly makes the man's drink.
“So, what really happened?” Sutton nudges my foot.
“I don’t know, actually. He asked me if I wanted him to teach me how to use the lawn mower, and it’s like I was suddenly floating. I didn’t want to be angry or guilty anymore. I just wanted to touch him. To feel him.”
“Oooh, tell us more,” Navy butts in, returning to her chair.
“It’s like I was lost to the feeling of him, the sound of him, the smell of him.”
“And? What else?” Sutton’s unable to control her grin.
“And he . . . let me. He closed his eyes and let me lose myself to the sensation. Then, he asked me what I wanted, and I said everything.”
Both girls sigh, reaching forward to grab one of my hands.
“Girl,” Navy says, “this is a good thing.”
“Is it?” I ask.
“It could be,” Sutton replies. “If you want it to be.”
“But what if Luke isn’t into me like that?”
“Ask him.” Navy quirks her brow.
“Oh yes, that sounds exactly like something I would do, ‘Excuse me, Luke, I recently lost my husband, but I’m really attracted to you, and I also feel guilty and scared to be with another man. Want to help me out?’”
“Exactly like that.” Navy nods.
“I think you might be surprised what you find out, G,” Sutton says. “Just talk to him.” Sutton lets go of my hand and fidgets with her purse. “Communication is key.”
“You’re both right. God.” I laugh. “I act like it’s so hard, and yet here I am spilling my guts to the two of you, who I’m just getting to know.”
“Yeah.” Sutton smiles. “But sometimes your heart knows it’s safe to open up before your head catches up.”
“I do feel safe,” I say, “with you girls, I mean. Is that a totally weird thing to say?”
“Not at all,” Navy says, “because my heart’s telling me the same thing. Which is insane because I keep that sucker locked down.” Navy pushes away from the table and looks at her watch.
“I don’t mean to dash out of here,” Sutton says, “but I need to get home. I need to help Mom prepare lasagna.”
“Yeah,” Navy says, “I need to get going too. My shift is almost over, and I’ve got to get my son.” Navy returns behind the coffee bar and removes her apron. She’s gathering up her bag when she notices our wide-mouth stares.
“You guys okay?”
“You have a son?” We ask in unison, as seems to be the new norm for our trio.
“Yeah, I do. He’s almost two.” A wistful look moves across her face. “He’s at his dad’s house right now, but I get to have him for the next three days.”
“Navy, this is . . .” Sutton begins.
“Amazing,” I finish.
“Yeah, well,”—Navy pauses, coming close and grabbing my hand again—“I know a thing or two about moving forward, Greer. I understand some of what you’re going through. Just trust yourself to know that you’ll know what your next right step is. That you’ll know when you’re ready and who you’re ready for and what you’re ready for.”
“But what if I never find someone?” I ask.
“Seems like you already did.” At Navy’s words, Luke’s face comes to mind.
“Luke is a great man.” Sutton looks right at me. “Just think about it.”
On the drive home, our conversation plays over and over in my mind. It’s just past one p.m., and I’m surprised how long the three of us talked. It’s amazing how much lighter I feel, how safe and seen I felt.
Just think about it.
My decision is made by the time I arrive home, and as I step out of my car, I allow the guilt resting on my shoulders to fall away. I take my first steps forward .