2. Marnie
CHAPTER TWO
Marnie
“Marina, stay with me.”
His words snap me awake again.
The sky behind him is the color of a Morpho butterfly—bright blue, cloudless, beautiful. It’s the perfect day. Why did it have to be so perfect? I’ve never seen a Morpho butterfly in person, but Wren Christie, my cashier protégé at Sunny’s Beach Market, has a tattoo of one on her left calf. Their blue wings are scaled in real life, making them iridescent. They shimmer at different angles, depending on how you look at them.
Tattoos adorn the arms of the man hovering over me, but he moves so quickly that it’s hard to make them out. A thick, dark line of pine trees on his right forearm is all I can decipher. It matches the tree-tops overhead, like a black-and-white comic book version of the real thing. Sun glimmers through their spiky branches like a disco ball, flickering softly in my eyes with an easy breeze.
It’s so incredibly peaceful here. I slip into the peacefulness, wanting so badly to stay there. Let it take me.
“Marina!”
I gasp, and my breath clouds over my face. Why am I so cold? A warm blanket settles on my belly. It’s blood, I realize achingly.
Oh, it hurts. I feel hole-punched. Gutted. Sliced.
I shouldn’t be here. Unlucky. Cursed. Fated to be alone. Mom was right.
No, Marnie. Positive thoughts only.
Don’t think about the pain.
Look for something good.
His eyes match the sky, the butterfly.
“I like your eyes.” My voice doesn’t sound like mine. There’s no energy or cheer behind my words—two things I’m rarely without. I’ve been compared to Buddy the Elf, only every day is my Christmas, and my workshop is Sunny’s Beach Market.
“I like your hair,” he says, moving with me toward the ambulance.
I get that a lot—less than two percent of people have naturally red hair.
“It’s a mutation,” I sputter, but I don’t think he hears me. That was the second fact Mom taught me about redheads. After a particularly rough day in kindergarten, she followed, “You’re special, honey,” with, “You have a gene mutation,” and I remember being unable to sleep that night over fears that my classmates would google that tease-worthy tidbit. The world doesn’t go easy on differences—an irony since we all have them.
I can’t imagine what it looks like now. Mel worked so hard on it.
My mind drifts from the chaos around me to hours ago when I found Mel Moore on my porch carrying her 80s-style makeup Caboodle and an oversized bright red purse with a hair straightener peeking out. Seeing her was, for once, a relief. On her wedding day, a bride should have an entourage of old friends and family fussing over her, but I didn’t. This only made my small house feel quiet and empty. So, in the throes of my lonely morning, I reminded myself—it will never be like this again after today.
After today, I’ll have a family.
After today, I’ll belong to someone.
Mel interrupted my hopeful mutterings and a long-winded game of pretend in front of my full-length mirror.
“This is my husband, Ashe.”
“This is Marnie, my partner, my lover, my best friend, my wife,” said in my deep-man-voice.
I giggled over my game, remembering the sweet satisfaction I felt when he first introduced me as his girlfriend at a ritzy charity event—that’s how I knew I was his girlfriend. I couldn’t wait to hear him call me his wife .
When I opened the door to Mel, I was blushing. Gawking, too—seeing Mel was a surprise. We aren’t exactly friends.
“Mel, hi. What’re you doing here?”
“What’s it look like?” she bit back, eyes rolling like two bowling balls released down the lane at the same time. If she were a dog, she’d be a bulldog, gruff but warm under all those layers—not that I’ve ever gotten close to the warm parts. But she was good to my mother and let me sweep up around her salon for extra money sometimes when I was a teen. “It’s your wedding day, Marnie. Your mom would haunt me if I let you DIY it.”
My heart palpitated and sped up, hearing those words. “This isn’t your terrible way of telling me she’s dead, right?”
“No, but I see your curse ideas are alive and well,” she scoffed. “Why agree to a wedding on your birthday if you think you’re cursed?”
“Because… it’s what Ashe wanted.”
“Marina,” Grady’s voice stirs me awake again—no one ever calls me by my full first name. It’s always Marnie. But I like hearing him say it. It makes me feel important. We’re in the ambulance now, and it bounces down the road. It’s weird being in a vehicle without seeing the outside. I crave a window. My plants. My cats. “Marina.”
I fixate on his crystal eyes to redirect my brain away from the pain. He’s handsome, in a rough and rugged way, like he was once a kid who climbed trees rather than played video games. His heavy five o’clock shadow covers strong cheekbones and a dimpled chin—Tripp family traits—and matches his buzz-cut hairstyle—short, dark, but patchy with dirt and salted with grays. He’s older, mid-thirties at least. Worry creases his forehead, but small starbursts around his eyes tell me he’s no stranger to laughter.
He’s not laughing now. He looks serious, even distraught. He listens to the paramedic, calling out numbers and words that don’t make sense. Grady’s worry lines deepen with the information, and this predicament is scary enough without knowing my heartbeat is thready , whatever that means.
Thready like threadbare? Tattered? Coming undone? Falling apart? I suddenly feel like a torn sweater, stringy and discarded, left forgotten on a heap in the back of the closet.
No, Marnie, no. Good thoughts only. No frowns, no fears, no tears.
Grady’s hand is no longer hooked to my insides, thank goodness—that felt so embarrassing. A cold metal thing sticks out from my belly instead, pinning me together. Best not to think about that. He holds my free hand in both of his beside me, warming me like a glove, and our hands stick together from the blood residue. My French manicure, white with light gold sparkles, curls around Grady’s sun-browned, dirty hands, making my skin look paler than usual. It’s a ghost hand holding onto a live one.
“This’ll pinch a bit,” says the paramedic.
Grady grips my hand tighter, fixing my attention. “So, there’s Triscuit. Tell me about your other cats.”
“Hershey,” I whisper against the oxygen mask, holding back a whimper as a needle punctures my arm.
“It’s just the IV. You’ll feel better with fluids and meds.” He leans closer, nearly to my ear. “Let me guess. Black cat?”
“Long-haired. And my tabby, Sunkist. Rescues. From the dumpster behind Sunny’s.”
“Triscuit, Sunkist, and Hershey—sweet.” His lips edge into a side-smile. “Surprised we haven’t met before.”
I use a Wilmington vet who offers free shots, spaying, and neutering for newly homed stray cats, but I keep that a secret to avoid offending him.
Even so, I’ve seen Grady Tripp before. Everyone knows the Tripps. But Grady gets the most attention in gossip circles, first for being the eldest, most handsome, and most mysterious brother, but a close second for his unfriendliness. He’s known as Grouchy Tripp. He left Seagrove and his father’s generous offer to take over Tripp Family Farm while working as the town’s only vet for a wife and swanky practice in Charlotte, but returned two years ago with neither and has all but taken over his dad’s farm, anyway.
Sirens echo, muffled by the oxygen hissing and the ambulance rattling. My abdomen rips with pain, like I’m an acupuncturist’s practice dummy, and he’s getting it very, very wrong. Lightheadedness brings bile rising in my throat.
“I’m sorry,” I blurt, “but I might be sick.”
The paramedic raises my mask and holds a plastic tub to my face as I roll gingerly to my side. God, it hurts.
Nothing comes out, but fresh agony surges across my midsection for the effort. “Sorry,” I manage again.
“No apologies. It’s like I tell my brothers,” he says. “A body must what a body must.”
Grady’s voice pulls me from my dry-heaving, and I picture his close-knit family—him with his four brothers, hocking loogies or farting or whatever gross things boys do when they’re together. I’ve never had that. Even Ashe and I still keep those things private—proper decorum, Cora calls it.
Now, with my guts open and stomach churning, I wonder what she’d think of me. Or if you can really claim to belong to someone without being privy to their farts and vomit and whatever else.
Oh, my God! Why am I thinking about that right now? Is this delirium?
He eases me back on the gurney, dabs my face with a towel, and replaces the oxygen mask. “Just breathe, okay? You’re safe. You’re in good hands. Everything’s okay. Breathe.”
“Truth?”
“Truth. That’s our deal.”
He’s surprisingly gentle and comforting for someone so gruff—something I once experienced firsthand, though he clearly doesn’t remember. I do as he says. Relax, Marnie. What’s done can’t be undone. But at the mercy of my circumstances, it’s impossible to calm down. I’m reminded of times with Mom, when I felt helpless and desperate. The more I think about it…
Missing my wedding.
Upsetting Ashe and his family.
Disappointing our guests.
The money lost on food and flowers.
My dress. Oh, my dress.
The honeymoon. We’re supposed to leave Sunday morning.
… the worse I feel, like the knife hit my heart, too, cutting it into pieces. Tears slip from my eyes—I never cry. Never. It’s the life code I adopted at fifteen— no frowns, no fears, no tears . But aches and a sharp gnawing burn my midsection. Excruciating pain is the one understandable exception to my no-tears rule.
I got stabbed. I could die.
I crumble a little more, imagining leaving this earth with a stranger holding my hand. The pastel card I left unopened on my kitchen table haunts me now. I knew it was from her—her curvy handwriting gave it away. She never does anything without drama. Should I have opened it? Somehow, I imagined that tearing open that envelope would set off her Marnie-spidey senses, and she’d show up in one of her classic states (she called them her upsies and downsies) and ruin everything. Now, the day’s ruined anyway, and I wish she were here, freaking out and making a fuss.
Sometimes, it feels good to be fussed over.
Grady barks at the paramedic to do something—I don’t understand what. She shakes her head and rattles off numbers as they watch the monitor beside me. Best not to know. His fear tells me everything, anyway.
His sad eyes fall back to me, and his voice cracks when he says, “Marina, I’m so sorry. What can I do?”
I’ve never seen someone more distressed or vulnerable, not with me. His dirty face looks shadowed with guilt. Was it his fault?
In the same breath, I know it doesn’t matter. Unlucky. Cursed. Alone. Life changes as easily as the wind blows, and no one can stop it.
“No apologies. I mean it. Life must what life must.”
He manages a pained chuckle, and a tear falls down his scruffy cheek.
My grip tightens on his. “No matter what. It’s okay. Thanks for holding my hand.”
“Anytime.” He chokes up, almost surprised by it, like he’s unaccustomed to feeling. We’re probably both in shock—I know I am. He’s not the hand-holding type, and, until now, I’ve never been one to need it.
But today, everything’s different.
Bad feelings swirl again. “I feel woozy.”
“That’s normal. It’s the pain meds,” he says.
“We’re five minutes out,” the paramedic says. “They’re prepping for surgery.”
“Surgery?” I gasp. “I’ve never had surgery before.”
“It’ll be quick and painless. When you wake up, you’ll be patched up, and Ashe and your family will be there. Can I call anyone for you?”
I shake my head. “Just Ashe. There’s no one else.”
In my agony, worries swarm me. I don’t know what to expect from Ashe. Will he be angry over our failed wedding? Cora will be. Will he be disappointed in me? Upset? Or will he step up like the gallant knight I know he can be?
Or at least, I think he can be. It’s difficult to say; we’ve never had hard times before. The most upset I’ve ever seen him was when the local newspaper, The Seagrove Groove , misspelled his name in our engagement announcement. Ash instead of Ashe . A misspelled name ranks pretty low on life’s list of inevitable challenges.
Chances for chivalry and swoon-worthy heroism are sorely lacking these days. But maybe that’s a good thing.
Sometimes, it amazes me—Ashe’s life. He’s never known poverty, grief, or illness. He’s never had to find a job or question whether he’d go to college. He’s got more stamps in his passport than anyone I know (our honeymoon will be my first). Even in high school, good grades and popularity came easily to him. It’s one of the things I love about him—his pristine life. It’s shiny and hopeful like the sun peeking out from behind rain clouds. Ashe has never known a truly bad day.
Until now.
The ambulance blares its sirens again, and the vehicle shifts to the right. My body starts to relax, as if it’s forgotten the word surgery or the clamp poking my gut. The numbing effect overtakes me—I don’t like how out-of-control this feels.
The ambulance slides to a squeaking stop, and chaos ensues. Doors swing open. The gurney is pulled out, and a team meets us. Hurried words are exchanged—I can’t keep up. But Grady hops out with me and doesn’t let go of my hand, as if crashing into each other has affixed us permanently.
What a funny thought—but true, regardless. He and I will always share this memory and our unique before-and-afters of the crash. We may be strangers. We may never speak again. But we will always have this.
I hear Mr. Frisk’s monotone voice over the PA system, reporting that ferns are buy one, get one this week at Sunny’s, but I know I’m not there. My thoughts drift to strange places, strange, even for me.
Playing The Game of Life by candlelight, Mom telling me that the power company messed up, again , (it took over ten years for me to learn that electric companies don’t make mistakes), and her joyfully choosing the life path over the family path. She’d also complained about being forced to get married. Though I agree with her now, her statement felt bitter when I was twelve.
“Don’t you want a bigger family?” I asked her.
“That just means more people to disappoint you.”
Fluorescent lights flicker overhead, bringing me back to Grady as he hovers over me, and I sputter, “I thought I’d get a family today.”
“Eh, they’re overrated. Trust me,” he quips with a weak shrug.
His words mesh with Mom’s, and my internal light blinks before going dark.