6. Marnie
CHAPTER SIX
Marnie
I dream in Ashe-vision, a jumbled version of our greatest hits.
All the times I worked the cash register at Sunny’s Beach Market as a teenager, hoping he’d notice me. The summer before his senior year in college, he finally did.
“Marnie, you have the sunniest smile at Sunny’s,” he said. “Mom should give you a raise just for that.”
Laughing in the break room over Mountain Dews and guessing what flavor they’ll think of next.
His first day as our store manager after he graduated, brandishing his degree like a scepter. He went to the booth overlooking the registers, and his voice came across the PA system, like a seasoned deejay.
“Good morning, folks. It’s another bright and beautiful day at Sunny’s Beach Market,” he said then, and every day he’s worked since.
I still love that.
When we built cases of Coke and Sprite into a Christmas tree in the store’s iconic gazebo and, the following year, a fireplace with Santa peeking through. That was the same year he danced with me at our Christmas party, and I went home still smelling his faint cologne in my hair.
“It’s my New Year’s Resolution, Marnie,” he said the following week as we worked on a Valentine’s display.
“What is?”
“Taking you out on a date. If you don’t say yes, the entire year will be a huge letdown,” he grinned.
Of course, I said yes. We spent the evening at a fancy restaurant, and he actually listened to my ideas for Sunny’s—many he advocated for with his mom. Self-checkouts. Expanding our catering services. More local products. And finally, expansion plans. That led to me becoming the youngest customer service manager in Sunny’s history.
I’m one of those lucky ducks who genuinely loves her job. Falling in love with Ashe seemed like a natural extension of what was already a perfect fit.
He surprised me by proposing at the store, surrounded by customers and our work family.
After learning about my disappointing birthdays in the past, he wanted to get married on Valentine’s Day to break my bad luck.
Funny.
I remember lying in bed at his condo, him strumming his fingers along my bare side, tickling me, as he gushed about what he wanted for us. “A house close to the beach. A dog—Mom never let me have one. Kids, too. Lots of kids.”
“ Lots of kids?” I asked with a laugh, endeared by his excitement for us. No one had ever wanted things with me before, let alone a lifetime together. Hearing Ashe say these things felt impossible yet gorgeously uncomplicated like my loneliness finally reached its expiration date.
“Well, at least two. I hated being an only child. Mom smothered me. She’ll be even worse with grandkids. She talks about it all the time—drives me crazy. It’s best to spread her attention between a few, right?”
“Um, right.”
He eyed me suspiciously. “You want kids, don’t you?”
Fears swarmed me then. I didn’t know if I wanted kids. Love, marriage, baby carriage —I understood the expectation, even the inclination. But me as a mom? I couldn’t see it. Perhaps my rocky childhood blurred what should’ve been a clear vision—me taking the family path over the life path. Then, I didn’t know if that’s what I wanted. But Ashe always knew.
“I want what you want,” I told him.
Ashe-vision crackles and fuzzes out.
“Marina, stay with me.” I’m there again, the road under me and the devastatingly blue skies waving their treetops overhead. My fingers twitch, and I close my hand, surprised to find it empty.
I blink awake slowly. Through my drug-laced exhaustion, I hear a rolling suitcase stop at the foot of the bed. Then, he crawls into the small space beside me.
“I’m here,” Ashe whispers. He snuggles gently into the back of me, kissing my shoulder. “Everything will be okay, Marnie. We’ll adopt. Or get a surrogate. Mom says…”
He goes on, but I can’t listen. Hearing “solutions,” with the agony so sharp and fresh, only makes me feel like a problem, desperate to be solved.
Is it selfish? This need to wallow in my pain a little while longer? To give it the respect it deserves?
For once, I don’t engage him, answer, or even offer a hmm to let him know I’m listening. I’m not ready to be that Marnie yet.
“I’ll stay until you fall asleep,” he says, eventually. So, that’s what I do.
Ashe leaves sometime during the night but returns the next morning, oozing with handsome positivity but carrying Starbucks coffees. We’ve discussed supporting locals over big corporations before, but he forgets to listen. Today, I’m too pained to remind him.
“How’s my beautiful girl this morning, eh?” he asks, meeting me bedside, where I sit sideways, my feet grazing the cold floor.
“I’m okay,” I say, slightly winded and agonizingly sore. It’s been a busy morning. I glance at the whiteboard posted near the TV, where the morning nurse scribbled today’s goals.
Shower Power (full-body cleanse with anti-bacterial soap, done)
Power Walk (the hall to the nurse’s station and back, done)
Eat Like You Mean It (Eat something)
Get Things Moving (making sure my bowels function properly)
Ease off the Good Stuff (lessen my narcotics)
The nurse, Ivy, has a cute sense of humor, and who doesn’t love a chipper bedside manner, especially considering the overall misery of a hospital stay? I’ve never been so poked, prodded, or explored. Ivy didn’t hide her fascination with my hip bruise when she assisted me in the shower. It is massive, a ginormous red blotch with blueish twinges covering my left side from kidney to thigh. It resembles a giant jellyfish with a big head and many stringy tentacles. Giant Jelly —that’s what everyone calls it now. Our power walk felt the opposite—I could hardly do it. My insides feel like they’ve been extracted, shuffled, like a deck of cards, and stuffed back in me like I’m a Thanksgiving turkey.
Ivy might be the first person in history to wear me out.
And I’m still not hungry.
Ashe settles into the visitor’s chair after a short kiss. “Brought you coffee.”
“I see. Thanks.”
“You okay?”
“Getting there,” I smile. I edge the rolling IV aside, staving off nausea with measured breaths. Ivy and I have only just returned from our power (no power) walk. The movement mixed with the meds has turned my stomach.
“Here you go, hon.” Ivy bounds into the room with an icy ginger ale.
I take a small sip through the crooked straw that immediately disappoints her.
“Come on. You can do better than that. You got this.”
My head spins with the hundreds of times I’ve said that to Sunny’s employees, always with the same encouraging smile and upbeat tenor. Though it’s my job to inspire excellent customer service, I see now, with Ivy’s persistence, how it may come across as annoying.
No, she’s not annoying. She’s motivating.
I take another small sip. “Thanks, Ivy. This is Ashe, my fiancé.”
“Nice to see you. Marnie could use the company,” she says, checking my IV and updating her tablet.
“Ashe, could you get my cardigan and fuzzy socks from the suitcase?” I ask, my voice weak. I’m the textbook definition of miserable—chilly, in agony, nauseous, and wondering how I’ll feel better when it hurts so badly now. I’m not my usual Marnie self and need my little comforts.
“Sure thing.” He goes to my secondhand, honeymoon-ready suitcase and opens it on another chair. He brought it last night—my entire ten-day supply of beach clothes and sexy lingerie for Jamaica—and though, yes, technically, it has everything I need, it has most things I don’t. He sifts through my neat packing, pulling out my long, pink cardigan and fuzzy sleep socks.
“And my brush and a scrunchie,” I tack on, twiddling my damp hair between deep breaths.
In his efforts, he knocks the suitcase over, spilling everything onto the floor. Then, he fumbles, putting it all together again, picking up armloads of jumbled clothes and piling them on top.
He almost looks nervous.
My stomach shifts, and my head swims—a headache pecks at my temple. I reach for the plastic container on my cluttered rolling table and spit up the fizzy ginger ale in a sickening gag.
“It’s because you haven’t eaten,” Ivy decides, hand going to my back in soft circles like I’m a baby. “Try to relax.”
My abdomen clenches with the effort, forcing tears into my eyes. I cough and spit up again. It hurts so sharply that I fear my stitches will burst open. Could that happen?
Hot tears slip down my cold cheeks—pained tears are acceptable. A body must what a body must. Still, I feel embarrassed as the spell passes. I glance up to gauge Ashe’s reaction.
He’s not there.
Ivy shrugs beside me. “He said something about the vending machine.”
She goes to the abandoned pile of clothes, unabashedly searching for my requests, and finds them quickly. She drapes the sweater over my shoulders and helps me into the sleeves. Then, she kneels, pulling on my socks.
“He’s handsome,” she smirks. “I bet the wedding would’ve been gorgeous.”
“Red, white, and pink,” I mutter, “for Valentine’s Day.”
“It’s not unusual for people to feel distressed, watching a loved one in pain,” she offers in Ashe’s defense.
“He means well, but he’s no carer. He’s not used to it.”
She nods, gently easing my legs under the covers and tucking me in. “Breakfast will be here soon. We’ll try something easy on the stomach. Toast, grits, and maybe some eggs.”
“Okay.”
“Later, we’ll try walking again. It’s good for you, and the sooner you can do things like eat, poop, and walk, the sooner you’ll get out of here.”
“I can’t wait.”
She hands me the brush and scrunchie from my suitcase and flips on the Today Show . “Here, let’s see what’s happening today.”
Then, she leaves, and I breathe out a grateful sigh.
I miss Mom. I think of her as I weakly brush my hair. I loved when she brushed and braided my hair, and not just because she did hair for a living and was amazingly good at it. There was something sweet, comforting, and intimate about her caring for me that way.
I sweep my long hair to the side and limply manage a loose braid, Mom’s words about family emerging in my thoughts, unwanted. That’s just more people to disappoint you.
That won’t be Ashe.
He returns, peering into the room, unsurely. My smile brings him in.
He holds up Doritos. “Had a craving for chips. Feeling better?”
I take a breath. “A little.”
Returning to his chair, he bypasses the mess he’s made of my suitcase. He tosses the Doritos on the table, grabs his coffee, and pulls out his phone. “Everyone’s been chill about the wedding, and your IG’s been lighting up. I helped Mom make a post this morning.”
“Aw, let me see.”
He scrolls to the notifications under my handle, MarnieLovesSunny’s .
“Everyone’s so sweet,” I coo, reading the comments on my last post, a Happy Valentine’s Day edit featuring our deals on heart-shaped cakes, cookies, and bouquets. In the caption, I added a winky face with the message: Wishing you a happily-ever-after as Ashe and I begin ours.
It hits me as bittersweet now.
Ashe and Cora’s post yesterday afternoon was a muted beige background with fancy lettering thanking Seagrove for its support during this difficult time and asking for their prayers for “our sweet Marnie’s quick recovery.”
Nothing about the wedding, not that I expected it.
My account has nearly 3,000 followers, practically the entirety of Seagrove, the ones on social media anyway. The hundreds of messages wishing me well make me tear up. Seeing our town so invested in us is wonderful—it’s a far cry from my nomadic childhood, when I never stayed in one place long enough to make friends.
“My phone’s in the paper bag,” I say. “Can you see if it works? It probably needs charging.”
“Sure thing.”
Miraculously, the screen looks workable, minus a crack along the top. He prompts it with no luck, and then digs through my exploded suitcase for a charging cable.
“Oh, I may’ve left it on my nightstand,” I say.
“No problem,” he says, perking up. “I’ll run to Best Buy for a new one.”
He’s nearly out the door before I call out, “Wait, Ashe. Don’t worry about the phone right now.”
“It’s just around the corner. I’ll be fifteen minutes. Tops.”
Then, he’s gone.
His antsy behavior isn’t new. Ashe rarely sits still. Our dating life has been filled with mini-adventures. Weekend getaways. Surfing. Kayaking. Arcades and mini-golf. Clubbing. Boating. Jet skis. His contagious energy has no end, and I love being his playmate.
Yet, a sinking feeling shades me in my empty room. The chill in the air makes me shudder in my sweater.
He’s not just antsy but nervous, like he doesn’t know how to be around me.
His fifteen-minute errand takes an hour, but he seems happy on his return, unwrapping the cord and setting my phone to charge. He tells me about traffic congestion and admits getting distracted by the security section; he’s keen to upgrade Sunny’s motion-sensor lights and backdoor access points.
I nibble a dry piece of toast, fearful of my stomach again.
Finally, Ashe settles into the side chair, sipping his cold coffee.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He leans his elbows against his knees, catching my gaze. “Yeah, sorry. I’m not good at this kind of thing.”
“It’s okay,” I breathe out, relieved by his honesty. “I know this is hard on you, too.”
“It’s… so unfair.”
I risk my stomach for a long gulp of the watered-down ginger ale. “I’m sorry. I know how much you wanted…”
“So, did you.”
A lump forms in my throat, making it hard to breathe. “If this changes anything… better to tell me now. I’d understand.”
“God, no, Marnie. I love you,” he insists, grabbing my hand. “We’ll work through it, figure it out. We’re good at that, right?”
I nod, his words stirring memories of us brainstorming ways to create the complicated displays I envisioned at the market. Fishing hooks, superglue, sponges, duct tape, and stacks of pennies are only a few of the quick-fix solutions we’ve devised to make our creations happen.
I smile and say, “Yes, you’re right.”
His lips graze my fingers as he holds my hand close. “Tell me what you need.”
A little gasp escapes in a chuckle. Hearing him say that warms those frigid temps previously circulating in my room. This is the Ashe I love and need. So, I go for absolute honesty—lying in a hospital bed, it’s hard to do otherwise.
“I know this is hard. I always take care of us, take care of everything. I love that. But now, I need you to take care of me for a little while. Please.” My voice cracks in tired desperation; I rarely ask anyone for anything, even Ashe. It almost hurts being this vulnerable, like standing naked in a blizzard. “I don’t need you to be the perfect caretaker or wait on me hand and foot. But I need you. I just need you here. With me. Holding my hand.”
“I’m here. I’ll be here. Promise.”
He fiddles with my side braid, smiling, and I sigh against the pillows, relieved.