8. Grady
CHAPTER EIGHT
Grady
The line for coffee at Moon Beans & Books is atrocious. Six customers await service ahead of me. I fold my arms over my chest, hugging my thermos, and stare at my boots, hoping my cap and general bad attitude prevent anyone from talking to me—usually, people know better.
I shouldn’t be here.
It’s Sunday morning. A more tolerable fifty-two degrees and sunny. I woke to the usual cacophony of dog shuffling, licking, and barking, not that I slept much. My sleep marathon must’ve confused my internal clock and made it think I’ve met my quota for the week. Real rest proved impossible with guilt keeping me awake and bad dreams circulating whenever I managed to circumvent it. I spent most of the day trying to lose myself in chores, dog care, and Marigold’s comics. Nothing worked to distract me, though I have enough firewood chopped to last three winters, and my dogs have never been so clean and groomed. Even with small accomplishments, it’s hard not to hate myself.
While filling my coffee pot with water at the sink this morning, I flashed back to Marina’s face, wincing in agony, and her words. There’s no one else… I’m glad you’re here… You always seem so sad… You look like a man with a million thoughts but no one to tell them to. That she thought of me at all dredged up more anger over what I stole from her. I smashed the carafe into the sink, shattering it into a thousand pieces.
After destroying my coffee pot, I latched on to a tiny shred of clarity. If Marina is truly okay, I should move on, call it what it was—an accident—and do nothing, beyond paying her expenses.
It’s best for everyone if I don’t get involved. So, that’s the plan.
Once I fill my thermos, I’ll spend the day on the lake, catching tonight’s dinner and drinking many beers. Alone.
The line inches up, but the spandex and ponytailed women in front of me hardly notice outside their engrossing conversation.
“I bet Cora tampered with her brakes,” one whispers to her friend.
She looks aghast and scoffs. “Why would she?”
“Are you kidding? Marnie lives in a shed, drives a crap car, and works in a grocery store. She’s not Cora’s first pick for Ashe. Everyone in the Women’s Club says so.”
The friend nods. “Yeah, my book club says the same thing. I heard Marnie got her wedding dress from a thrift store, even though Cora offered to buy her one.”
“Gross.”
“Yeah, gross. Think they’ll still get married?”
“Don’t know. I heard Cora canceled everything yesterday afternoon—not postponed. Canceled. ”
“Marnie’s been canceled? She’s so sweet. She helped me find the perfect gift for my granny last year, and that woman doesn’t like anything. She still talks about those handmade soaps?—”
“She’s Sunny’s sweetheart, for sure. But is she still Ashe’s? That’s the question.”
“Maybe Marnie drove herself into that tree, you know? To get out of it? I don’t think I could handle Cora being my mother-in-law.”
“Me, neither.”
Don’t get involved. They keep yapping over what would’ve been at the wedding and theories about a more suitable woman for Ashe. That they speak so disparagingly of Marina and completely disregard the true culprit in all this—me—makes me want to jump in and defend her. Somehow.
Someone bumps me from behind, nudging me into one of their messy buns.
“Watch it,” she says.
“Shut up and move up,” I bark.
“Rude,” she gasps before obeying. “I swear, the oafs around here!”
“Yeah, we’re almost as bad as the fucking busybodies.”
Finally reaching the counter, I hand the barista my thermos to fill with overpriced coffee. Rushing to The Beast parked outside, I glimpse The Seagrove Groove on a table, its headline larger than usual— The Wrecked Bride.
I hate this town.
Driving home, I go slowly around the same curve where I hit her. The road is scarred with brake marks on her side and the gray ashes of flares, burnt out. And the guilt crashes over me again.
Her red hair flayed on the gray concrete.
Her labored breathing.
Holding her delicate hand.
I still feel it. Feel her.
At home, I enact my plan, anxious to melt into one of my few pleasures. Within ten minutes, I cast my first line into the glassy lake. The dogs whimper at my feet, so I throw a ball from their toy basket. Harley gets there first, or maybe the boys let her have it—hard to tell sometimes. Blackbeard’s as good on three legs as most dogs on four, and Hannibal doesn’t let his shorter legs hold him back. Harley prances in her win, racing through them to return the prize to me.
My phone pings with a text from Mom.
Want half of a Valentine’s Day cake? It’s delicious. I could bring it over.
No.
Grady, I’m worried about you.
I’m fine. Fishing. With the dogs.
As much as I know you love one-sided conversations, the dogs may not be the best therapists right now. Would it hurt to have some company?
Yes. Conversation scares the fish.
Marnie’s doing well. Father Andrews offered prayers for her at church today. Cora gave an update—good as new in no time.
No. She’ll never be the same again, not that I dare explain that to Mom or anyone else. I wonder how she’s handling it. If she’s talked to someone. If she needs anything.
My phone buzzes in my hand again. It’s Colin, asking me to dinner at their house tonight.
A minute later, a text from Luke, inviting me to the bar later for half-price beers.
Mom must’ve sent out the family Bat-Signal.
I toss another ball for the dogs. Hannibal gets it first this time, promptly rolling around in a patch of grass as his victory lap.
It could’ve happened to anyone. There’s nothing to feel bad about.
I groan over Mom’s text while yet another comes in. Marty—my only sibling not in town. He joined the Peace Corps, currently doing humanitarian work in Haiti.
Hey, you okay? Mom sent an all-caps text for me to reach out. What’s going on?
A turtle prowls around my line, ready to steal my bait. Not that anything’s biting. I reel in an empty hook, debating whether to cast it again, and consider my family’s onslaught.
They mean well, and asking them to back off wouldn’t do any good. And maybe they shouldn’t. If one of my siblings had caused the accident, I’d be by their side, ensuring they were okay. I don’t let family down. Not like I used to.
Are you family? The nurse’s voice replays in my head along with my lie. Yes.
“Shit,” I mutter, getting up and calling for the dogs. Distraction is only temporary, and what’s the point?
I return all their texts, politely refusing their offers while reassuring them that I’m okay.
But I’m not. How can I stop thinking about her? And what kind of shithead would I be if I did?
Besides, I made a promise.
It’s midafternoon when I arrive at the hospital and snake my way to her room. The Valentine’s Day balloons and bouquets are gone, and the place is quiet. I steel my nerves with a deep breath, expecting the worst. The Sullivans will probably kick me out within five minutes, and part of me wants them to. If she or they don’t want me around, staying away will be easy. I promise myself to avoid confrontations, if possible. All I need is to see that she’s okay.
Finding Marina dressed and standing over an open suitcase on the hospital bed surprises me almost as much as finding her alone. Sunlight streams through the window behind her, dancing through the thin sundress she wears and delicately revealing her soft curves. Her long hair is pulled to the side, waving lightly down her chest. She looks… lovely.
It’s a relief, seeing her this way. It’s the first time I’ve seen her look normal—not lying on the ground or in a bed or bleeding or in pain.
But the pain is there. She winces with her movements, struggling to haphazardly fold the messy clothes pile with one hand while balancing a cane with the other. She closes her eyes to the pain, almost like she’s shutting it in.
A light knuckle rap against the open door brings her attention to me. A warm smile miraculously replaces her obvious discomfort.
“Tripp Grady Tripp.” She drops what looks like a bikini into her suitcase and waves me in. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“Um, really?” I say.
“The guy who saved me and made me laugh while doing it? Of course.” She smirks. “Aren’t you happy to see me? Standing and everything?”
I nod. “Very happy.”
She smiles wide, her brow pointing with suspicion. “You don’t look happy.”
“This is how I always look,” I defend awkwardly, not for the first time. Once, Aunt Elena secretly organized an office pool where everyone took bets on their attempts to make me smile. She handed me the winnings at the end of the day because I never did. “I’d do a happy dance, but I don’t want to make you jealous.”
“That would make me jealous,” she laughs, “but don’t worry. I’ll be dancing in no time. Promise.”
I stand on the other side of the bed, unsure what to do or say. I remember Dad in a room like this after his heart surgery, how full and alive it was with laughter and chatting. Gil was near-panicking over the crowded space. Circling his bed that day felt like healing for us all. He’d be okay, and we, his cheerleaders, would be there to ensure it.
There’s no cheer here except from her. Marina’s quiet room is weirdly devastating.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
She shrugs lightly—a move that makes her wince. “It’s just me.”
It’s not exactly an answer, but I don’t press. I hold out my shopping bag, and she takes it one-handed.
Her amused suspicion makes a return. “A present? Ah, you didn’t have to get me anything.”
“I, um, wanted to, only not flowers or shit you can’t use.” I motion to the many bouquets across the room—it looks like half of Seagrove sent her flowers, funny since no one’s here. It looks and smells like a florist’s shop. Or a funeral.
“Aw, cat treats and toys! They’ll love these.” She shakes a toy mouse, making it jingle. “That’s very thoughtful. Thank you, Grady.”
Her delight eases my nerves.
“How do you feel?”
Her smile widens. “Like I got hit by a truck.”
My mouth drops in sudden horror.
She laughs, her wry smile cocking up her left cheek. “Relax, Grady. If we can’t laugh…”
She shrugs rather than finishing her sentence. Her lightheartedness warms me more than the sunlight pouring into her room. People rarely surprise me, but she does. My guilt appreciates her good mood, but I know she’s making it easy on me.
Problem is, I don’t want easy.
“I’m doing well, thanks,” she says. “Sore, but healing properly. Oh, the bruise on my side where I whacked my hip looks like a giant jellyfish. We nicknamed it Giant Jelly. Everyone on the ward talks about it.”
“Marnie, are you talking up your bruise again?” a nurse booms, entering the room.
“Oh, Ivy. This is Grady Tripp.”
“Hi, Grady Tripp. Marnie, here’s the biggest ice pack I could find. Apply it at least three times a day to keep the swelling down,” she says, handing over a thick, blue patch.
“Thanks.” Marina drops it in her suitcase.
Ivy looks at me, hands on her hips. “I feel slightly better about this since you’re here. I was starting to worry that no one would show.”
“Still waiting on those papers, Ivy,” Marina says. “I know I’m your favorite, but seriously. I’ve got it covered.”
“Okay, okay. But I don’t like it.” Ivy bounces from the room.
“What doesn’t she like?” I ask.
“That I’m leaving.”
“Isn’t that… good?”
Marnie shrugs, winces, and then eases herself onto the side of the bed. I meet her there, anxious to help.
“I’m fine, Grady. I need breaks, that’s all.” She manages a weak smile, but I don’t trust it.
“Why doesn’t she like that you’re leaving?” I try again.
“The doctor wants me to stay another day or two, but we eventually agreed it wasn’t necessary.”
“What the hell, Marina?” I demand, my abated frustration making a quick return. “That’s ridiculous. You should stay. Why argue with the doctor?”
She winces at my abruptness but doesn’t lose her friendliness. “Thanks for your concern, but I know what I’m doing.”
“No, you don’t. This was a major surgery, not a damn oil change.”
Her bright, denim-blue eyes narrow, but her smile stretches at my harshness. “This is why they call you Grouchy Tripp, you know.”
“I’m serious. Wait… Do they?”
She nods, her left brow cocked high on her forehead.
I take a deep breath, not surprised. “Call me whatever you want, but going against a doctor’s advice is risky, even dangerous. If the doctor says stay, you should stay.”
Her head tilts as she peers up at me, seeming to evaluate my frustration. I rake my fingers over my head before perching both hands on my hips.
“I need you to relax, Grady,” she says, almost breathless but still managing a weak smile. “The rest of Seagrove might tolerate Grouchy Tripp, but here, now, I don’t have the energy. So, either he goes or you do.”
Her words stun and disarm me. Was I being harsh? I rethink our conversation and realize, alarmingly, yes. I don’t notice how I come across to people anymore—I often don’t care.
But with her, I do. She doesn’t deserve my harshness. She doesn’t deserve any of this.
“I’m sorry,” I say, dropping my hands from my hips and taking a breath.
She smiles. “Good, now that the grouch is gone, I’m happy to explain.” She motions to the chair in front of her. “Sit down.”
I obey, feeling bad for challenging her, even though I’m right, slightly weirded out by her good mood, and unnerved by how easily she put me in my place—this woman bewilders me.
“I’m off the IV and the serious pain meds. My mobility is good. I’m eating, drinking, and bathroom-ing exactly as I should be and without help. I’m showing zero signs of infection, and my wounds are, and I quote, ‘healing perfectly.’ Another day or two won’t matter to anyone but me. Besides, being here is all the cost of a mega-luxury hotel without any juicy amenities?—”
“If it’s about money, I’ll cover it.”
“No, Grady, it’s not that. Not entirely. Trust me, okay? The doctor said that though she prefers keeping me, I’ll be okay as long as I don’t overexert myself. She went over all the red flags. I’ve already made appointments for follow-ups with my general doctor and my, um, all the necessary doctors. And Ivy’s giving me phone numbers in case I have questions.”
Her speech makes her breathless, like she can’t deliver it with her usual speed, and pains her to try. “So, see? I’m fine.”
My hands claw across my head as I consider her—she’s not fine. “It’s not that simple. The pain alone will be difficult to handle.”
“Look, I’ve been fully adulting since fifteen. I know how to take care of myself.”
“I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise,” I say, feeling even more like an ass, if that’s possible. “I just need you to be okay.”
Her smile alights in the sunshine through the window, making me wonder which one is brighter. “Keeping to our policy, I see.”
“Truth. No sense in going back on it now.”
“Then, I have another motivation for leaving early. A selfish one, I’m afraid.” Her face scrunches with reluctance.
“Tell me.”
She groans in a weak slump. “Have you ever been desperate for home?”
“All the fucking time.”
A light smirk edges her lips. “That’s what I want, Grady. Waiting until tomorrow means going home with Cora, in her care. Or her maid’s care. I love Cora, but I don’t want that. I want my bed, my cats, my plants, my things. If I sneak home now, she’ll see I’m fine and don’t need anyone taking care of me.”
“But you do need care. What about Ashe?” A sinking feeling rushes over me—the same feeling I had when Ashe failed to comfort her and later when I watched them leave and found Marina alone. Crying. Where was he then? Where is he now?
Her smile falls, but only for a second before she takes a breath and slowly returns to her feet. My hands go to her arms, bracing her. “Thanks.”
“If you’re leaving, where’s Ashe? Why isn’t he here to?—”
“Here you go, Marnie, dear.” Ivy pushes a wheeled cart into the room and waves a stack of papers. “Aftercare instructions. I wrote the phone number for the nurse’s station on page one. Your prescriptions have been sent to Seagrove Pharmacy.” She loads flower arrangements onto the cart.
“Thanks, Ivy. Please, take the flowers for you and the other nurses. Let them brighten up your kitchen tables. All I want is Frilly Willie.”
“Only if you’re sure,” Ivy says. “These peonies are gorgeous.”
“Gorgeous until the cats nibble on them and throw up everywhere. Please, help yourself and share with the other patients, too.”
“You’re so dang sweet, Marnie,” Ivy says. “I’ll roll them around the floor and see if there are any takers. I’ll be back with a wheelchair to wheel you outta here.”
“I’ll be ready.”
She disappears again.
Marina’s eyes circle up to mine, her smile faltering. “Ivy’s dad studies carnivorous plants. Her sister, Vee, hasn’t been home to visit in over a year. She’s somewhere exotic, doing environmental research. Can you imagine? Gosh, what an adventure, huh?”
“I don’t care about any of that. Where’s Ashe?” I try again.
She takes a deep breath, firming her smile. “Jamaica. He and his best man are enjoying our honeymoon. I encouraged it. I’m doing so well and didn’t want him missing out.”
Anger rages inside me, but I try holding it back. I take a deep breath, and with my gentlest voice, I say, “He left you here, like this, in pain, in the care of his tyrannical mother so that he could have his fucking me-time?”
“I wouldn’t call her tyrannical. Don’t be hard on Ashe. He’s… he needs time.”
Her big, round eyes circumvent mine, dropping to the suitcase, the floor, the window. She doesn’t want to discuss what he needs time for, and shouldn’t have to defend him anyway. Not to me. He needs time to mourn what I’ve stolen, their chance to have children together.
Only I’m not supposed to know that.
“Time,” I repeat. “It’s generous of you to be okay with that.”
Her shoulders bounce softly. “All I’m going to do is lounge on my couch with my cats and watch British TV all day. There’s a Downton Abbey marathon waiting for me. I don’t need Ashe or Cora for that. Leaving today is easier on everyone.”
Marina is either the most foolish and naive woman I’ve ever met or the most stubbornly pragmatic, solving a problem before it becomes one. I wouldn’t want Cora’s icy brand of mothering or Ashe’s moping, either. Could she be a clone of Cora—fiercely independent and happy to keep her man in the background of her life like an accessory she wears on occasion? Not that my opinion matters.
“Fine. How can I help?” I say.
“You aren’t responsible for me, either. I don’t need any help, but thanks for?—”
“How are you getting home?”
She waves her phone. “Lyft. I’ll request a ride as soon as I’m on the elevator. We’ll pitstop for my prescriptions. I’ll have dinner delivered. I’ve thought of everything.”
Her lips edge upwards in a triumphant smirk.
“Not everything. You forgot one important detail about our irritating small town.”
“What?”
“It’s Sunday. Seagrove Pharmacy is closed.”
Her entire demeanor shifts with an anguished expression that still comes off as mildly adorable. “Oh, no, dang it! You’re right. I’ll have Ivy?—”
“Stop. I’ll get your meds if you let me drive you home.”
Her thin brows cock in a challenge. “If you think I’m letting you drag your mom into work on a Sunday?—”
“It’s that or Cora, unless you want to spend your evening in unbearable pain.”
Her lips pout in a sigh.
“Mom sends me on a hundred errands a week. She’ll jump at the chance for me to send her on one. Besides, you’re going to need more help than you think. Please, Marina. Let me do this.”
Her arms fold in dramatic protest, pressing against her stomach and causing her to grimace. She hesitates to answer, as if debating whether she can trust me.
“Marina, you’ll be safe with me. I promise. I’ll even be… nice.”
She smirks. “Okay, Grady.”