9. Marnie
CHAPTER NINE
Marnie
Ivy rolls me to the entrance, where Grady drives up in a classic, red and white Ford truck with honking big tires and a loud rumble like the purr of a very happy cat. It squeaks to a stop, and I chuckle—this isn’t what I expected.
Lifting and bending from the chair to the truck steals my amusement. It’s downright excruciating. Sharp, angry pains race across my belly. Grady’s right—I’ll need more help than I expect.
Getting an early release from the hospital may not be one of my winning ideas.
Unless the game is pain. I’d win and get an award for best sportsmanlike conduct.
Not that I want to tell him about my pain. This man has wiggled around in my insides and witnessed me at my absolute neediest—I refuse to give him another show. I can’t let myself be so vulnerable—not with the people who claim to love me and certainly not with a stranger.
Even a stranger with an uncanny knack for showing up when I need him and superior hand-holding skills.
I ease into the truck. Grady refrains from throwing any I-told-you-so’s at me, even as I wince, moan, and otherwise fail to smile through it. He’s gracious rather than grouchy, for now, anyway.
I try for quickness, nerves heightened over relying on a stranger’s help.
But he braces me gently, our arms snaked together, and says, “Go slow,” not like an order but like permission. The same way holding my hand felt like permission to cry.
I breathe and obey, resting my weight against him because I have no choice. Relying on my muscles hurts too much. Once seated, he eases my legs inside the cab. He perches on the running board, leaning over to buckle me in. He smells like a fresh shower and pine.
Though he’s a smidge older than me… well, more than a smidge—a decade older—I can’t deny that those extra years have done him a favor. He’s not just hot but ruggedly handsome. Classic. Time-tested. It’s a shame his attractiveness is usually hidden behind his grouchy demeanor. It’s like he wears a sign that says, “Leave me alone.”
He closes the door with a soft click beside me, loads my things in the back, and comes to the driver’s side, carrying Frilly Willie. He places that between us, belting it to keep it from sliding. Once behind the wheel, he glances my way. “Okay?”
“Okay.”
The engine revs with an impressive growl. The old truck has a long bench front seat, a stick shift rising from the floor, and nothing digital.
“Um, is this yours?”
“No, my Dad’s. It was my grandfather’s. We call it The Beast.”
I smirk. “Aw, a nickname? Cute. It’s sweet that you’re keeping it in the family.”
“I would’ve brought something more comfortable if I’d known I’d be taking you home. You’ll feel every bump. If you need me to slow down, say so.”
“I’ll be fine,” I assure him, just as a small dip in the road makes my insides twinge. In my stationary bed at the hospital, I had no clue that movement would hurt like this. Every time he shifts or brakes, my body takes offense.
“Breathe easy,” he says after a few miles. “It’s normal to feel pain like that.”
“Is it?” I say, breathless and unsure how I’ll endure the half-hour out of the city toward Seagrove.
“Yes. Your injury and surgical sites are tender. Your skin, muscles, tendons, arteries, and organs have experienced trauma, and although that soreness is required for healing, jostling worsens it. It’s your body telling you to stay still and give it time.”
“I’m getting the message,” I moan.
“What can I do?”
“I don’t know. Keep talking? What’s it like being a vet?”
The question irritates him. His rough hands clench the steering wheel while he navigates typical Wilmington traffic, which always seems congested no matter what day it is. He goes slow, double-checking his mirrors whenever he merges. I wonder if the accident made him nervous about driving or if he’s nervous about driving me .
“What’s it like being a cashier?” he redirects, either too distracted by traffic or unwilling to talk about himself. Most likely, it’s the latter.
“I’m not a cashier.” I wince at the rough road, suddenly jiggling my guts like cranberry sauce during an earthquake. “I’m the customer service manager, the youngest Sunny’s has ever had, and I absolutely love my job.”
He smirks, cutting a glance at me like I’ve told a joke. “Seriously?”
“As serious as a stab wound,” I giggle weakly, but he’s not amused. “Don’t you love yours?”
His broad shoulders shrug. “I like the animals well enough. Could do without the people.”
I laugh. “Somehow, I thought you’d say something like that. My job is people. Hiring them. Scheduling them. Making sure the front end runs smoothly so customers feel welcome and can get in and out. And handling all customer needs?—”
“Sounds horrible,” he breathes, looking anxious as he drives well below the posted speed limit.
“I love making customers feel like family at Sunny’s. Not everyone has a family, you know?”
“I’ve never felt like family in Sunny’s.”
I give him a curious stare. “How do you feel there?”
He groans, his knuckles twisting on the wheel. “Like a victim, assaulted by pretentiousness and high prices.”
“Oomph, you’re one tough cookie, Tripp Grady Tripp.”
“A box of mac-n-cheese shouldn’t cost five bucks, and no one in Seagrove needs a ten-dollar box of macaroons or a fifty-dollar jar of saffron.”
“It’s organic mac-n-cheese. Some people buy those items all the time. What’s wrong with a grocery store with pizazz?”
“Right, pizazz that pads the Sullivans’ pockets. It’s a tourist trap that pretends to be a grocery store. No locals would shop there if the nearest Food Lion weren’t twenty miles away.”
I nod. “Being the only game in town does work to Sunny’s advantage. But it’s a happy place that people enjoy, too. Most people.”
“If you say so.”
Another laugh escapes me. “You’re what I call a customer service challenge, but one I welcome. I almost won you over. Don’t you remember?”
His brow pinches until a light flickers in his memory. “Shit, right. I remember.”
I smile. “Tell the truth. You still have your complimentary Sunny’s keychain, don’t you?”
He groans. “Only because the sun is a bottle opener.”
I laugh. “I knew you’d keep it. You’re practical and willing to fight for a bargain. I appreciate that.”
His fingers relax on the steering wheel, like he needs his hands to talk. “If you’re going to advertise a buy one, get one, then buying only one steak should mean it’s half price.”
“Except when the sign says you must buy two to get the deal.” A shiver runs through me, remembering his angry words through gritted teeth when I made the same argument. That’s bullshit. I want a manager. And then, the disbelieving look he gave me when I said that was me. In his defense, I present young with my freckles and pale skin, especially at work when sporting a ponytail.
“Sorry if I was… gruff,” he says.
It’s a surprise to hear him apologize and admit it. Nice isn’t his go-to behavior. Once, I passed him on the street while he gruffly told a man with a poodle to “Make an appointment.” Another time, at the pharmacy, I overheard him arguing with his mom, Carmela, over dropping off something to his brother. “Mom, I’m not the Tripp family delivery boy,” he said before taking the bag anyway and storming down the aisle.
“You were a little lamb,” I chuckle, not wanting to make him feel worse. “And not the first or last to complain. I was happy to give you the deal… Between us, I don’t like that sale either. It puts me on defense. It’s hard delivering my excellent customer service when the customer’s already pissed off.”
He cuts me a surprised look. “Hm, Marina cusses?”
A light shrug makes me wince. We climb the bridge over the Cape Fear River, the gentle thumps underneath us creating a constant ache in my belly. Tears pool in my eyes, anxious for the bridge to be over despite how much I love ogling the battleship, the choppy waves, and the quaint downtown.
“Need a break?” he asks, his voice surprisingly gentle. “We could stop on the other side. Get something to eat if you’re hungry.”
My head shakes before he finishes talking. “I just want to get home... Sorry if that sounds weepy.”
“No apologies, remember?”
A relieved sigh calms me, especially hearing him say my words from that day. I didn’t need his apologies then, and I’m glad he doesn’t want mine now. It’s like he’s giving me permission to be whatever I need.
“Um, did you tell the Sullivans that the deal was bullshit?” he asks, drawing my focus.
“I voiced my concerns, but it’s a numbers game for them. Most people buy multiple steaks. Some see a buy one, get one, and decide to stock up their freezers. Little do they know, the Sullivans raised the price per pound days before the sale. So, really, the savings are pretty negligible, and the Sullivans get to move a lot of steaks, even with lone dissenters like you.”
“They’re crooks.”
“They’re smart business people. Besides, it’s best to pick my battles for something that matters to more people. You know, the ones not buying steaks.”
“Like?”
“A grocery rewards program for locals,” I say, perking up. “Something that’ll save them money across the board, and keep them from driving to Food Lion. Once Ashe takes the new store and I’m Seagrove’s manager, I think Cora will let me try it.”
“Don’t you feel weird? Marrying your boss?”
A chuckling scoff erupts. “I did at first. But it happened so naturally over time that it seemed almost inevitable. Sunny’s is my family, so it makes sense—Ashe and me.”
“And Ashe taking off on you… is that another example of you picking your battles with the Sullivans? Anyone else would be furious.”
I fiddle with the hem of my sundress, feeling suddenly uncomfortable. Should I be mad?
I hate being twenty-five and still not knowing what I should be. Navigating hard emotions, especially regarding Ashe or family in general, feels like standing on the wrong side of a raging river and not knowing which rock to jump on to get me across. Will the angry rock get me to the other side of this? Or the sad one? Resigned has space. So, does the disappointed rock. Or should I simply stay put and avoid rocky emotions altogether?
That seems the safest choice.
“I love him and wouldn’t deny him anything,” I say. “Why would I deny him this?”
“Why would he deny you his love and care when you need it most?”
His question hangs there like a bad smell, lingering and making me grimace. Though I’m cold, the truck suddenly feels stifling. I use the crank to lower the window, wincing with each tug and pull. The cool air hits my face, drying my eyes, and makes my hair dance in crazy waves. The last thing I want to admit right now is that a stranger’s comfort has been kinder than that of my fiancé.
I’ve been alone since fifteen, paying my bills on time and caring for myself. I operate on a budget, get routine oil changes, pay taxes that I do myself, and worry about things like affordable health care and rising food costs. I was an adult before my time and am certainly one now.
But sometimes, I feel an awkward, child-like uncertainty over the basics like love and family. I didn’t grow up with it, so how can I know the roles, rules, and expectations? Even TV versions feel fake, existing in this untouchable universe like “normal family life” is my Mars. I don’t know how to survive here.
Except to smile, chat, and make everything okay for everyone else.
My work family takes me in stride, but I see my awkwardness reflected back on me whenever I ask about their children’s birthday parties or ailing grandparents. I feel as if I’m not supposed to know or care about these things, even if they share tidbits of information with me in passing. Sometimes, I feel like people chat to fill time, not realizing someone’s actually listening.
I listen. That’s what having a work family means. Right?
It’s the same with customers. If I’m told about your husband’s upcoming surgery during a chat in the cereal aisle, I’m going to ask about it next time I see you. Still, I catch people off guard.
“Ah, you remembered,” they say, glancing quickly at my name tag. “He’s doing well, Marnie. Thanks.”
Rarely does anyone ask about me, let alone question my relationship, and maybe I’m not close enough to anyone for that. But it bothers me that he cares to ask—this stranger with a ginormous, beautiful family and slews of Seagrovians desperate to know more about him, though afraid to approach Grouchy Tripp themselves. He makes it clear that he couldn’t care less about getting to know any of them.
The day he confronted me about the meat, no less than seven customers and employees asked me about the interaction.
So, he’s definitely not a vegetarian?
What else did you find out about him?
What’s he like?
Did you see his smolder?
Do you think he’s single?
Did his heart seem dead from euthanizing so many animals?
That came from my reluctant protege, Wren Christie, whose pitch-black hair, piercings, and witch vibe provide an unusual challenge in customer service, not that I don’t rise to meet it. I don’t care how black your eyeliner is or how many piercings you have, a smile works wonders.
The point is, Grady Tripp’s existence doesn’t match mine. Not by a mile. And the distance between us is full of thick forests, rocky terrain, bodies of water, and booby traps.
Anyone with the luxury of being a grouch doesn’t have a clue what Marnie-land is like.
Knowing this, his question shouldn’t bother me. But it does. It’s niggling away at my insides like his words are toothy termites.
Why would Ashe deny me his love and care?
Why wouldn’t he choose me over himself just this once ?
Or choose his mom’s advice over his promise ?
The more I think about it, the more it hurts.
But Grady does me a favor and says nothing else until we reach Seagrove.