10. Grady
CHAPTER TEN
Grady
Her house isn’t a shed, as those idiots in the coffee shop said, but close. It’s a small cottage, maybe five hundred square feet, oozing with forced homeyness, like it’s convincing itself it’s a house with plants all over the tiny porch and a front window that’s too big for a place this size. A sprawling brick rancher with an enormous attached garage and workshop overshadows it from thirty yards back and they share a driveway, like the tiny house was an afterthought. Or a lawn decoration.
Her place is within walking distance of Seagrove’s downtown and a half-mile from Sunny’s, making convenience its best amenity. She directs me to the gravel lot between her front door and the road, and The Beast comes to a squeaking stop.
“Thanks for the ride,” she says, not sounding as chipper as usual. She works the handle, barely pushing the heavy door open and wincing with each movement.
“Wait. I’ll come around.” I rush to meet her there before her stubbornness puts her in more pain with a move that’s too quick.
She looks unsure when I lean into the cab beside her.
“Where are your keys?”
She motions to the bag at her feet. I maneuver around her, finding the keys and putting them in her left hand.
“Let’s do this easier than we did at the hospital,” I say, locking eyes with her. “What’s your pain level, one to ten?”
“Six.”
“Let’s not let it get any higher. I’ll carry you.”
“Um, no. That’s unnecessary. It’s just to the door?—”
“It’s getting out, walking, stepping up. You feel the most pain when your body is straight. I can keep you bent like you’re sitting.”
Her brow pinches into a worried V. “I could hobble.”
“You could, but the trip was hard enough. I only want to make it easier for you.”
When she hesitates again, I slip my hand over hers, taking a chance that she’ll remember my comfort, not just the pain I’ve caused. “I look rough, but I promise I’ll be gentle.”
Her soft smile widens like she’s almost breathless. “You are gentle. I know that already. It’s just…”
“Weird,” I finish for her. “I get it. But I’m here and happy to help. Or not. Whatever you’d like.”
“You, happy?” She gives me a challenging grin.
A smirk rises on my cheek as I lean against the doorjamb. “It happens from time to time. I know it’s hard to trust me since this is my fault in the first place.”
“No, it’s because you’re practically a stranger.” Her brow pinches as she fiddles with her gauzy dress. “I’m fully aware that it shouldn’t be you taking me home and carrying me through the door.”
My empathy for her reaches a new level. Not only is she hurt and in pain, but she’s reliant on me because her so-called family couldn’t bother to step up. This must absolutely suck for her. I vow then and there to ditch my grouchy side, at least with her, and be whatever she needs me to be. Whatever it takes to get her through this.
“You’re right—it shouldn’t be me. But I’m glad it is. I like being here, doing this for you.”
She perks up slightly. “Really?”
“Truly.”
She smiles at this. “Thanks, Grady.”
“Could be worse. A Lyft driver would’ve been more awkward, right?”
She allows a short smirk and hesitantly rests her right arm on my shoulder.
I move closer, ready to scoop her into my arms. “I can flip a sheep into a catatonic state. I can handle you. If that helps…”
“Oh, Grady, sheep flipping? I bet you say that to all the girls,” she snickers.
I chuckle despite myself. “Sheep flipping. Parasite control. Dehorning calves. I’ve got all the best lines. That’s why you see me with so many women.”
Her laughter rumbles and fills me with rare delight—I’m glad she knows I’m joking. No one in Seagrove has seen me with a woman, regardless of how many have tried. She slips her hand tentatively around my neck. One arm against her back and the other under her knees, I slowly and easily cradle her to me. The initial jolt of going airborne causes a pained gulp, but then, resting her head on my chest, she sighs.
“Okay?”
She manages a smile. “Yes, that’s good.”
I shift her against me, momentarily struck by how much I like her weight in my arms, her long hair dangling over my shoulder, and her inexplicable softness. I take one careful step around The Beast at a time, gauging her expression as a pain indicator.
“My father had a heart attack two years ago,” I say, hoping to distract her. “After heart bypass surgery and six days in the hospital, I drove him home. He had to put a pillow between his chest and the seatbelt.”
“Dang, that would’ve been a good idea,” she winces.
“Here’s what I learned going through that with him,” I continue, taking one step at a time up to her porch. “First, the next forty-eight hours will be the toughest.”
She watches me as I talk, and I like her rapt attention so much that it unnerves me. I stub my foot against the top step, distracted by her. “Um, overexertion makes it worse,” I say quickly. “If it’s not an absolute necessity, leave it. Understood?”
“Yes, doc.”
“Unlock the door.”
She fumbles with the keys but gets the door open.
“Couch or bed?”
“Couch, thanks.”
Cats meow and circle my legs, but I shift through them to a plush, red couch. It’s not full-size; I doubt anything full-size can exist here, but it’s large enough to seem comfortable for her. With careful precision, I lay her down. She looks surprised not to be writhing in pain. I go slow, releasing my grip underneath her, allowing myself to linger close.
Then, I realize I’m hovering, too close and too much touching, too many thoughts I shouldn’t be having. “Um, I like your freckles.”
She laughs. “That’s better than the sheep flipping line.”
I stand up straight, letting go. “Not a line. Truth.”
“Thanks, that’s sweet. Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me Carrots.”
“Ah, no. I won’t do that.”
“Never seen Anne of Green Gables ?” she asks.
“Hmm, it sounds like something I’d watch, but I must’ve missed it between John Wick and Die Hard marathons.”
Her laughter makes me smile. Wait, am I… bantering? Secondary to that phenomenon, am I enjoying it? It’s been so long, I can’t remember the last time I willingly engaged in pleasant conversation with someone outside my family. More surprising is how easily it’s happening with her.
Her laughs end with an uncomfortable wince. “You’re funnier than I thought you’d be.”
“No, I’m not. You bring it out of me.”
“Then, good. It looks nice on you.” Her eyes dance with mine. “But I can’t handle any more giggles. They hurt, you know?”
“Well, if you aren’t laughing, then…” I tease.
Her cats jump onto the couch beside her, and she laughs at the purring welcome party.
“So, learn anything else from your Dad?” she asks, mid-pets.
“Oh, one last thing. It takes as long as it takes.”
She repeats my words, as if memorizing them.
“Yep, healing, walking, getting back to normal, everything,” I say. “So, no rushing it.”
“Got it. How is he? Your dad?”
My eyes narrow, taken aback by the question. “Good, thanks. As bull-headed as ever.”
“So, it runs in the family, then?”
“Absolutely.”
Her side smirk stretches up her cheek, puffing it in an obnoxiously friendly, adorable way. I could elaborate on Dad’s health, and she’d soak up the tedious information regardless of how boring it’d be to her. So, I don’t wait for more questions but leave to bring in her things.
I don’t ask permission to take her suitcase into her bedroom. I set it atop an old chest at the foot of her bed so she doesn’t have to pick it up, and even open it for her, putting her things at arm’s reach. I glance around and spot things I wouldn’t expect in a twenty-five-year-old’s bedroom, not that I’ve been in many.
A puffy, antique quilt in a rainbow of colors monopolizes her bed—something Mom would buy at a craft show.
Oddball art covers her walls. An almost-bad painting of a cat wearing a crown. Random British-looking landscapes with chunky frames.
An old CD player and two short CD towers.
I round the double bed to eye her music. One tower is labeled AM, and the other PM. Upbeat music falls under her morning listens. Early Taylor Swift. Mac Miller. Mozart. Bach. Beyonce. Pharrell Williams. The Beach Boys. Katrina and the Waves. Under PM, she prefers Juice WRLD, Post Malone, Chance the Rapper, Jay-Z, Ruth B, and Norah Jones.
I smile, flipping through the stack of old-school CDs and her eclectic collection. She has everything from jazz to classical to rap.
“Everything okay back there?”
I answer by popping in a CD and hitting play. The sultry sounds of Norah Jones and the delicate taps of a piano fill the small house. The notes appear in my head, making my fingers twitch.
“Nosey Nelly!” She exclaims, laughing.
I travel through the short hallway, passing a large bathroom with a stackable washer and dryer. A closed door across the hall makes me curious, but I don’t go in.
“Thought you might like a little music,” I tell her.
“I’m always down for music.” She smiles at me from the couch, still petting the cats, snuggling at her sides.
“Nice CD collection. I thought I was the old one here. Ever heard of streaming?”
She gapes over my joke. “Yes! But I get ten CDs for a dollar at any thrift store! That’s way better than paying monthly for a service. Plus, it’s nice, rescuing things.”
I nod, looking around at her rehomed cats and thrifted furniture. That’s what she does. She rescues things.
Her place is tidy and interestingly put together. It’s all warm beiges, pops of red, and earthy greens, but not like Christmas. The red couch matches her red hair and the red tulips on the curtains. The greens in her lampshades and knick-knacks match her enormous plant collection—they’re everywhere, somehow livening the place up without looking cluttered. The beige carpet, throw pillows, and blankets match her mismatched wood furniture, adding warmth and golden hues. It’s a home constructed via yard sales that somehow works.
But for what it has in oddities, it lacks in personable items. Nearly every blank wall space is filled with shelves and frames, but only one picture—a framed selfie of her and Ashe at the beach—sits on the table beside her.
The best feature of her living room and kitchenette is the natural light from the oversized window in the front and a smaller version in the back. Cat towers take up most of the real estate there, what space isn’t monopolized by plants hanging from the ceiling or shelved against the walls. There’s a small TV and console opposite the couch, a two-seater dining area shoved against the back window, and a kitchen so small it’s a wonder there’s room for an oven.
Between jazzy Norah Jones ballads, I bring in a tote of magazines and snacks and Frilly Willie. She instructs me to put him on the dining table. I set the magazines on her coffee table—she doesn’t seem the type to read Vogue .
In the kitchen, I put the muffins and Reese’s cups on the counter near the coffee maker. While there, I check her nearly empty fridge and cabinets.
Watching my every move, she says, “I’ll have someone bring me supplies from Sunny’s. No biggie.”
“Who’d you have watching the cats?”
“Oh, my landlord and neighbor, Peter Pike. And Wren Christie from work.”
“Ed Christie’s kid?”
Marina grins. “Gosh, was that her father? I didn’t make the connection. I’ve already told them I’m home, but they’ll still check in. They won’t mind picking up some groceries for me. I’ve got it covered, Grady.”
I prop her cane beside her. “Need help to the bathroom or anything?”
“No, thanks. I can do that.”
“More music or TV?”
“Um, TV,” she says.
In her bedroom, I turn off the CD player. Then, I hand her the remote control from the table and kneel before her since the small couch is overrun with cats. The orange tabby, presumably Sunkist, stands and arches next to me, flicking her tail along my cheek.
A laugh rumbles out of me as I pet her velvety fur, and she meows her approval.
“She likes you,” Marina whispers, like this is a secret. “Hershey’s unsure yet. He’s not used to another guy around.”
A glance at the narrow-eyed cat at her feet confirms his suspicious glare. “Not even Ashe?”
“He doesn’t like my place. Triscuit scratched at him once,” she shrugs, and then winces. “Um, thanks for all you’ve done.”
“I’m not done yet. Here’s what’s going to happen, and it’ll be quicker if you don’t argue. I’ll get your prescriptions so you can have them before you start hurting. When I come back, I’ll take care of Triscuit’s ears.”
“Ah, you remembered!”
“Course. Anything else you need?”
She shakes her head, making her long, copper locks dance on her shoulders.
“I’m taking your keys to lock the door, so you won’t have to get up when I get back.” I tug the crocheted blanket on the back of the couch over her and around the cats.
“There’s cash in my purse,” she says, “for the prescriptions.”
I stand, ignoring her money offer, and grab the keys on the coffee table. “Get some rest.”
I leave, locking the door behind me.
After a Food Lion haul, I meet Mom at Seagrove Pharmacy, where she lets me in the darkened store with the bells chiming overhead.
“Just printing out the labels.” She waves me through the quiet aisles to the pharmacy in the back. She wears her white lab coat, though the store is closed.
“How’s Marnie?”
“Home and hurting.”
She flashes a concerned look. “Grady, it’s not your fault.”
“Stop saying that. It is my fault.”
“It was an accident. The more times you hear it, the quicker you’ll believe it,” she says, her reading glasses perched on her nose. She taps her computer keys and moves around the small space. “I’m glad you’re helping her, but I’m surprised, too.”
“There’s no one else to do it. Cora’s too much to deal with and Ashe’s gone on their honeymoon without her.”
Mom’s the textbook definition of appalled. “No! Did they break up? Over a car accident?”
“No, not that it’s any of our business. Almost done? I want to get back.”
She folds the paperwork, checks the pill vials, and puts everything into a small paper bag. “I don’t know Marnie well, but she deserves better.”
“Anyone deserves better.”
“She used to come in here, haggling for her mom’s pills,” Mom muses.
“Haggling?”
“She’d try and get her mom extras to hold her over until her prescription was renewed. Her mom struggled to make her doctor’s appointments. She’d go off her meds. Then, get back on them. It was hard on Marnie.”
“Again, not our business.”
She hands the bag over. “Grady, take a heating pad from aisle three. I’ll put it on my account. Marnie might need it. Oh, and a box of chocolates. They’ll all go on clearance tomorrow anyway, and the antioxidants will give her a healing boost.”
I grab the electric heating pad and pass the long table up front with Valentine’s Day leftovers. It seems like a dumb idea, bringing her Valentine’s Day chocolates—another reminder of the day I ruined for her.
But she’d probably appreciate the gesture.
I tuck the biggest box under my arm.
“Atta boy!” Mom says.
“Thanks, Mom.”
“Anything to help, Grady. I mean that. All you have to do is ask.”
I nod, knowing that’s true and feeling grateful for once.