11. Marnie
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Marnie
Pain wakes me, sharp and unforgiving, like electric shocks ripping over my midsection. It’s a wonder I fell asleep at all. Sunkist meows near my feet, like she can sense my distress. It feels like I’ve been run over by a motorcycle, and the driver keeps spinning the wheels on top of me. I groan, trying to sit up.
After he left, I initiated all my comforts. I carefully changed out of my ridiculous sundress and flip-flops to warm pajamas and slippers. I managed the bathroom, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. A mug of chamomile tea sits mostly gone on the coffee table. At the time, it felt good to move around and be here, where I’m most comfortable.
Now, I regret leaving, the hurt so debilitating that my eyes water, and I fully expect to spend the night moaning and wincing. I’ve never known pain like this. Not even close. Not even on that day, as if the trauma and shock subdued my nerve sensors.
When the doorknob jiggles, announcing Grady’s return, I nearly call out, “Go away!”
My cats’ scrutinizing glares are bad enough. Their perked ears and rapt big eyes prove their heightened anxieties, and add tension to my pain. I don’t need other witnesses, especially if I break down crying.
I hate crying.
But I can’t find my voice or the nerve to be so mean. I refuse to let my pain become someone else’s. Grady overflows with regret as it is.
With a breathless groan, I sit up, gripping my cane like a stress ball.
He pushes inside, arms loaded with reusable totes from Food Lion, the tags still hanging from their handles. Food Lion has the best reusable totes, and he splurged on the heavy-duty ones.
Elbowing the door shut, his bright blue eyes run over me. “Pain level?”
“Um, rising.”
“Give me a number.”
“Eight.”
He drops the bags at the door and digs through them. Within a minute, he’s beside me, handing over pills and water. I sling them into my throat and guzzle the water to push them down.
But queasiness soon joins the pain, making me think they’ll come back up.
His hand rests softly on my back. “Deep breaths.”
“Hurts,” I mutter, unable to hold it in.
“I know.”
“Please, go. I’ll be fine. I want to be alone.”
“I know, but indulge me. Please,” he says softly. “You should eat. Soup, salad, sandwich, or junk food?”
I want to argue. He’s done enough and surely has better things to do with his time than babysit me. But I don’t have the energy. “Um, soup.”
“Good. Keep breathing.”
He leaves me for the discarded bags, hefting them into the kitchen. Wincing with pain, I grab the remote and turn up the volume on Antiques Roadshow UK , if only to distract me from the intense pain and the man in my kitchen.
But it’s hard not to watch him.
Oh, the gossipers at Sunny’s would have bug eyes and dropped jaws at this sight—hot and mysterious, Grady Tripp in my kitchen. He’s top-tier good-looking. If Seagrove sold a sexy calendar for a Christmas fundraiser, Grady Tripp would be every month; only the cute animal he was holding would vary. He’s not very tall, but he’s solid, like a bookend or brick wall, especially with his arms folded, his signature move. It’s not just his overall ruggedness that makes him so nice to look at, either. It’s his age, too. Men are so dang lucky that way. There’s a mature rigidness to his features, hammered out by years of heavy lifting and farm work. But a gentleness, too. His fine lines and spotty grays make him look approachable when he isn’t scowling. And his smile, when he dares share it, warms me with delight.
It’s almost a surprise to learn that he’s kind, too. The way he helped me, saved me, held my hand.
From the looks of his bounty, he cleared out Food Lion’s premade sandwiches, salads, and soups. He pops one into the microwave before filling my fridge with the rest. He stocked up on staples: eggs, milk, cheese, yogurt, butter. He places Cheerios, chicken noodle soup cans, and mac-n-cheese boxes in my cabinet. A loaf of bread, peanut butter, and a package of deli meat appear next. Frozen entrees go into the freezer along with a tub of Neapolitan ice cream.
It’s more food than I usually have. Or need.
But his kindness keeps showing up in unexpected places.
“You’re turning me into a traitor.” My joke comes across as weak and half-hearted with my increasing pain.
He smirks lightly, holding up Food Lion brand tuna from deep inside my cabinet. “Seems like you’re already converted.”
“Yeah, I can’t afford Sunny’s, either,” I breathe, wincing. “I wear hats, sunglasses, and baggy clothes when I go to Food Lion in case I run into a local. Don’t tell anyone.”
This earns a slight chuckle and that dazzling half-smile. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
He brings me steaming hot potato and corn chowder with crackers on the side, which he sets on the coffee table. I scoot up, wincing as I do.
“The pain pills will kick in soon,” he says. “Don’t take them without food. Okay?”
“Okay.”
He grabs a notepad and pen from the coffee table and jots something down. Then, he holds it up to show me that he’s logged the date, time, and medication I just took. “It’s good to keep track to prevent under- or overdosing.”
He makes me think of Mom. “Um, that’s smart. Thanks.”
“Another thing I learned from Dad.” He nods toward the soup. “Eat.”
Though my stomach revolts, I gulp several spoonfuls.
“Grady, take some money from my purse. For the groceries.”
He grunts. “Not a chance. Stop offering.”
When the cats circle him in the kitchen, he asks about my feeding routine. He follows my instructions, even separating their bowls without me having to say anything. Hershey gets greedy.
When they finish, he hand-washes their bowls and sets them on the rack to dry. Then, he retrieves his medical bag from The Beast and gently examines Triscuit’s ears.
“Wax build-up,” he says after ten seconds. He scratches under her chin, and she purrs loudly. “No wonder she’s bothered. I’ll irrigate them.”
“Aw, thanks. You’re a lifesaver,” I say with a short giggle.
His blue eyes cut to mine. Not amused.
Triscuit’s ears get cleaned in less than five minutes. He frees her with a gentle, “Good girl.” Then, he snaps off his gloves and washes his hands in the kitchen sink. He sorts his things, rearranges some of the groceries, and, looking somewhat sheepish, sets a large heart-shaped box of chocolates on the coffee table. “Mom said you’d want something sweet, and chocolate’s good for the, um, antioxidants.”
“Ah, Carmela’s always been so good to me,” I say, thinking back on all the times I asked her for help with Mom’s medications as a teenager. “Thanks, Grady. I don’t know what I would’ve done without your help today.”
He runs his hand over his cropped head, looking agitated, like a propeller plane, unsure where to land. He returns to the kitchen, folding the bags and tucking them behind my bread box.
“If you want to stay, the rule is you have to relax.”
“Do you want me to stay?” He catches my eyes in his. “Truth.”
“You aren’t obligated to me, Grady.”
“Leaving you alone worries me. What if you need help? Do you have someone to call?” he asks gently.
My mind goes blank. I shake my head, feeling weaker than seems possible. The pain in my midsection, a headache nipping at my temples, and my swirling pit of a stomach beg me for solitude. I predict a long night of sobbing and whining to my cats. These are private things I should handle alone, as I’ve done with every uncomfortable moment I’ve ever had. But Grady’s crystalline eyes fix on mine, intense and desperate. Regret shadows the lines on his face like scars he’ll never get over. I understand the feeling.
“I’ll be fine, but you’re welcome to stay if it helps.”
“I only want to help you ,” he groans.
“You have. All I want to do is sleep,” I admit, sounding weepy.
He nods, takes a breath, and crosses the room. He grabs my phone from the side table and hands it to me. “Open it.”
I do as I’m told. He snaps a stern picture of himself with my phone and swipes his fingers across it in a flurry. As he types, a message pings, causing his brow to quirk and his eyes to roll slightly.
He returns the phone, showing me that he’s added himself as a contact under Tripp Grady Tripp, using the stern pic as his avatar. I chuckle lightly. Under a new text from Ashe, Grady texted himself one word.
Marina.
“It doesn’t matter the hour. It doesn’t matter the reason. I’m here if you need anything. Promise me, you won’t hesitate to reach out.”
“I promise.”
He looks skeptical, sizing me up with those electric eyes of his. Once again, it looks like he has a million thoughts damned up behind his intense stare. I reach out, and his hand drifts easily into mine. His rough gentleness takes me back to my first night in the hospital when his hands around mine felt like a lifeline in a dark place. He kneels before me, enclosing my hand in both of his.
“Marina,” he says finally, “You might be the nicest, sweetest person I’ve ever met...”
I’m about to coo and gush thanks, but his stern look cuts me off.
“…But now is not the time for nice . Whatever you want or need takes priority. Understood?”
My eyes narrow while my lips curl into a smirk I can’t contain. “Go home, Grady.”
He laughs. “That’s my girl.”
Then, looking sheepish again, he diverts to the cats, giving them each a pet before heading to the door.
I close my eyes, breathing in the cold wave from him opening the door. My phone pings again—reminding me of Ashe’s text.
Are you mad?
I don’t know how I’m supposed to be. Not nice , I suppose. I push the soup away, my appetite gone. My side aches.
I lean against the back of the couch, closing my eyes and willing the pain pills to do their thing. Come on, little buddies. You can do it. Kick that pain’s butt.
My phone pings again.
I’ll book a flight home. I shouldn’t have listened to her.
But, you did listen to her, Ashe. You left. Wrangling my inner not-niceness, I type words I know I should say.
But then I can’t hit send and delete them.
Instead, I give him the words he wants. I always know what he wants me to say, like I’m a Magic 8 Ball of acceptable responses designed to appease him.
It’s okay, Ashe. I’m doing so well, I came home early. If you need time away, then you should take it.
I hit send quickly, wanting him to argue. Needing him to do the right thing on his own. Hoping he books that flight anyway, just because he misses me and knows I’m hurting. Clearly, he regrets taking his mom’s advice—maybe it took a plane ride for him to come to his senses.
I’ll see how I feel tomorrow. I’m exhausted. Glad you’re home. Is Mom taking good care of you?
I close my eyes, letting more disappointment settle atop the high stack like a wobbly game of Jenga . When will it become too much, making me fall over?
Another text pings, this time from Grady. My eyes roll that he uses my full name.
Marina
This is entirely fucked up.
My fault.
I only want to make this easier for you.
Tell me to back the hell off if I’m ever too much.
Grady.
I groan and whimper from the pain it causes. All these needy men!
Even worse, I can’t help but compare this stranger who wrecked everything to my almost-husband, who’s not even here.
Grady, I understand.
It’s like that time I dropped a jar of pickles, and green pickle juice splashed all over Mrs. Johanson’s summer white capris. She was on her way to karaoke with her girlfriends. I felt horrible. I tried to clean them for her. On my hands and knees, I tried to Tide-pen the green out. Finally, I offered her my pants so she wouldn’t be late. We’re roughly the same size. She treated me graciously, said a little pickle juice never killed anyone, and went on her merry way. But that didn’t stop me from feeling bad about it. I offered to pay for her dry cleaning the next time I saw her. She didn’t accept, and, to this day, I feel I didn’t do enough.
That’s how Grady feels on a much deeper and meaningful scale. He pickle-juiced my day, and feels horrible about it. I believe he’d do anything I need to make it better—he’ll even be nice about it. That’s how I’d be if the situation were reversed.
But what can make it better?
Ashe could. He’s the one I don’t get. My almost-husband now feels more like a stranger than ever, as if not meeting him at the church meant we expired like sour milk. Never to be the same again.
We aren’t the same. We’ve never been the same.
The drugs work their numbing magic. They do nothing to numb my sadness, though. Don’t think about it now. Good thoughts, Marnie. No frowns, no fears, no tears.
I text Grady back, smirking as I use his format.
Grady.
Okay.
Marina.
Good.
He answers a moment later.
Ice packs are in the freezer. There’s a heating pad on the kitchen table if you need it. I forgot to tell you.
I thumbs up his message, grateful. Ten agonizing minutes later, I have the icepack resting on my giant jellyfish-sized bruise and the heating pad against my sore shoulders.
I stare at Ashe’s words, again disappointed that he’s let me down.
Still, I answer him.
She doesn’t know I’m home yet. I want to recover here with the cats. I’ll call her in the morning. I’m tired, too.
The ellipsis bubbles.
I’ll explain to Mom. Get some rest.
“Well, that’s something.”
Like my words are an invitation, Triscuit jumps into the space beside me, and the other cats follow, taking their usual spots—an orange, black, and Calico bundle.
My phone pings again.
Pills kicking in yet?
Yes. Relax, Grady.
Good night, Marina.
I fall asleep during Antiques Roadshow UK and dream about pine trees, concrete, and Grady’s solid chest, his heartbeat rumbling under my ear.