13. Marnie
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Marnie
Marnie Strange—the most horrible hostess in history! My head splits as if acid eats away at my brain. The flowers mixed with Cora’s perfume, making it worse. And now, I’m hugging a toilet, dry heaving, while more guests than I’ve ever had at once congregate in my living room. My eyes water and spill over under the strain of it all—the aches across my abdomen, the soreness of Giant Jelly, and the devastation of unattended guests, now left in the care of Grouchy Tripp.
Oh, and Cora looked about ready to commit murder. The last time I saw her this upset was when a disgruntled bagger egged her BMW. When she gets back in that swanky BMW of hers, I expect she’ll call Ashe to tell him that the man who destroyed our wedding day is taking care of me. This isn’t good.
I gag over the toilet again, just in time for Grady to slip into the bathroom. He sets something on the counter and rushes to my side. He angles himself on the tub’s edge, supporting me between his legs as I moan. Coughing and gagging cause serious pain in my midsection.
“You’re okay,” he tells me, pressing his cold hands against my head. “Try to relax.”
“I can’t,” I whimper. “I have guests.”
“They’re leaving. What did I tell you about being nice?”
My shoulders sink. He wets a washcloth with cold water and drapes it over my forehead. I lean into him, desperate to feel better.
“Just breathe,” he says. “There’s nothing in your stomach to throw up. When you’ve calmed down, I have your migraine medicine. Then, you have to eat something.”
The idea of keeping anything down feels agonizing. I choke back another gag with a deep breath.
Grady’s hands move gently through my hair as I lean against his knee.
“Thanks for moving the flowers,” I manage, knowing Hershey would find them hard to resist.
“You’re welcome. Saves us both, right?”
“Yeah.” I hover over the toilet again, an acidic surge playing in my throat.
“It’s okay,” he whispers, sweeping my hair off my face. “In and out. Just breathe.”
I do as he says, focusing on the rise and fall of my shoulders rather than the dizzying feeling in my head. But, soon, a surprising but familiar tug and pull on my hair relaxes me most. I don’t even realize he’s doing it at first—braiding my hair. It’s gentle and comforting, reminding me of Mom.
“What’s it going to be today, sweetheart?” she’d ask before school. “Feeling up? Or down? Or somewhere in the middle?” She’d laugh, listing off the hundreds of styles she could do. I liked high ponytails or long braids best. “Easy peasy,” she’d say.
“You braid hair?” I mutter weakly.
“Yeah, usually just on horses,” he chuckles, “but I thought it’d be nice to get it out of your way. Is that okay?”
“Yes, thanks, but Grady Tripp being nice ?” I mumble through heavy breaths.
“Desperate times and all.” He moves away from me and grabs a scrunchie from the counter to tie the end.
I lean against the tub’s edge and close my eyes. “Mom used to do that.”
“Braid your hair?” he asks.
“For school. On good days.”
“What do you mean? On good days?”
My eyes open, but barely, enough to see him leaning against the back of the door, hands in the pockets of his scrubs. My temples pound with pressure, and I feel flushed and embarrassed, on the floor against the toilet and babbling about Mom.
I brace myself against the tub’s edge to get up, and he quickly assists me.
“Easy,” he says.
“I think I can move to the couch now.”
“Good.”
We navigate the narrow hallway slowly and with little contact as if braiding hair and mom-talk cross an invisible line between us, and we need to pull back.
He retrieves the water and pill, and soon, I feel good enough to keep it down. He opens a window to air out the floral smell and warms up Elena’s chicken soup, assuring me “from experience” that it’s easy on the stomach.
It’s delicious, teaming with chunky vegetables in a creamy broth. The cliché is true—homemade is always better. It’s a shame I rarely get it since I don’t cook. I enjoy it slowly. And soon, my head isn’t spinning. After an hour, Grady gives me a second dose of the migraine medicine, and belly-full and headache numbed, I comfortably drift off to old British mysteries on PBS with my cats curled beside me.
When I wake, the room is dark except for the glare of the TV. My head is sore but not hurting. The same with the rest of me. I spy a note on the coffee table.
Marina,
Anytime for anything. I mean it.
Grady.
I’m glad he’s gone, not because I don’t want him here. There’s something extremely comforting about him. But he has a life, a career, and a busy family to contend with, and he shouldn’t feel guilty over me. Besides, I don’t want Ashe or Cora to get any wrong ideas.
Cora visits the next morning and seems almost surprised that Grady isn’t here. We’ve texted a few times—he likes checking in—but I haven’t needed anything except time to recover.
“Keep your distance from him, Marnie,” Cora says. “He’s liable for everything. More if we file a civil suit. The pain and suffering alone?—”
“I don’t want that. Please, Cora. I don’t want this to be any worse than it already is.”
“ He’s making it worse,” she counters, voice shrill. “Inserting himself into your life, taking advantage of Ashe not being here, doing all these favors, he’s buttering you up.”
“He feels bad,” I say weakly. “He’s trying to make up for it. Besides, the help has been nice.”
“He’s only being nice to protect his wallet. He doesn’t care about you. That one doesn’t care about anyone except himself.”
I don’t know what she means by that one . That Tripp. That man. That human. Not that it matters. His reputation makes it hard to argue.
“I don’t know him well, but that’s not what I think.”
“Exactly! He’s putting on a caring show for you, appealing to your good nature so that you won’t sue the pants off of him.” She shimmies to the edge of her chair, leaning closer like a TV news reporter in a tense interview. “You don’t see the lasting implications yet. You’re young and still recovering. But as someone who struggled to get pregnant, who battled the shame and disappointment of infertility for years before our miracle happened, let me tell you… this is only the beginning of the devastation that man has caused. You will feel this loss every day for the rest of your life.”
She’s right—the impacts haven’t hit me yet. Physical pain has taken priority over long-term effects, and I’m almost grateful for it. Considering every day for the rest of my life is an overwhelming prospect.
Cora smiles weakly, like she knows her words have gotten through to me. “Enough of that. Now, Marnie. What can I do for you, huh? I took the afternoon off, so give me one of your famous to-do lists.”
A chuckle emerges, thinking of my infamous list-taking at Sunny’s. I have a notebook for it—a repurposed Trapper Keeper filled with every concept, idea, display creation, and, yes, many lists, I’ve had since starting. I call it Marnie’s Market Manual, and it’s become a running joke at work. I’m rarely seen without it. Right now, it’s safely locked in my desk at work.
Giving my boss and future mother-in-law a to-do list seems like a bad move, so I do what I always do. Tell her I’m fine, but ask, gently, for her to bring my notebook next time she visits.
“If I’m couch-ridden, I might as well get some work done,” I tell her.
She claps her hands, beaming with pride that Sunny’s is on my mind, and promises to bring it.
Only she doesn’t.
Not at her next visit, days later.
Or at her final one.