19. Grady
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Grady
I’ve moved into forgotten territory— wanting to know someone better. I know Marina differently than anyone. In some ways, our bond is stronger than most. But I don’t know her, not well. She doesn’t tell me her problems, doesn’t share her cool hobbies. These things bother me.
The afternoon sun through the passenger window hits her just right, highlighting her fiery hair, sapphire eyes, and the delicate spray of freckles over her rosy cheeks. She threw on the simplest outfit—jeans and a t-shirt—but there’s nothing simple about how plain clothes make her seem bolder. Hair redder. Eyes brighter. Even her hope in me emanates across the cab when she flashes a smile. Everything about her is soft and lovely, from how her top hangs off one shoulder to the fuzzy sweater she carries.
It’s hard not to cut glances at her.
To hang on her words and marvel at her incredible hobby. She creates games? Who does that?
To wonder what else I don’t know about her.
To wonder what it’d be like to let my touches linger.
She didn’t need my help down the stairs or into the truck, but my hands went to her anyway. To protect her, yes, but mostly from longing. I miss having a reason to touch her. When she stood in the doorway of her game room, nervously explaining her hobby, all I could think about was bringing my face into the crook of her neck to feel the softness of her hair and catch her perfume—something like vanilla and lavender. Supporting her down the steps provided an opportunity, but I regret it now. Touching her once has me craving to do it more.
Damn it. I can’t have these thoughts, not about her. I’m too old for her, too surly, too gray against her vivid color.
I need that reality repeating through my head, but flipped—she’s too young, too beautiful, too goddamn rosy for me—because the more I see her, the more I want to see her. And I have no business wanting more of her at all.
My eyes shift her way again. She angles sideways against the door with her leg propped, like she wants to engage in conversation but doesn’t know where to start. She fidgets with the buttons on the sweater, looking apprehensive.
“This is nice, but I like The Beast better,” she says.
“Really?”
“It’s got character.” She turns even more in her seat, wincing slightly but looking hopeful. “Do I get a hint, at least?”
Her hopes rattle my nerves. What am I doing? Suddenly, putting lovely Marina inside Wade’s store feels like the worst idea in history. Like hanging the Mona Lisa in a dive bar and letting drunks throw darts at it. These things don’t belong together.
But do they belong together more than Marina at a funeral home? I don’t know.
I wrangle my anxiety and tell her the truth. “Do you know the G&G?”
Her brow cocks high on her forehead. “That sketchy place by the swamp?”
Shit. “Yeah, Uncle Wade owns it, and he needs help.”
Her face scrunches with confused contemplation.
“Wade needs a manager to help him turn the place around and bring in business. I thought of you.”
Her brow kinks, and she turns toward the window like she might be preparing a nicer version of, “Fuck off, Grady. Take me home, you meddling bastard.”
“Dad calls the G&G an armpit,” Marigold offers dryly.
“Not helping,” I snap, catching her eyes in the rearview mirror.
A beat passes in awkward silence.
“Marina, you can say no,” I tell her again. “But humor me first? Let’s check the place out and hear what he has to say. Okay?”
She fiddles with her lap sweater again. “It’s tickety-boo. Relax, Grady.”
Marigold snorts behind me.
The dirt and gravel lot crunches beneath the truck’s tires when we arrive at the G&G. The store sits on the outskirts of Seagrove, where the lake turns into swamps before disappearing into rural farms. It takes four turns and about six miles from the main highway to reach it—it’s not an easy pitstop for anyone except those who live around here.
But those who live here generally don’t stop into the G&G unless they’re residents of The Marshes trailer park to the right and up a gravel hill. For them, it’s the only thing within walking distance.
I park beside the building. Marina slides from the truck before I get a chance to come around and open the door for her.
She doesn’t need your help, Grady.
With a slow circle, she scans the area: the three ancient gas tanks, the rickety overhang, and the Pepsi-Cola sign advertising the store’s name. Welcome to the G&G. The cracked plastic has chipped away at the W, and the colors have faded over the years. I wonder if it still lights up.
Probably not.
Wade hasn’t repaired or improved this place in a decade.
“What does G&G stand for?” she asks when I take her side.
“Grab and Go.”
She chuckles. “That’s not what I heard.”
I huff. Grubby and Gross is the most popular variation when people talk about the G&G. Not that they do anymore.
“Shall we?” I motion to the storefront.
“What about Marigold?”
“She’ll wait in the car. Sensory overload. I’m surprised she wanted to go inside your place.”
“Well, I lured her with cats,” she smiles. “Who can resist?”
“Who, indeed?” I smirk, meeting her eyes again.
I lean into the open window of the truck. “Please, don’t wander.”
“Tickety-boo,” Marigold answers, not looking up from her sketchbook.
The long porch that stretches the length of the building feels narrow with all the junk lining the corridor. Crab traps, barrels, pallets, empty boxes, water jugs, antique Coke and milk crates—it’s like a junkyard vomited out here. She peers inside the picture windows, which are too dingy and cluttered to see through.
“It needs work,” I say, regretting this already.
She smiles but doesn’t answer—probably preparing her hell-no speech, one I’ll deserve.
The door rattles when I open it, and sets off hanging door chimes that lazily clink together like they’re tired of the place.
Inexplicably, my fingers fall on her lower back, easing her inside, as if she doesn’t know the way or I’m impatient.
Her eyes catch mine, offering a warm smile, but my hand drops, and I regret touching her again.
Inside, the smell hits us first—mothballs, cigarette smoke, and stale beer—with clutter covering every surface a close second.
“Fucking hell,” I mumble. Insisting on a tour before agreeing to the deal would’ve been smart. It’s a shit heap, barely recognizable from the G&G of my childhood.
Old metal shelves flank out like a fan around us. Products are sparsely arranged—candy here, chips there, canned goods over there—but nothing looks organized. Magazines and old newspapers tower in a corner. Random standalone displays of keychains, individual packs of medicines, and lighters occupy odd spaces. Lights flicker in the cold cases along the wall, and fluorescents buzz overhead. A case that once held ice cream sandwiches and Nutty Buddies now only has bait and ice-crusted frozen dinners. Fishing rods and nets line the wall, most crooked.
And like a cherry on top, a legs-up cockroach the size of my fist lies on the rough, paint-chipped floor at Marina’s foot.
In her slow pan of the store, she sees the cockroach but says nothing. I steer her around it, and we walk deeper into the store from hell.
“Is that Marnie?” Christie’s voice rises from the back corner of the L-shaped store.
Marnie’s feet move somewhat quicker through the aisles to reach the source.
Seeing my uncle, his buddies, and what’s become of the place makes me cringe. What Maureen once called “The Canteen,” a short kitchen and bar with a few fixed metal stools where she’d serve us fountain drinks and hot dogs, has been overtaken by cigarette cartons and the insipid grunge of ashtrays.
Roy occupies one stool of the canteen to our right, legs stretched out to the register counter and belly protruding from his dirty t-shirt.
The counter is a large, battered wood monstrosity covered in ancient advertisement posters, mostly for beer and cigarettes. Overhead, a slotted shelf holds loose cigarette packs like an umbrella over Christie and Wade, who occupy high-top bar stools on the other side of the counter. They look like an oddball gang of old bikers, smoking and drinking in their corner, protecting themselves from customers.
Not that they get many. Or any.
Embarrassment makes my cheeks flush as I turn to Marina. It’s so awful that I want to scoop her into my arms, make a run for it, and find a way to erase her memory of this. She should hate me for bringing her here, let alone suggesting she work here.
But she stifles my upcoming apology with a wide smile. “Yes, it’s Marnie. Are you three heartbreakers my welcoming committee?”
Christie nearly falls over himself, coming from behind the counter to greet her—at a lumbering six-four, he tends to look clumsy. “It’s so wonderful to have you here,” he says, hand grazing his heart.
“I’m happy to be here.” She shakes his extended hand. “What a lovely blouse—a very good color for you. Brings out your eyes.”
Christie looks like he might tear up at the compliment. He fingers the collar of the silky shirt. “Told you, boys. She has exquisite taste. I still dream about your starry night display at Sunny’s.”
“Picnic Under the Stars? You remember?” Her cheeks redden sweetly. “We sold out of beach blankets and picnic baskets over that one.”
Christie raises his hand. “Guilty of buying both! Wren and I love going on nighttime adventures. Well, I call them adventures. She calls them evening spells and incantations. Do you know Roy?”
Christie motions to the idiot on the stool, who promptly stands, bows, and salutes, but does each clumsily. “Roy Fontaine. Retired Duke Power lineman. Glad you ain’t dead.”
“Um, thanks. Me, too.”
He rubs his gray beard, scrutinizing her with his drunk eyes. “You’re a lot prettier than Grady said.”
Marina flashes a coy smile in my direction.
“I never said,” I correct sternly. “Stop talking.”
Roy fumbles back to his stool.
Christie motions to Wade, still sitting behind the counter. “You remember Wade?”
Wade nods and flicks his cigarette ashes into the dirty tray beside him.
For the first time since we entered, Marina’s smile falters. “I remember. Nice to meet you under better circumstances. Thanks for being there, you and Christie, my heroes.”
Christie gasps. “A terrible day, but not tragic, thanks to Grady and the universe. Glad to help.”
“Just doing our civic duty,” Wade huffs.
I give him a stern glare over Marina’s shoulder. I should’ve known he wouldn’t make this easy.
“Grady tells me you’re looking for a manager,” Marina says, scanning her surroundings. Her finger lands on an empty stool. Its wobbly spin makes her smile widen and stirs my memories. I wish she could’ve seen the place when Maureen was here.
“That’s right,” Wade says.
“Someone to revitalize the place and our sales,” Christie chimes in. “We need a customer service makeover, Marnie, and you’re just the person to do it.”
“I’ll match whatever you were making at Sunny’s,” Wade says, “and add ten percent.” His gray eyes find mine, and he smirks under his unkempt horseshoe mustache. “Make that twenty percent. I hear so many good things about you.”
He chuckles, making me irritated.
“That’s wonderfully generous. But would you turn over control?” she asks, head tilted as she assesses the space. “Or would I just be a glorified cashier with good ideas that don’t happen?”
Wade’s hands fist as he glares at me. “You’ll have control within reason. The place needs a good cleaning. You can start there.”
“She’s on light duty,” I cut in sternly. “You three will have to step up and help.”
“I’m getting better every day, but he’s right. No heavy lifting or long hours for a few weeks yet. Is that alright?”
“I’m sure we can figure something out,” Wade allows, “so long as Grady chips in, too. Call it a family project.”
Christie claps. “It’ll be fun—a Marnie-style makeover. Does that mean you’ll say yes?”
She opens her mouth but hesitates. “It means… can I think about it? And look around some more?”
“Our G&G is your G&G,” Christie says, bowing. “Make yourself at home.”
“What’s behind that black curtain?” She points to a thickly draped doorway with a scribbled sign that reads “Members Only.”
Their eyes dart toward each other, unsure. “That’s our adult film section.”
“Goddamnit, Wade,” I blurt.
“We’re only meeting the demand of our customer demographic,” Wade says snidely, holding his hands up.
Marina breaks into a full-blown laugh. “Your customer demographic is people who don’t know how to use the internet? That’s a very niche market.”
“It meets a need,” he argues. “Who am I to judge?”
“I don’t watch them, Marnie.” Christie looks sheepish.
“I do,” Roy chimes in. “Wade has some of the best titles you can find. They don’t make ‘em like they used to. We do an employee’s pick every month if you want to get in on that, Marnie. Be nice to have a lady’s choice. You have a VCR?”
“Stop talking,” I order him, finger pointed.
Meanwhile, Marina erupts with laughter again. “I need a VCR?”
“Let’s not debase G&G’s vintage collection,” Wade says. “It’s a customer favorite.”
“And how many customers have you had today?” she asks.
The men exchange puzzled glances. Christie uses one hand to count while Roy helpfully reports, “Four. Five if y’all buy something.”
“No offense, Wade, but are you sure you can afford me?” she questions.
“Look, sweetheart, I wouldn’t make the offer if I couldn’t,” he snaps. “It’s about time I give the ol’ G&G some TLC… to honor the lost.”
His beer can rises, and the other two meet it with theirs, a gentle clink and swish of beer.
“To the lost,” they repeat before guzzling.
Marina appears moved by their drunken display. Her lips press together in an approving smile.
Then, she turns to me, her fingers lightly grazing my forearm. “I’m going to look around, okay?”
“Sure.”
She drifts away, seeming to examine everything from the floor to the ceiling, and I want to warn her not to look too closely, but what does it matter?
Cockroaches, cigarettes, idiots, and porn? There’s no way she’ll go for this.
Not that I want her to—she deserves better.
I meet Marina at the short dock overlooking the swamp a half-hour later. She stands there, gazing at the scenery. I imagine she’s upset. I would be. This isn’t a career option. It’s an insult. A death sentence. A cruel joke. Another funeral home.
The boards creak under me when I move beside her. The stagnant water swirls with green algae and lily pads. A lone car goes over the short bridge to our left, startling a long-legged heron into flight. Deeper into the swamp, the majestic, thick-bottomed bald cypress trees dripping with Spanish moss form an eerie tunnel. The dying sun reflects the trees onto the water’s surface, doubling their mystery and beauty. Croaking frogs begin a nighttime chorus, and a hawk makes a forceful dive onto the weedy grasslands. Like the woman standing beside me, it’s beautiful in the strangest way.
I’d forgotten how much I once loved it here.
My arms fold as I struggle to put together an apology.
She turns to me, eyes and smile wider than seems possible. “I’ll do it.”
“Seriously? You don’t have to. You shouldn’t. It’s a mess. I never should’ve brought you here. We’ll think of something else.”
“ We don’t have to think of anything else. But since you took the initiative of finding me something I’d enjoy, I want to do it.”
“Why?” I ask, breathless and confused. “You’re so much better than this place.”
Her bare shoulder bounces in a one-sided shrug. “There’s potential here, and I love a good challenge. Lost causes and second chances are two of my many specialties. You’ll see.”
Her warm smile carries her optimism over to me. “I don’t doubt it. If you’re sure.”
“I am, but I need you to promise me something.” Her delicate hands fall on my folded forearms like she wants me to pay attention. “This pity train you’re on stops here. I know you facilitated this job offer more than you let on. That man does not want a manager, does he?”
“He… warmed up to the idea.”
“Well, he needs the help. You’re right about that, and I’m perfect for the job,” she says, pleasing me with her confidence. “But, Grady, you’ve done enough. Okay? I know you feel bad about the accident and the aftermath, but it’s done. Nothing can change it.”
Sometimes, nothing can be done. “I know, and I’m sorry, and I won’t stop feeling sorry just because you want me to.”
Her hands tighten on my forearm, and her eyes lock on mine. “You know, don’t you? About everything I lost in the accident?”
Her question hits me so hard that I almost step back. Only I can’t. Stepping back means leaving her touch, and I refuse to do that. Or outright lie to her. “Yes.”
“I thought you might.”
“I overheard. Outside your room, when the doctor… I shouldn’t have listened.”
She chuckles softly, still holding on with both hands like I might leave her. “It’s okay. A relief, actually. That someone else knows. Someone who… doesn’t hold it against me.”
I swallow a growing lump in my throat. Her vulnerability with me, letting me into her pain like I’m not the cause of it, does something to the outer crust I’ve worked so hard to build around me since moving back home. It flakes away under her gaze, her words, her fingertips, like old paint off weather-beaten boards. I imagine if she snapped her fingers, it would disappear altogether. “I would never hold it against you. No one should. Still, Marina, I’m so?—”
“Grady, please, listen to me. It’s not your fault. I held the knife in my lap. Ashe was the dummy who couldn’t remember the one thing he had to do besides get dressed and show up. Cora didn’t even notice it sitting on the counter in their kitchen—it was her family heirloom. Don’t you see? The blame game has us going around in useless circles. Still, nothing changes.”
“I fucked up your life, Marina. I’m responsible.”
Her eyes fix on mine, locking me in. “Remember what I said? Those impressive shoulders can’t carry everything. And I don’t want them to. I didn’t deserve what happened, but you don’t deserve a lifetime of guilt for it, either. I won’t be defined by a freaking body part, and, you know what? I’m stronger without it and better off with a question mark for a future than one as the Sullivan’s go-to girl. Please, Grady. Let this be the last thing.”
“I can’t promise that, Marina. Not until I know you’re okay. Not just hearing you say it, but knowing it. I need to see you physically, mentally, and financially, okay. You almost died in my arms. Like it or not, that connected us, and I’d be a shit person if I didn’t grab onto that connection and let it take us wherever you want it to go. Truth is, I’m not okay until you are. You’re stuck with me until then. Understood?”
She sighs and nods. “Two castaways on the same boat, huh?”
“Yes, but it’s not just a boat. It’s a damn pirate ship reclaiming what’s been taken from you. As much as we can, anyway. I want you to ram it into the Sullivan’s cruise ship. Sink them, Marina.”
She laughs at this like she’s had similar ideas, her distress vanishing in her amusement.
“Make them regret the day they valued your body over you,” I say more seriously. “Make them regret ever pretending to be your family.”
Her hands slide to the crook of my elbows. At first, I think she’s pulling away, but she tugs my arms loose instead. When she latches onto me, I’m stunned. I’m no hugger. Aside from Mom and Elena, people know better than to try.
Even so, I wrap around her, her head tucked under my chin, and my hand laced into the soft bands of her hair, holding her close to me. She grips my shoulders like she doesn’t want me to let go. Not that I would.
For her, anything goes. I know this already. Whatever I have to give is hers to take.