32. Grady
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Grady
Opening the door to Marina is exhilarating and devastating at once. Fucking hell, she’s stunning. Not just her everyday beautiful, either. She’s date-ready beautiful. My eyes don’t know where to land, taking her in. Glimpses of the smattering of freckles on her bare shoulder, the lovely lines of her collarbone, her brighter-than-usual smile, the way her short skirt grazes her legs, and her big, hopeful eyes gauging my reaction all beckon for more attention.
“I’m early,” she says when I don’t speak. Then, she leans in for a warm embrace—a move that happens too quickly for me to stop.
Not that I would.
She smells faintly of roses as I breathe her in, her long, wavy hair tickling my nose. My hands drift over her back—the silk of her blouse and the softness of her bare shoulders. She’s intoxicating.
“Thanks for having me over,” she whispers before kissing my cheek. She lingers in the tiny space between us, meeting my eyes with her easy smile, tempting me to kiss her.
I want to. God, I want to kiss her.
That’s when it hits me how badly I’ve ruined this.
After leaving her at the dock, I wandered into an elaborate, confusing labyrinth of misgivings about our date. Asking her to dinner felt as natural as the swamp around us—time alone with Marina was what I wanted. But insecurities battled my desires, convincing me that our age difference, origin story, and her deserving better mattered more and ultimately won out. So, anxious over what might happen between us, I arranged precautions to ensure the answer was nothing —self-sabotage at its absolute finest.
Precautions I now deeply regret. She’s so excited, alluring, and goddamn hopeful. Now, I’m about to hurt her. Again.
The dogs rush up. Harley leads the charge, wagging her stubbed tail, with Hannibal and Blackbeard behind her. Marina coos and drops to her knees to greet them.
“Oh, my goodness!” she laughs, rubbing Hannibal’s uneven ears. “Grady, they’re perfect.”
“Imperfect, actually,” I note, glad for the distraction and amused at her willingness to engage them. They can be a lot all at once.
“But, see? That makes them perfect,” she laughs as three-legged Blackbeard tries to shimmy into her lap, nearly knocking her over backwards.
“Alright, guys. She’s had enough,” I say, adding a stern whistle to show I mean it. They disperse enough for me to pull her up, inadvertently bringing her close for a second time. She falls against my chest to get her balance.
“Marina, I messed up.” My breath catches on hers between us.
“Messed up?” Her brow pinches with curiosity, but we’re interrupted when the dogs go crazy over the sound of another car in my driveway.
She glances through the glass in the door. “It’s Marigold. And Gil.”
“Yeah, I know. I invited them,” I say, deciding to completely own my fuck-up. “I thought it’d be better this way.”
Confusion cuts through her smile, followed quickly by sharp disappointment. Her entire demeanor sinks, and she shifts away from me, literally taking two steps back.
“Oh, okay.” A strained smile pushes through. “Right, wouldn’t want me to get the wrong idea. Silly me. I won’t make the same mistake again.”
She’s out the door before I can argue or launch a defense. She greets Marigold with chipper enthusiasm, waving happily. “My favorite artist of all time! So glad we get to hang out. Gil, nice to see you. Looking handsome, as always.”
My brother blushes at the compliment, unsurely eyeing his dark jeans and fitted Zelda t-shirt. I’d asked him to make an effort, although our definition varies. Along with wearing clothes that fit and look nice on him, he even tamed his messy brown hair and wore his dark-framed glasses, highlighting his strong cheekbones and bold blue eyes. He goes in for a hug as she approaches, nestling her to him while eyeing me over her shoulder and smirking, the asshole.
But I deserve it. This was a shit idea.
They file into the house, greeting my rambunctious dogs. Gil hands me a bottle of wine, surely pinched from my parents’ collection since he doesn’t go to grocery stores.
“How thoughtful, Gil,” Marina coos. “Let’s crack that baby open. Oh, I brought something, too.” She picks up the bag she dropped at the door and holds it up. “It’s a game. Tic Tac Trivia. A twist on tic-tac-toe. You can’t take a square without correctly answering a question, and all the answers contain x’s or o’s or their phonetic sounds… If I’d known there’d be four of us, I would’ve brought a game we could all play at once.”
Her eyes cut to mine, but only for a second. She meant for us to play it—just me and her. Goddamnit!
“I love Marnie’s games,” Marigold says, taking the bag from her hands.
“Sounds fun,” Gil says, “but won’t you know all the answers?”
She laughs, her hand landing comfortably on his arm and squeezing. “Shhh, you weren’t supposed to think of that.”
“Gil, let’s play first,” Marigold says. “Marnie plays the winner.”
“Sounds good, Marigold,” he says, “but wine first, huh, Marnie?”
“Absolutely! Thanks.”
He snatches the bottle from my hands, brow cocked challengingly. Marigold takes the game to the coffee table, spills the pieces, and sets it up. Marina’s smile falls as soon as they’re gone. She pulls the pink sweater she carried onto her bare shoulders, refusing to look at me.
“Let me explain,” I say, but she cuts me off with a wave.
“What’s to explain?” she asks, fake smiles returning. “You invited me over to set me up with your brother. Two Grady responsibilities handled at once. I get it.”
She brushes by me and heads toward the kitchen, her sneakers tapping against my wood floors.
I slump. Fuck.
When I asked her to dinner, I wanted her here for me . But the more I thought about it, the less it seemed like a good idea. She assuaged my guilt about the accident, yes, but I carry much more than that, and isn’t it wrong, dragging her into it? She’s all sunshine, and I’m nothing but storm clouds. We don’t fit. Do we?
Even if we do, fears arose over the idea of us. The last time I dated was in college, and there’s been no one since my wife. The idea of loving Marina and then losing her, or, hell, even disappointing her somehow, filled me with apprehension. I don’t trust myself to be the guy she needs and deserves.
Since I couldn’t handle the pressure, I turned our unofficial ‘date’ into a get-together instead.
Besides, I wanted to show her that not everyone expects a family. Gil’s a good guy. Single. He doesn’t want kids. He’s her age, and they went to high school together, giving them a starting point. They liked each other then; they could now. And, yes, she might work wonders on his agoraphobia like she does everything else. Perhaps, subconsciously, I was ticking two items off my list of responsibilities—a shit thing to do.
Now, I’m paying for it. The look on her face crushes me. Doubly painful, I’m hit with unexpected jealousy over her hugging him, touching him. I thought seeing her with Gil would be okay.
Wrong. So fucking wrong.
I should kick them out with a firm ‘change of plans’ and ‘thanks, anyway’ and attempt to salvage the night with Marina. But Marigold hates sudden changes in her plans; it took thirty minutes to convince her to postpone Marina’s G&G homework for this instead.
Besides, Marina is pissed—rightly so. And Gil has a rare opportunity to rub my nose in my dumb move, like he did when I called him for this favor.
“You obviously like this woman,” he said then. “Why don’t you date her?”
Unable to explain my insecurities to my little brother, who has his shit to deal with, I said, “It’s dinner. Not a big deal. Would you like a chance or not?”
“Hmm, she’s hot, and you’re an idiot,” he answered. “I’ll be there.”
Now, as Gil pours the wine and Marigold arranges the game, it feels too late to stop it. I tend to dinner, back and forth to the grill outside—at least they’ll get a good meal out of this—while they chat over her game. It must be fun because the room fills with laughter as they play, and she cheers them on.
Waiting for the roasted vegetables to bake, I grab the wine and refill their glasses before getting one for myself. I sit with them in the living room, just as Marigold and Gil’s game ends.
He wins. Marigold stifles her disappointment, moving aside for Marina to take her place. She fake-cracks her knuckles over the rustic board, challenging him with a villainous grin.
“Don’t worry, Marigold. I’ll avenge you,” she says.
“Only because she knows all the answers,” Gil protests. “I’ve never met a game maker before. This is really cool.”
She shrugs sheepishly. “Thanks.”
“You were always creative,” Gil says. “I loved your sets for SOM.”
“SOM?” I cut in, desperate to be included.
“ The Sound of Music ,” he says. “The musical we worked on together in high school. Marnie constructed backgrounds out of recycled bottle tops.”
“The hills were alive with Mountain Dew caps,” she sings with a giggle.
“One of my favorite things,” he hums. “Oh, that and wine corks.”
“Yes, it was surprising to discover how many bottles of wine Seagrove goes through in a month,” she returns.
“Probably still not enough,” he jokes, clinking his glass with hers and making her laugh.
I hate this.
“I must’ve been away at school. I don’t remember seeing that one,” I say.
“Yeah, you weren’t there. A good thing, probably.” His grin falls as his eyes cut to hers across the board. Worry flashes across her face at whatever memory they share, and he recovers with, “I mean, we were behind the scenes.”
“Yeah, and everyone’s seen SOM,” she tacks on weakly.
“You didn’t miss anything,” he says, assuring me that the opposite is true.
I know to drop it—Marina doesn’t want to talk about it. And I don’t want to make her more uncomfortable. Or more upset.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” I say before retreating to the kitchen again. From there, I see Marina mouth the words thank you over their game, and he gives her a reassuring smile.
Not only do they have history, they now have a thing between them that I’m not privy to.
I really fucking hate this.
We eat outside on the rugged picnic table that came with the house. Gil carries the bread. Marigold gets the roasted veggies. I deliver the fish straight from the grill to the middle.
There’s a slight hesitation to sit, no one knowing where they should be, until Gil plops down and pats the space beside him for Marina to follow. Marigold quickly steals the seat across, leaving me facing Gil, who smirks smugly.
A collective coo (started by Marina) erupts when I peel the aluminum foil apart. A wave of rosemary, lemon, butter, and garlic steam rushes out, and they see the fish inside: two lake trout, freshly caught this afternoon. It’s a masterpiece.
“Looks good. Grady’s a gourmet when it comes to fish,” Gil says, throwing me a bone.
Marina nods. “Impressive. Looks delicious.”
“It’s always a work in progress,” I say, offering her a weak smile. “I tried to get all the bones, but be careful.”
I serve her first, transferring what I hope to be the best portion onto her plate. Gil adds the roasted veggies.
“Thanks,” she says, glancing from me to him.
The food is surprisingly perfect, considering my anxiety while preparing it. Light conversation ensues, disregarding me and mostly spear-headed by Marina as if she’s promised herself not to make this weird for the others.
But soon, silence prevails, and her attention drifts. “So, what’s with the piano? Do you play?”
“He plays,” Gil answers for me, “or he did. He’s really good, too.”
“Very talented,” Marigold confirms. “You should’ve seen Luke’s talent show?—”
“I don’t play anymore.” I pass the bread, hoping to shut this down.
She hesitates, brow pinched, before meeting my eyes. “Why not?”
“It triggers bad memories,” I admit.
“Then, why keep the piano?”
“It’s a part of him that he can’t let go,” Marigold reports.
“And I don’t want to forget,” I say, not wanting to hold back. She could ask me anything, and I’d tell her the truth if only to tip her favor back in my direction after this fuck up.
“Would you, though?” she asks.
“What? Play?”
“No, forget?”
“No.”
“So, really, holding on to the piano and not playing it, is you punishing yourself? Pianos are meant to be played, Grady. Played and enjoyed and shared with people. They should spread joy, not be turned into dust collectors, mocking your pain every day. It’s right there, waiting for you, hoping you’ll take a chance and try again, and you walk on by it, selfishly ignoring a beautiful opportunity. This is why you’ll never be happy—you’re too damn busy being miserable.”
She rises, resting her napkin beside her plate.
“Sorry, guys,” she smiles shortly. “Wine makes me too loosey-goosey with words.”
“I liked it,” Marigold says.
“Me, too,” Gil agrees.
I hang my head, not knowing what the fuck to say. Only that she’s right. Absolutely right.
And not just about the damn piano.
“Well, y’all keep eating. It’s delicious, Grady,” she says. “I’m just going to powder my nose.”
“Um, it’s—” I start to direct her.
“I’ll find it,” she snaps.
“Wow,” Gil says when she disappears into the house. “I’m liking her more and more. Think I still have a chance, or did you fuck it up for both of us?”
“Chance at what?” Marigold asks, face pinched with confusion.
“A chance to be more than friends with Marnie,” Gil says.
Marigold looks from him to me. “But you said you were just friends, and you’re an old man.”
Gil laughs. Marigold’s ability to remember everything a person says is endearing, but not always. “Remember how you said you didn’t like Peter Pike? Things change.”
Her lips pinch as she considers this. Then, she nods. Marigold may not always understand social shit, but she’s extremely logical. “Peter Pike is two years and three months older than me. We’re all adults. Age differences don’t matter.”
“Marnie would agree, I think,” Gil says. “Grady’s the only one who cares.”
“I don’t care. It’s just… I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” I rise, bumping the table. I grab my plate and hers, as my siblings give me their adult versions of stink eyes.
I go inside, balancing dirty dishes and not expecting to see her. If it were me, I would’ve bailed the moment another car appeared in the driveway.
She stayed, anyway.
For them or me, I don’t know. Maybe both. But after what she said, I’m sure this marks the bitter end to any ideas about us. Why would she want to be with someone she believes prefers misery? And if that’s true about me, why would I wreck her with my miserable life?
I pile dishes into the sink, expecting to hear the front door slam and her truck revving in the driveway. But I don’t.
I only hear her voice, soft and upset, behind me. “Grady.”