Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Greyson
Three days after the infamous library-ladder fiasco, my wife still didn’t remember me, and my nerves were fraying. How was it only three days? What even was time anymore?
Every blank look, every subtle jump when I moved near her, every awkward interaction between us took its toll. I couldn’t even wrap my head around changing brake pads without making a mistake.
I got out of the Marine Corps four years ago, and I was prepared for bombs, bullets, and deployments.
But nothing readied me for stopping to pick my wife up from work, only to watch her fall from that rickety ladder.
Holding her limp, bloodied body in my arms. The blood .
. . There was so much of it. I wasn’t prepared for Paisley forgetting me.
I knew the last almost four years of marriage weren’t a fluke—she did love me.
Right now, we were just . . . in between worlds.
She looked so lost, and I was powerless to try and help her.
Prayers fell off my lips every moment of the day, and as I scrubbed the pot I used for dinner earlier, I sent another one heavenward.
Juliet had taken Paisley to her house for girl time, leaving me to The Two Towers movie, garlic bread, and spaghetti.
Not too unlike how I used to spend my evenings as a bachelor.
Now, I just felt a pang of loneliness. When you found your better half and soul’s companion, then lost them, the severed connection and intimacy was sharp.
Paisley and I had our rhythms and routines.
We used to debrief over dinner, and she’d sigh over Aragorn even if she insisted she preferred book Faramir. The movie franchise did him dirty.
She’d been my person for years, and this distance was slowly killing me.
Giving the enamel pot a final swish, I rinsed it and propped it on the drying tray.
I snagged the dish towel and dried my hands, peering in the fridge.
Mama had brought over more tiramisu, so I helped myself to a portion.
I didn’t have the heart to use the special pottery dessert bowls we usually used.
“Pretty dishes make food taste better,” Paisley had said when we bought them in downtown Coeur d’Alene last year on our anniversary trip.
The memory cut deep, twisting my gut. So instead, I grabbed an everyday white cereal bowl with a blue heart pattern on the edges and retreated back to the living room.
Elijah Wood’s and Sean Astin’s faces were frozen on the screen in front of me.
An impossible task. I could commiserate.
I tapped my phone screen, half hoping for a text from Juliet.
Paisley wouldn’t be the one to text me, even though I ached to send her a message.
Just to check in. Just to know she was okay.
But I wasn’t idiotic enough to interrupt girls’ night. Not when I heard words like Princess Diaries and Chris Pine being thrown around. A man had his limits.
So I returned to Middle Earth and my tiramisu, almost wishing I could escape through the screen myself.
When the bowl was empty, I stretched out, pillowing my head on my arm.
The Battle at Helms Deep required full viewing appreciation, and the only problem with watching it alone was not having someone to share all the trivia with.
Even if Paisley had heard it a hundred times, she still smiled when I dropped a tidbit of lore, then fired another little-known fact back at me.
My eyes drifted shut. That was how we met. A game of trivia when I was beat by a pretty girl. And I’d started falling for her then and there. One of the best days of my life.
A sharp pounding rattled the front door, and Rosie lifted her head from where she lay on the floor in front of me, growling softly.
Maybe it’s Paisley. I knew it was wishful thinking.
No doubt it was a family member or a curious neighbour.
At this point I couldn’t remember who’d all come and gone. But at this hour, seriously?
I wasn’t ready for the face illuminated in the porch light.
That easy smile. Those teasing eyes, the same colour as my own, that always saw the best of the world, though they carried a weight these days.
“Cal?” I choked out, waiting for the figment in front of me to vanish.
“In the flesh, brother mine.” Cal stepped inside, and my mind whirled to catch up.
“Why are you here?” I finally asked as we stood facing each other in the living room, flanked by the still screen of Helm’s Deep.
It was appropriate given we were both Tolkien lovers, though not as much as me and Paisley.
But he was ten states away from where he was supposed to be after tonight’s playoff game.
“Well, we won tonight, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
I had. I’d been keeping an eye on the score between orc battles. “Great goal in the third, but that still doesn’t tell me why you’re here.”
Cal studied me for a minute, and I swore twin telepathy was a thing. At least for us because he simply said, “You needed me.”
I swallowed hard, remembering my silent wish from the hospital. That he could be there. Somehow facing the biggest nightmare in my life was more bearable with my second best friend.
You needed me. Three words, and they dissolved the facade I’d been wearing.
Cal yanked me into a bear hug, and I frayed to pieces.
I’d been holding it together for Paisley, for Juliet.
But when it was just me and the brother I loved best in the world, he held me up as I fell apart.
He came when I thought he couldn’t—hockey-schedule downfalls.
But he was here now, picking up the shards of a broken heart.
The strong front I wore crumbled, coming face-to-face with the reality that my relationship with my wife as I knew it had shattered.
And for once, I wasn’t sure how to fix it. If I even could.
He didn’t mention the tears or ask any questions when we finally dropped onto the couch and Helm’s Deep reentered the living room. He was simply there. Just as I had been when his wife died, leaving him with an infant daughter.
But after Sam gave his speech at the end of the movie—both of us pretending we didn’t choke up—and Cal offered to crash on the couch, the world didn’t feel quite so dark.
Maybe Mama was right. There was comfort in letting someone else shoulder the load for a while. Frodo had Sam, and I had Cal.
“You are so gone, my dude.” Liam nudges me, nearly sloshing the bubble tea I’m bringing Paisley.
“Like you don’t do the same thing for Nora,” I retort with a smile, thinking about how he’s a total goner for his wife. Just like I am for mine. “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Liam laughs. “It was about time I visited the place you spent years avoiding. I should have known you were allergic to charm because this”—he waves his hand around Main Street—“is as fine as it gets. Maybe we’ll move here once I get out of the service.”
“It grows on you.”
“You make it sound like a fungus.”
A car backfires, and I don’t flinch. Just throw a wave to Mrs. Gulliver as she passes in her mustang. Rosie whines, and Liam goes full on baby-talking to her.
I stop in my tracks, catching sight of Paisley.
She’s perched on the ladder, painting the library windows.
The afternoon light frames her, giving her an angelic aura.
I wish I could paint—or draw something better than a stick figure—because she’s beautiful.
Lost in her own world until she shifts and her eyes meet mine.
She smiles, and I’m a moth to the flame. Utterly entranced by her.
I love that smile. The one just for me.
Liam nudges me, reclaiming my attention. Small-town life with one of my best friends would certainly be enjoyable. And I’d pay good money to see him take on Mrs. Gulliver. They’re both forces of nature.
A shrill scream pierces the comfortable bubble of companionship, and Paisley wobbles on the ladder, arms flailing in slow motion.
“Pais!” I bellow, dropping the drink and racing towards her. I should never have looked away.
But I’m too late, and she’s already hitting the ground.
Once she’s in my arms, she’s too still. Sticky redness coats my hands and stains the concrete.
“Liam, give me a hand!” I bark.
But it’s quiet.
I fumble with my flannel overshirt, pressing it to her head, but the blood isn’t lessening.
“Liam!” I scream again, glancing around.
But I’m alone. No teens. No Rosie. No Liam.
Because he was never here.
I’m in an echo chamber, hollering into the void. No birdsong, no street chatter, no Liam.
Just the woman I love broken in my arms. “Pais, open your eyes,” I beg.
But she doesn’t. I failed. Again.
Something hot trickles down my cheek, and I press the shirt harder against the wound, fighting an invisible foe. Pleading for a different ending. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, love.”
I bolted upright in bed, panting. Sweat slicked my torso, and I rubbed my aching sternum. The siren call of fresh coffee and sizzling bacon grounded me. Paisley. I instinctively reached next to me in bed—needing to touch her, to know she was okay—but her side was cold.
I scrubbed a hand over my face. A nightmare. Different than my usual roster of traumatic cinema, but nearly a hundred times worse. I was too late. Again.
Then I remembered last night and my unexpected guest, who was much more welcome than Bilbo’s dwarves.
But still no Paisley.
Shrugging on a T-shirt, I padded downstairs to the kitchen with Rosie on my heels and found Cal wielding a spatula as he poured pancake batter onto the griddle. A peep out the window told me it was still way too early since the summer sun wasn’t even up.
“Not sure what I did to deserve this.” I chuckled, trying not to draw attention to just how much the nightmare shook me. “But I think I’ll keep you around.”
Cal hucked a towel at my head, but I caught it with ease. “You only appreciate me for my cooking? I’m crushed.”
“We both know my pancakes are better.” I helped myself to the freshly brewed coffee and refilled his cup. After a brief clink of the mugs, I sank down on the barstool, letting the liquid energy fill my veins. Despite my firm grip on the handle, my hand still trembled.
“We weren’t expecting you yet,” I said casually. “Thought the team needed you.”
“Family emergency. Coach understood.” Cal slid a plate of pancakes, bacon, and scrambled eggs in front of me, then tossed a cooled bacon strip to Rosie, who caught it midair. “But I need a ride back to the airport first thing. Still need to play game seven tomorrow night.”
I nodded my thanks. “You see Khia?”
Cal shook his head. “Tonight when she flies down with Mom and Dad for tomorrow’s game.”
I lifted a brow. “Not sure how I feel about ranking over your four-year-old daughter.”
He laughed. “Usually you don’t.” His smile was soft like the doting father he was. “But she wasn’t expecting to see me, and I wasn’t about to interrupt bedtime for a quick trip. Besides I couldn’t give her the focus she deserves when I worried about your ugly mug.”
I tossed the towel back at him. “We practically share a face, my man.”
“Yet it doesn’t quite work on you.”
We fell into easy conversation and banter.
No hard topics. We talked shop—hockey for him, mechanics for me—trading news and stories.
When I left the military, I still kept up relationships with my closest buddies.
We traded milestones and problems like kids with trading cards.
They knew what was going on. And I felt their support long-distance.
But having Cal here in person . . . It was exactly what I needed.