Thirty-Four Grace
I send Brooke a text when I start walking to the diner.
I don’t want to say too much, but I ask her if she’s okay and to call me later.
Then I send Geny a text. It’s windy, and I hear the distant crashing of waves from the lake.
The sky is a bright shade of gray, clouds solid as far as the eye can see.
It’s the kind of weather that would be perfectly spent inside by the fireplace.
Which is my favorite time to be outside.
Geny probably won’t respond, but it doesn’t stop me checking my phone every few minutes. She’s always needed a few apologies to let me off the hook. She didn’t always get one. A lot of times I tested how long she’d stay mad at me. The longest was forty days.
I don’t want to do that now. I only want to set things right. Everything. I think about the “episodes” Wyatt told me about and how I’m the reason she’s been such a mess. I text her again.
I’m sorry Gen. I love you. I’m the worst. Please forgive me.
I end the text with praying hands that I mean to be begging hands.
She’ll get it. The diner comes into view, and I can see Murphy’s truck parked out front.
My phone chimes and I exhale, relief flooding my system.
I slide the device from my back pocket and the screen lights up.
It isn’t my sister. It’s another unsaved number.
You’ve always been good at making a mess of things, haven’t you Grace? Maybe she won’t forgive you this time.
My hand shakes with the urge to send my phone flying through the air. I bet I could make it over the row of houses and into the rough waters behind them. But I can’t do that. It’s my only lifeline to my life outside this town, so I slide it back into my pocket.
Murphy is waiting at a table just inside, and I try to hide my sour mood.
“Oh, no,” he says when he sees me.
“What?”
“You’re in a mood.”
I let my mouth fall open and my hand perches on my hip. “Now how in the hell would you know that? You’ve seen me for two seconds.”
He laughs. “I’m sorry. Did you think you were hiding it?”
“No,” I say. He just looks at me. “Yes. But I didn’t even have a chance to hide it. I haven’t even sat down yet.”
He nods toward to the chair across from him. “Well, take a seat. I’ll pretend not to notice yet.”
I roll my eyes, but smile. “I don’t remember you being this annoying.”
“I’m just honored you remembered me at all. By the way,” he says, “Tara got you pretty good.” He leans across the table and brushes a thumb across the skin beneath my eye, careful not to touch my nose.
I try to hide the way my body trembles at his touch. He sits back in his seat and moves past the comment on my nose. “Is that a crack at my memory loss?”
He shakes his head. “No, no. It was a crack at me not being memorable.”
“You were plenty memorable,” I say, glad he doesn’t continue about Tara.
“Liar.” He laughs. “It’s okay. You don’t have to lie to me. I was stoned most of the time, sitting off to the side and under the radar.”
I try to remember him any other way, but he’s right.
He had moments, times when he’d make a particularly funny joke that surprised me.
Even a few more serious comments. Like the time I tried to convince the group to steal Morgan’s clothes while she ran naked into the lake.
I dared her to do it, and it took a lot of convincing.
When she finally ran toward the waves, her back end pale as the moon above us as she dived into the water, I thought it’d be funny to take her clothes.
Murphy didn’t think so.
“There’s a difference between being funny and being cruel. You’re being cruel,” he’d said.
It was a punch to the chest. It was cruel. Morgan was self-conscious. More like Geny than me in so many ways. I thought about how mortified Geny would be if someone did that to her and I felt bad. I felt worse because part of me knew it was mean when I suggested it.
“You had your moments,” I say.
“Sure.” He doesn’t look convinced. But he doesn’t look offended either. “Let’s order.”
We eat while taking turns bringing up different memories from when we were young. I’d forgotten just how much Murphy was part of my life back then. He was Wyatt’s best friend, so he was always around, but he seemed always off to the side. He was a lot more present than I thought he was.
When we’re done eating, I don’t want it to end. He apparently doesn’t either, because he leans in, a nervous look on his face.
“Feel free to tell me to fuck off,” he says, “but if you’re not doing anything, you can come by my place, have a few beers, and keep hanging out on memory lane.”
A small smile pushes its way onto my lips. “Sure,” I say, though it’s only one o’clock. He smiles and I follow him to his truck. It’s five o’clock somewhere.
I should go to Geny’s and push her to talk to me. But something tells me I need to give her time and a little space to forgive me. Wyatt said he’d talk to her, and I need to give him the chance to do that.
I should go home and figure out my next move. I should try to talk to Tara again and try to ask her about the picture without getting punched in the face.
But I don’t want to do any of that. Not right now. There’s something about being around Murphy that feels less heavy. Like I’m letting a guard down that I wasn’t aware was up. I have plenty of guards that have to stay up. But there’s something that feels lighter when I’m with him.
At his house, he lights a fire and brings me a bottle of beer.
The label is pink and black in a swirly pattern that almost looks like water. “What is this?”
“It’s a beer. One of mine. I brewed it.”
“Yourself? Like you made it?”
He nods and takes a sip.
“Are you poisoning me?” I ask. I sniff the open hole of the bottle. It smells bitter like an IPA. But there’s a hint of something else. Blueberry, I think.
“Only one way to find out.”
I shrug and take a sip. I was right. The taste of blueberry explodes in my mouth before fading to the nice bitter flavor IPAs are known for.
“Wow,” I say. “It’s really good.” I take another sip and turn the bottle in my hand to examine the label again. Murphy plops down beside me on the couch. I notice there are words hidden in the swirls. They’re not easy to make out. I study them for another minute and feel his eyes on me.
Then I see it.
Drown with Grace.
I look at him. “Is that the name of the beer?” He’s closer than I realized. “Drown with Grace?”
He nods, watching me. He looks unsure. Probably worried what I’ll think or how I’ll take it. My name on his beer. The reference to my drowning.
“It’s one of my older recipes,” he says. His voice is a little gruff and he clears his throat. “I started brewing beer when I quit drugs. This was the first one I finished.”
“Finished?” I ask. My heart hammers in my chest.
He nods. “It’s a finicky process. Hard to get just right. This was the first one I got right.”
“And you named it after me?”
He nods again. Swallows.
I almost say something stupid, make a joke to lighten the intensity I feel deep in my insides. Instead, I say nothing. My eyes fall to his mouth and my mind races with a million questions about Murphy Hanlon. My high school boyfriend’s best friend who I only ever saw as a burnout.
A boy who bought me beer when I was underage and told me I was being cruel.
A man who remembers so many moments I’ve forgotten.
Who can tell when I’m upset in two seconds flat and make me laugh with banter that feels effortless.
A man that has developed quite impressive shoulders over the years and whose blue eyes, which I can finally see, make my insides warm.
He leans forward the tiniest bit. Immeasurable except by the feel of electricity making my lips tingle. There are a million reasons to stand up and go home. But I’ve always been good at ignoring those kinds of things, so I close the gap.
It’s so hesitant at first. Our mouths barely touching, afraid of the choice we’ve just made.
But just as fast, the uncertainty gives way to desire.
He presses harder into me and me into him.
His hand slips behind my head, his fingers in my hair.
There are no thoughts anymore except for him and what I want.
* * *
I didn’t intend to stay the night at Murphy’s. I feel regret, though I’m not sure why. I made the decision to kiss him and to let things progress from there. But I can’t help feeling like I should have gone home instead. I shouldn’t have complicated things even more than they already are.
“Good morning,” he says, his voice deep with sleep. I turn my head to face him. Despite the regret and anxiety churning inside me, I smile. Has he always been this beautiful?
“Good morning,” I whisper.
“Do you want some coffee? Breakfast?”
“Coffee would be great.”
He hops out of bed, and my stomach flip-flops at the sight of his naked and muscular body. There’s an angry red scar on the back of his shoulder I didn’t notice last night. I watch him grab a pair of shorts from a dresser drawer and disappear, leaving me to spiral alone in his bed.
I don’t let myself succumb to my thoughts for long.
Instead, I slide from beneath the blankets and get dressed in my clothes from yesterday.
I’ll have one cup of coffee and get back home.
Last night doesn’t matter. Adults can have fun together and it doesn’t mean anything more than that.
I don’t want it to mean anything more. I don’t have the damn time for this. That’s what I tell myself.
I meet Murphy in the kitchen, where the smell of coffee makes my muscles relax just a fraction. He has a candle lit on the counter. Does he always light it in the morning, or is this just for me?
“How do you take your coffee?” he asks.
“Depends. Just cream if it’s flavored. Cream and sugar if it’s not.”
He turns to open the fridge and takes out a bottle of French Vanilla creamer. “Will this work?”
“That’s perfect.” I take it from him and splash some into my cup. The dark liquid lightens in magical swirls before I use a spoon to stir it.
I should say something about last night. How it shouldn’t happen again. How things are complicated, not just right now, but completely and irreversibly. But I can’t bring myself to form the words.
I take a sip from my coffee and close my eyes to savor the flavor and warmth that slides down my throat. Flashes from last night play behind my eyelids, and I can feel my whole face warm. I open my eyes. Murphy is watching me and I feel even hotter.
“I need to get back home,” I say. I can walk if I need to. I made the run the other night to pick up my car, but it’s a little farther than I feel like going on foot right now.
“I’ll drive you.”
I nod. We’re both being awkward. Neither of us knows what to say or how to say it.
After our coffee and many uncomfortable silences, I follow him outside to his truck.
He keeps looking at me like he wants to say something, but he seems nervous.
Maybe he’s afraid to scare me away or say the wrong thing.
I open my mouth, still unsure what I’m going to say, but knowing I need to say something. I freeze on the sidewalk when a police car races by with the siren on. It disappears in a cloud of dust kicked up from the tires.
Murphy shrugs, and I pull my bottom lip between my teeth, biting at the dry skin.
We start driving toward town, and I check my phone for the millionth time.
Still nothing from Geny. Nothing from Brooke either.
And nothing from my anonymous friend. My battery is on eight percent, so I lock the screen and put it in my jacket pocket.
“Listen,” Murphy says. I close my eyes tight, bracing myself for what he’s going to say. I have no idea what I want him to say.
He laughs and I open my eyes to look at him. “Look at you,” he says.
“What?”
“You look like you’re about to have a tooth pulled.”
I straighten my face out. “No I don’t.”
“Right,” he says, still looking amused. “I know life is weird for you right now. I’m not trying to make it more confusing.”
My head tilts to the side. “Life has been weird for me for a long time.”
“I can imagine.”
“So are you giving me the I just want to be friends speech?” I ask.
“Not at all. I like you. And I don’t want to make you feel uncomfortable, but I’ve liked you for a long time, Grace. I just had too much respect for my best friend to ever consider doing anything about it.”
My throat is tight and my mind is racing. I feel like I’m having an allergic reaction, but that sounds bad and this doesn’t necessarily feel bad. I couldn’t describe it if I wanted to.
When I try to formulate a response, another police car races by us, lights and sirens blaring.
Murphy swerves off the road a bit to avoid being hit by the cop car. “Jesus,” he says.
Neither of us noticed it coming up behind us.
“Something bad happened,” I say. That sick feeling is back, and it refuses to be ignored this time. I take my phone out and call Geny. It goes straight to voicemail. “Shit.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Geny won’t answer the phone.”
He glances at me. Then he’s blurry on the other side of my unshed tears. He reaches across the middle of his truck and squeezes my leg. “Hey, it’s okay. Geny is fine. Whatever is going on, it has nothing to do with her.”
“You don’t know that,” I say. “Find where they’re going.” I sit forward in my seat. “Hurry. Please.”
To my surprise he doesn’t try to reason with me or argue. He pushes his foot down on the accelerator and we speed down the road. It doesn’t take long to find the location of the emergency. Small town and nosey people. When I see where everyone is congregated, my stomach coils tight.
The beach. The one where we hung out at as kids. The one where I was supposed to have drowned. The one where Morgan died. And now the place of some other tragedy. I hold my breath and get out of the truck.