Thirty-Six Geny
Grace’s reaction at the beach stirs up a storm of guilt in me.
The words I said to her the other night, the anger and resentment.
The jealousy. All the things I’ve done. I should have texted her back yesterday.
I wanted her to feel bad for the things she said, but I said awful things too. And now she knows I know about Frank.
She doesn’t know what else I know. How I followed her to Murphy’s house last night.
How I used to follow her all the time. She thought she was sly.
Discreet. She had Wyatt, the perfect guy who adored her, and she betrayed him in the biggest way.
She was a character in a teen drama, and I hated her for a time.
But only for a while.
Then she was gone, and I couldn’t tell her that I didn’t hate her anymore or that I was sorry for the things I’d done. I couldn’t tell her anything ever again.
Then I got a second chance.
Against all odds, she came back. And what did I do? I let my fears and insecurities tear me apart just like I did eighteen years ago. What is wrong with me?
I keep my eyes on her from the other side of the caution tape as I talk to Frank.
Murphy has his hands on her shoulders, and I wish we weren’t in this situation.
I wish we were kids again, lying in our beds so she could tell me whether she likes this guy, and we could laugh about kissing and embarrassing stories.
Instead, we’re standing on a beach with another dead body.
“Start from the beginning,” he says.
I sigh. “Like I said, I just came here this morning for some quiet time to myself. There’s been a lot going on. As you know. And I saw her then. I called right away.”
“Did you see anyone else? Or any sign of anyone else? Footprints, car tracks . . .”
“No.” I shake my head. “Nothing I noticed.”
He nods solemnly.
“Can I go home?” I ask.
“Yeah, yeah. Go. I’ll let you know if I need anything else from you. Thanks, Geny.”
I go back to Grace, and our hands interlace. She’s still trembling. Meanwhile, I’m numb.
“Come back to the house with me? Please?” I ask my sister.
“Sure. Of course,” she says. Then she looks up at Murphy. “Thank you for driving me. I’ll text you, okay?”
He nods and squeezes her arm as a goodbye.
Images of last night flash in my mind. The two of them pressed together, illuminated in the glowing window.
The front door that Murphy forgot to lock, giving me access to his house and my sister’s phone.
I wanted to know who she’s always slipping away to talk to.
But of course, the number wasn’t saved. I typed it into my own phone to check into later.
Murphy walks back to his truck, and Grace walks with me to my car. We have to weave around the crowd that’s growing by the minute.
“Funny how she ends up dead after pushing for answers on what happened to the Chandler girl. Guess she won’t be a problem for them anymore,” says a man I don’t see.
My skin prickles. I hadn’t thought about that.
Inside the quiet of the car, Grace starts to calm down. I can almost feel the panicked feelings fading away.
“I’m sorry for freaking out like that,” she says when we’re a couple blocks away.
“Don’t be. I understand.”
She thought it was me, and if the roles were reversed, I would have come undone, probably worse than she had. But Grace doesn’t like showing what she sees as her weaker emotions. She used to be comfortable with anger. Happiness. These days, she seems to want to hide nearly everything she’s feeling.
I want to tell her she doesn’t have to do that with me. That I’ve seen her in the moments she thought she was alone. That she’s been vulnerable with me without even knowing it and I still love her. Even if, for a moment, my anger with her overtakes me. I’ve always loved her. Will always love her.
But I can’t say any of that.
The kids are at school and Wyatt is at work. I texted him earlier to tell him about what happened at the beach. He hasn’t responded. But he rarely does while he’s working. Doesn’t want to be caught on his phone. Always the model employee.
“I’ll make us some tea.” I get out of the car and climb the front steps to the house.
Grace sits at the kitchen table while I fill the kettle and start it on the stove. I list off the kinds of tea I have and she picks Earl Grey. I hate Earl Grey tea, but it’s the only kind Wyatt will drink, so I always keep some in the house. Does she know that?
I pour hot water over the bags of tea and start walking them over to the table. My hands are shaking. Tea sloshes out the side of one cup, burning my hand.
“Ouch. Dang it!” I set it down and press the burned spot to my mouth.
“Are you okay?” Grace stands up and pulls my hand from my mouth to look at it.
It’s red but it looks okay.
“Geny? What’s wrong? It doesn’t look so bad.”
I look at her, confused.
“You’re crying,” she says.
I use my free hand to touch near my eyes and she’s right. My fingertips are wet with my own tears.
“I’m okay,” I say. I turn away and go to the fridge for cream, wiping my eyes on the way. “Sorry. This morning was just a lot.”
“I don’t think it’s fully hit me yet,” she says. “I just talked to her yesterday.”
I know she just talked to her yesterday. I know they sat and had coffee together. I know Brooke left with one of Mom’s mugs, which she left discarded on her passenger seat like an empty gas station Styrofoam cup.
“Oh,” I say. “I didn’t know that. Did you guys hang out?”
“She came over for coffee.”
I want to ask what they talked about, but I don’t want to seem nosey. She used to laugh at me when I’d ask about her and Morgan’s conversations. I had no idea back then that after being rid of her, Brooke would come in and be just as annoying. It makes sense though. Must run in their blood.
Not anymore.
That thought stirs up shame, and I instantly feel bad for thinking it. Am I really this horrible of a person? Is there really any point in trying to deny that now?
“I’ll be back in a minute,” I say. I take big strides to get out of the room. Upstairs in the master bathroom, I crank on the hot water in the sink.
I can’t catch my breath. It’s happened enough times. I know what it is. A panic attack. Not a heart attack. I’m not going to die. But it feels like I might. I clutch my hands into fists and stare at my face in the mirror. I look at my nose. My hair. My forehead. Anywhere but my eyes.
I stick my hand beneath the hot water, grit my teeth, and close my eyes tight against the pain.
It’s the hand that was already burned, so it burns twice as much.
Twice as nice. When I can’t take it anymore I yank my hand out and turn the water off.
The mirror is steamed, and a figure stands where I am.
Just an outline. Features too blurred to make out who I am.
I hold out my index finger and press it to the glass. I make a curved line where my mouth should be. A smile.