Chapter Fourteen
Now
During the brief lull between breakfast and my mom’s early-afternoon service, I knew what I needed to do.
My grandfather’s memorial bench was hidden beneath a canopy of pine trees, a quarter of a mile from the closest marked path.
In the summers, my mom and I used to have a standing Wednesday morning date here.
We’d meet before the sun had fully burst over the top of the mountains and chat for an hour about everything and nothing.
She’d bring two coffees with her in the matching Dread’s Cove tumblers I’d gotten her for Christmas one year—always extra hot, always with extra sugar, the way we both liked it.
That summer, I’d been so busy that our mornings on the bench fell by the wayside; I was more focused on whatever was happening with Trevor, and my friendship with Steph.
She’d been distracted, too, her face in a near-perpetual frown as things with the Phantom continued to escalate.
Almost every Tuesday night, I found myself tracking her down after dinner, saying I didn’t think I could meet her the next morning.
Some days, she seemed disappointed. Others, she seemed relieved.
Now, as I made my way down the quiet trail in the woods, I wished I’d made the time. If only I’d known then what I knew now; that our days together were numbered.
The air felt thick with humidity, and my breathing grew shallow as the bench came into view.
It was as pristine and clean as I’d ever seen it, and I wondered if she’d continued to come here herself as the years stretched on without me around.
The plaque in dedication to Grandpa Dread looked like it had been cleaned recently, the Flannery O’Connor quote he’d loved glinting in the single streak of sunlight.
It took me a moment to work up the gumption, but, finally, I sat down.
Although it was early afternoon, I’d felt the need to keep our old ritual as close to tradition as possible.
The coffee in my tumbler was the kind of hot that scorched your tongue, and as I drank, the sweat pooled at my hairline.
It didn’t matter. When I closed my eyes, it was almost as if she were there. It was almost as if I could hear her words in the gentle breeze: There’s just something special about the woods, don’t you think? The safest place in the world.
—
Back at the cabin, I forced myself to put on the dress. It was black, simple, and shapeless. A dusty old thing I’d found in the back of my closet in Atlanta, one I couldn’t even remember getting, or why.
I almost never wore black. It was too sad.
But I’d taken a deep breath and folded it into a careful square, gently layering it in my still-open suitcase, a few pieces down so I wouldn’t have to see it.
I couldn’t make myself buy something new; I was trying to convince myself that if I ignored it, it might disappear.
But death doesn’t go anywhere. It lingers, and it digs in.
I stood in front of the mirror, my hollow, pale face staring back at me. I looked like shit.
My room was dark, claustrophobic, and I was desperate for sunlight.
Maybe that would be able to magically transform my pallid, tragic complexion.
I threw open the curtains of my sliding glass doors, revealing one of my favorite views in all of Dread’s Cove.
But the lake was obscured by a large crack in the glass, spiderwebbing out on the right door panel.
I took a step back in surprise. It looked like someone had thrown a rock—like they were trying to break in.
But…no. Who would do that? Why?
I swallowed the panic that was lurching up, telling myself that, even if that was true, it hadn’t worked. The door was latched, and the glass hadn’t broken.
And maybe—maybe it had been something else. Something entirely innocuous. A bird. A big one, slamming into the door.
Or maybe it was an old crack. I hadn’t been in this room in half a decade, after all. It was entirely possible that this had happened somewhere in the interim of construction and chaos, and my mom had never gotten around to fixing it.
But then, I couldn’t help but think of that match on the counter last night. The match I’d been pretty sure I hadn’t lit.
Both of these things separately felt small—practically insignificant, in the scheme of things—but as a pair…I felt unsettled. Unsure.
I didn’t know what any of it meant. Only that it scared me.
Quickly, I closed the curtains, blocking out the broken glass. Out of sight, out of mind. Because I could not descend into a panic spiral. Not now. Not when I was minutes from saying my final goodbyes to my mother, in front of a hundred other people.
Before I left my room, I grabbed the photo of Steph and her family from my nightstand and slipped it in my pocket. For whatever reason, I wanted to keep it close.
It was quiet in the kitchen, only the dull hum of the fridge keeping me company. I was fine with that. I didn’t think I could handle Margo right now, even if she was playing nice.
Just one shot, I thought, eyeing the whiskey on the countertop. For courage. Or maybe to repress the throbbing mass of dread pressing against my rib cage.
I grabbed for my phone, found the playlist I’d been building over the past two weeks, adding songs to it only when I could summon the strength—usually late at night, after a long cry.
I hadn’t been able to listen to any of them yet. I’d just been slowly adding memories, as they came to me, knowing that one day, I’d be ready to listen.
The first song was stupid, one I didn’t remember adding but knew all the same: “Love Shack,” the B-52s.
The memory was strong, and it washed over me like I was hallucinating. Chelsea and I, ten years old, dancing to this song on the back porch, the fireflies dancing with us. My mom and Rig laughing when they found us, expecting us to be asleep. The sounds echoing across the water.
Desperately happy and content. Our strange and perfect little family.
I turned it off immediately. Silence swallowed me whole again.
For a long while, I stood at the counter, eyes on the lake out the back window. I was so lost in my own thoughts, so far away, that I didn’t hear the back door sliding open.
As I opened the bottle of whiskey, I felt a hand grasp my forearm. I gasped, spinning around, the cap flying somewhere on the floor.
“Didn’t mean to scare you,” Wes said, his voice low and soothing. He wore black slacks and a white button-down, still untucked. Once again, his hair was a wet and matted disaster. His eyes roved over me, with that same thinly veiled worry that he’d had since my arrival.
He glanced pointedly at the whiskey. “What are you doing?”
“It’s called self-soothing. Or maybe self-sabotage, I’m not really sure.” I drank straight from the bottle, relishing the burn as it went down.
Wes didn’t say anything, but his eyebrows knitted together.
“I’ll be there soon, all right?” I said, kneeling to find the cap.
He grabbed my arm, gently pulling me back to standing. “Are you okay?”
God, I was so fucking tired of that question. Was I okay? No, of course not. I was nowhere close to okay. There were so many things I could have said to him. So many years and lies and memories. I could have thanked him, apologized to him, yelled at him, bared my soul.
A part of me wondered, for the thousandth time, if I’d been unfair to him back then. If I’d seen what I wanted to see: a boy who I’d grown out of, who wasn’t capable of meeting me where I was. If maybe, in his own way, he had been trying to give me what he thought I wanted.
It wasn’t his fault that what I wanted had changed.
Right now, with his eyes so devastatingly open, it was impossible to turn him away—it was impossible to not see him as the steadfast friend I’d known my whole life. There was so much I had to make up for. But Wes was real, he was here, and for some reason, he still cared.
“I miss her so much I want to die,” I said, my voice shocking even me with its pain.
“I know,” he said. “I know it’s hard. But you’re going to get through this.”
His hand was still on my wrist. He brought it slowly to his lips and brushed my knuckles with the ghost of a kiss. It was almost brotherly. We hadn’t been this close in years and years. It was both so familiar and so foreign; it made my chest ache with a feeling I couldn’t name.
“She’d be so proud of you. For coming back.”
I gave him a watery, haunted smile. And then I forced out the words that had been swimming around my brain for the better part of two weeks: “I’m scared she died mad at me. And that no matter what I do, I’ll never get to make it up to her.”
He put a gentle finger under my chin, pushed it up so I could look at him. Soft brown eyes, sun-kissed nose. “All she wanted was to have you back here. And you are now. You’re honoring her in the best way you can.”
I let out a shaky breath. “Sure. Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”
“It’s been a long road, but we can only move forward. The past is the past.” Those kind eyes crinkled as he gave me a small smile. “You’re home now. That’s all that matters.”
A new rush of tears burned the backs of my eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot, Wes. I thought”—I hiccupped, then took a deep breath—“I thought you’d be mad at me, too.”
He reached for me again and hugged me tightly, the stubble on his chin tickling my forehead. “I’m not mad,” he whispered into my hair. “I love you, Greer. It’s you and me, remember?”
I bit back a wail. How long had it been since I’d heard that? I had no idea how good it would feel. All the guilt I’d been carrying for so long—finally, a small fraction of it I had permission to release.
My throat tightened at the wave of emotions that rolled over me. “I love you, too. Thank you for—for not giving up on me.”
“Never.” I could tell he meant it.
The last funeral I’d been to was Steph’s, five years ago.
In a big sterile church outside of Atlanta.
It had been awful, short, and impersonal.
There had been hundreds of people there, dabbing their quiet tears with prim, gloved fingers.
I’d had to run out halfway through, go to the restroom, and throw up.
That day, it had been Trevor who’d held me. Trevor, who I’d fallen for that summer; Trevor, who I’d clung to like a life raft.
But Wes was exactly who I needed right now. I wrapped my arms around his waist and held him for an exceptionally long time. I’d hurt him in so many ways, but he’d come to find me anyway.
He let me cry, big, terrible tears, and he stayed.
What did it say about me, that I let him?