Chapter 11
Georgia
Grayson’s finger taps a steady beat against the steering wheel as we drive.
It’s been doing that for the last ten minutes, and my eye has started to twitch along with the beat.
Today is our baby shower, and I know he’s nervous. So I’m trying to let him get those nerves out in whatever way he needs to, but I’m slowly losing my grip on my hormones. I might explode before we make it to our destination.
Since we got married, the town has been less harsh on him. They’ve started to get to know the man I love, but it doesn’t stop Grayson from feeling uncomfortable when he’s in the limelight.
He spent most of his life under constant scrutiny from the town—never feeling like he measured up—so I get why he still gets nervous when going out.
Grayson’s foot joins the tapping. And even though I understand why he gets nervous, I cannot take it anymore.
“Grayson,” I snap. “Stop it.”
Instantly, his finger comes to a standstill, wrapping around the steering wheel into a death grip. He keeps his face forward, but his eyes slice to me before going back to the road.
There’s hurt in the way his jaw ticks, and I immediately regret snapping.
My fingers find my seat belt, unbuckling so I can scoot closer to him.
“What are you doing?” He panics, eyes going wide. “Get buckled in.”
“I’m fine, Gray,” I say, sliding over to the middle seat and strapping the seat belt under my protruding stomach. “See?”
“That hardly counts as a seat belt. You shouldn’t be sitting there.”
I place my hand on his arm, calming him. “I needed to sit here to tell you I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have snapped at you.”
“It’s fine,” he says, trying to hide his hurt.
“But it’s not. You deserve to express your nerves in any way you need to, and it’s not for me to get grumpy over that.”
“I’m not nervous,” he argues.
I pointedly stare at his finger which has slowly resumed its tapping. He notices what I’m doing, and red floods into his cheeks.
“Okay. I’m nervous.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.”
Nodding, I stay quiet, fiddling with my seat belt. If there’s one thing I know about Grayson, it’s that he talks when he’s ready. I’ve learned to let him come to me.
Two minutes of silence pass before he opens his mouth and says, “Okay, I think I want to talk about it.”
I suppress the urge to say, “I told you so.” Reaching out, I pat his arm, and he lets go of the steering wheel, wrapping it around my shoulders. With my head on his chest, I ask, “What has you so nervous?”
He’s quiet for a moment while he thinks about it. That’s another thing I’ve learned about Grayson. He likes to think about his answers before he gives them to you. Most times, it’s nice because I know he’s being intentional with his words. Other times, it drives me crazy.
Staying quiet, I let him have his moment.
“I guess because I feel like I’m always going to be seen as this boy who made a lot of mistakes by the people of this town. I feel like I can never outrun that person. Sure, they acknowledge me now that we are married, but always with a healthy dose of skepticism.”
Pursing my lips, I try to think about how to word this delicately, but I just put it out there when nothing comes to mind. “Do you want me to be honest, or do you want me to agree and tell you I understand how you are feeling?”
He gives me a side eye and shakes his head. “Honesty. Always.”
“I think sometimes you take that image upon yourself.”
I wince, knowing how that sounded and afraid he may take it the wrong way, but Grayson just glances over at me, his brow furrowed.
“What do you mean?”
My fingers find the hem of his shirt, and I rub the pads against the thread, suddenly nervous myself.
“I just think sometimes, when you get around people who have always known you, you see yourself as that kid, even if they don’t anymore.”
“How do you know they don’t?”
Before I can answer his question, he turns into the parking lot, and I smirk.
“I think I’ll let them answer that question for you,” I say, pointing to the crowd waiting for us outside the venue.
There must be a hundred people here, and at the front of them all, Mrs. Adams, the town’s nosy busybody, and her old lady gang stand with a banner that reads, “Congratulations, Grayson and Georgia.”
______________________
The sight in front of me is nothing short of a miracle.
My husband is standing in the middle of a crowd—smiling. It’s not even his forced, professional smile, either. It’s real, and that causes such happiness to sit inside my chest that I’m not sure what to do with it.
“That boy looks happy, doesn’t he,” Mrs. Adams says, sitting down beside me.
I cock my head, studying Grayson.
“Yeah, he does,” I say, not turning to look at her because I can feel her eyes burning a hole in the side of my head, and I’ve found that it can sometimes be dangerous when this old lady turns her attention to you.
“And what about you, Georgia girl? Are you happy?”
I don’t have to hesitate a moment before answering her. “Happier than I’ve been in a very long time.”
Her wrinkled hand reaches out and finds mine, squeezing my fingers in support when I finally look up at her, her green eyes sparkling with tears.
“Good. You deserve that.”
After Nate died, I hardly left the house. I struggled under the weight of everyone’s concern. I know they had good intentions, but good intentions or not—sometimes they made it harder.
But until this moment, I don’t think I understood their side of Nate’s death. Because that look, Mrs. Adams is giving me right now can only be described as relief.
Pure and simple relief.
I hadn’t realized how much everyone had been holding their breath, waiting for me to get better.
It’s a different kind of feeling to know that you are loved that deeply.
Mrs. Adams clears her throat. She might have a heart of gold, but the woman would rather chew off her own arm than let it show.
“Well, good,” she says, standing and clapping her hands together. “Now that that’s settled, we have one more thing we need to do before this party can come to a close.”
I furrow my brow, confused. We played the games and opened the presents; now everyone is just mingling. What else could there be?
But she claps a little louder before I can ask her, getting the rest of the group’s attention. The crowd quietens, turning toward us, and Mrs. Adams preens under the attention.
“Grayson, could you come up here with your beautiful wife?”
My husband works his jaw, embarrassed to have all eyes on him, but he does as she asks anyway. Once he stands beside me, the others in the old lady gang walk up and join Mrs. Adams. Each of them wears a sneaky smirk on their face. Grayson’s hand twitches.
The nerves are back.
His hand hangs beside his leg, and I reach for it, subtly grabbing it so no one else notices.
He squeezes mine, and without a word, I know he’s thanking me.
“Grayson,” Mrs. Adams says, drawing his gaze to her, “I don’t think we have to tell you that Georgia is important to this town.
You understand that and love her all the more for it.
But I think what we have to tell you is that you are also important to this town.
I know we’ve had a funny way of showing it in the past, but we want to make it clear now. ”
Mrs. Carlton, another member of Mrs. Adams’s gang, steps forward, taking over where Mrs. Adams left off. “We got something for you, and we hope that you will accept it, as well as our apology for our behavior in the past.”
A box is passed down the line of older women until Grayson has to let go of my hand to grab it.
I move my hand to his arm, watching him closely.
His face is blank, but his Adam’s Apple keeps bobbing as he swallows over and over.
He slides his hand underneath the wrapping paper, and his hands shake as he pulls it off.
I hold my breath, waiting to see what’s inside, and I think the rest of the room does, too.
Anticipation turns to confusion when he pulls out a piece of paper with a drawing on it.
Grayson holds it up, flipping it over, front and back, trying to figure it out, but when he can’t, he offers the women a tight smile instead and says, “Thank you.”
He means it as a statement, but it comes out more as a question.
Mrs. Carlton laughs, taking the paper from Grayson’s hand. “Do you know what this is, boy?”
Grayson shakes his head, a sheepish smile on his face. “No, ma’am. I’m sorry I don’t.”
Patting his arm, she says, “That’s okay. I’ll tell you.”
She holds up the paper for everyone to see, and when I can see the picture more clearly, my heart begins to beat a little harder in my chest because I think I know.
On the paper, there’s a hand-drawn picture of a man and a small child. Only the man’s back can be seen, and he is carrying the kid on his shoulders.
I have to blink a couple of times to keep from crying.
“Now, many of you know, I like to dabble in the arts,” Mrs. Carlton says, “but I will say that this is a first for me. I’ve never drawn a tattoo before.”
Understanding hits Grayson like a rocket. He blinks a couple of times, trying to fully comprehend, and even when he does, his mouth only opens and closes, no sound escaping.
“But—but, you guys hate my tattoos. I think one of you even told me they made me look like a criminal once.”
One of the ladies at the end turns bright red, and Mrs. Adams gives her the stink eye.
Mrs. Carlton clears her throat, clearly embarrassed on behalf of her friend, before she turns back to Grayson.
“Despite some past opinions, we know what your tattoos mean to you. You’ve allowed us to see a new side of you since you’ve been with Georgia, a side that we sorely underestimated before, and whether you actually use this idea or not, we hope that this can be a way for us to start over.
We want to love you just as much as we love Georgia and that baby of yours. ”
There’s not a dry eye in the place as Grayson leans forward, taking both Mrs. Adams and Mrs. Carlton into his arms.
The older women hug him back, offering him a motherly hug that I think he has been missing since his mom died.
“Thank you,” he chokes out.
And I know right then that this will be another one of those moments I will want to remember forever.