18. Greta
18
Greta
But Why?
I thought I was done crying myself to sleep, swallowing sobs so Law wouldn’t hear me through the wall, but I did it again after he left my bed last night. I hate that I did it at all, but it’s so much worse knowing he was the cause of my tears. I should still be cursing his name, so full of anger I can’t see straight, but the anger didn’t last long at all.
The feeling that remains isn’t great, though.
Daylight’s blasting in through my blinds, and I know it’s not early, but I don’t want to look at the time or check my messages or even be awake, for that matter.
I want to go back to sleep and pretend last night ended some other way. Or to just be able to magically let it go so we can get back to what I think we were becoming. I don’t really want to let it go, but it would be easier than what I’m feeling right now.
He shouldn’t have read my notebook without asking, but it’s not like it was a journal filled with all my personal thoughts and feelings. It still feels like such a betrayal, like he did something so much worse than just reading some half-assed lyrics.
Am I rationalizing or being logical? I don’t even know.
But I’m not backsliding into days like this, lying in bed, feeling stupid. I didn’t come here looking for a relationship. If there was something building between us and it imploded this early, then it wouldn’t have lasted, anyway. It’s too soon for me to jump into something new to begin with.
I came here to find my strength, to recover my independence.
I’d start with feeding myself if I thought I could eat. My car needs an oil change. Law told me not to pay anyone to do it, said he’d do it this weekend.
This weekend clearly went off-script, so I either need to take my car somewhere and pay someone to change the oil or learn how to do it myself. How hard could it be?
The internet comes in clutch with dozens of videos on how to change the oil in a car. But it turns out, it’s not the same for every car, and I just wasted an hour rewatching the same video three times before I realized this.
Why can’t I be one of those people who watches a video one time and gets it? My head hurts, and I’m not in the mood to watch another damn video over and over again. I think I’ve got the gist of it. I’ll figure it out.
I’m staring under the hood of my car when Law’s voice registers in my ear. What did he say? Reluctantly, I look in his direction.
He’s standing in his yard, staring at me.
“What are you doing?”
“An oil change.”
“Telepathically?”
I glare in his general direction. “You’re not always as funny as you think you are.”
He walks toward me, and I wish that didn’t make me want to run inside and hide from him. I stand my ground.
“I told you I’d change your oil, Greta.”
“Yeah, well, you said a lot of things.”
“None of them lies. I know you’re mad at me, and you have every right to be, but let me at least make good on my promise to change your oil, okay?”
“It wasn’t exactly a promise.”
“I considered it one. I’m changing your oil.”
“Fine! Knock yourself out. Change the damn oil.” I throw my arms up, storm inside and slam the door. Not my finest moment, but then again, opening that notebook damn sure wasn’t his either.
I can hear him out there clanging tools around. It sounds excessive for an oil change, if you ask me. And what am I supposed to do now? I’m trapped.
Is he talking to himself out there?
A quick peek through my blinds reveals there is actually someone else on our shared driveway. And now, Law’s yelling at him. He’s probably taking all his frustration with me out on that poor kid.
I march back outside. “Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. Take it down a notch!”
The young man looks shocked to see me. He’s probably so embarrassed.
“Hi,” I say, extending my hand. “I’m Greta.”
“It’s nice to meet you.” He timidly shakes my hand. “I’m Derringer.”
This is the infamous Derringer Wells? He looks like a complete sweetheart with his sandy blonde, shaggy hair and his big, green eyes –a little bit like a much younger and taller Keith Urban. I can see the heartthrob aspect, but not the reckless bad boy that Law’s made him out to be.
“Law’s told me so much about you.”
He drops his head, and I see bruises and scrapes on his cheek and his jaw. I just want to hug him. It’s obvious he knows Law hasn’t said great things about him, and clearly, something bad has happened to him.
“I’ll let you get back to your car repairs,” he says quietly to Law. “I guess call me later. If you want. I can tell you the rest.”
“I’m pretty sure I’ve heard enough.”
Derringer nods, and then he walks off to a waiting car. The young woman behind the wheel looks worried.
After they drive away, I turn to Law. “What’s going on with him?”
“Well, he no longer has a truck, and he’s probably lucky to be alive.”
“He wrecked it?”
“Says he’s sure it’s totaled.” He aggressively screws the lid back on an empty plastic oil bottle before he throws it at the ground. It bounces up at an angle, and then ricochets off the garage door.
“Did you make sure he’s physically okay? His face is cut up and bruised. He probably has other injuries.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Has he seen one?”
“I don’t know. And I don’t fucking care. He wants to piss away his future, there’s nothing I can do about that.”
“He’s just a kid, Law.”
“He’s twenty-one-years-old.”
“And you and I both know that’s only an adult on paper. He’s a kid. Didn’t you make mistakes at that age?”
“We’ve had this conversation.”
“No, I don’t think we have. You side-stepped it when I brought it up before.”
“I had extenuating circumstances for my mistakes.”
“Maybe he does, too. You said you don’t think he’s close to his family. What’s the story there?”
“I don’t know.”
“What do you mean you don’t know?”
“I’m not his guardian. I’ve done all I can do for him.”
“Well, I haven’t. He looks like he could use a home-cooked meal with friends. Invite him over tonight. I’ll have dinner ready at six.”
“Am I also supposed to come to this dinner?”
“I’d imagine it would be pretty damn uncomfortable for him to have dinner at my place without you, don’t you think?”
“You have a good heart, Greta, but what he needs right now is some tough love.”
“You’ve already tried that. And from what I can tell, it doesn’t seem to be working.”
“Greta—”
“I shouldn’t even be speaking to you right now, let alone inviting you to dinner! And you’re trying to get out of it?”
“No, ma’am. See you at six.”
“Bring wine, not beer.”
“Alcohol might be the last thing he needs.”
“Never said I planned on sharing.”
I repeat my earlier performance of storming inside and slamming the door. Shit. If I’m cooking dinner for three tonight, I need to go to the grocery store.
With the door open just enough to peek my head out, I yell, “Let me know when my car is drivable again! I’ve got errands to run!”
He salutes me like a soldier.
I should go back out there and . . .
Grrrrrr! He can be such an insufferable ass, I swear!
At this rate, my door is going to need new hinges before I get dinner on the table.