Chapter 6
Six
Grady
“You never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.”
Bob Marley
Days like today can make a grown man cry.
I’m bone weary by the time I get home, the daylight fading fast. All I want is my chair by a small fire out back with a strong bourbon in my hand. I don’t drink often, but somedays, it’s hard to control the melancholy of life from sucking me down without a little help.
With a glass of ice in one hand and a bottle in the other, I step out to the backyard to find my new neighbor already has a fire started down closer to the beach. Lou sits atop a frayed wool blanket; the same one Irma always used for the same purpose.
I clink my glass against the bottle on my walk out to her. Forewarning that I’m here. She looks over her shoulder, the rare smile on her face falls when she sees me, and I almost retreat, thinking I’m intruding on her happiness.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“Am I that obvious?” I sit on the opposite side of the fire.
“You always look indifferent,” she says. “Right now, you look sad.”
“Indifferent? Really?”
“Yes,” she says with a nod. “You aren’t the wearing your heart on your sleeve type.”
Huh. I guess I’m not. Casualty of my profession, probably.
“When you do what I do, you get in the habit of suppressing your emotions.”
“That I can understand,” she says, somberly. “It’s a hard way to live.”
“It can be. Especially on days like today.”
“What happened?”
“A call. Auto accident,” I say, but pause to pour myself a few fingers. After I swallow, I continue. “Teenagers. We kept the two alive, but I’m not sure they’ll stay that way.”
“Oh, Grady. I’m sorry.”
“It’s the job. The mental toll, I can handle,” I say, then take another sip.
“It’s the physical I’m not great at. You run on pure adrenaline from the time you get the dispatch until you pass them off to capable hands in the emergency room.
Then, you wait for the inevitable crash down.
For me, that means utter exhaustion and absolutely no appetite. ”
Holding up my glass, I cheer the rolling waves in front of us. I leave out that no matter how disconnected I am, my mind will remind me of that teenage girl’s mangled body and tell me that could be Paige someday.
“I can’t imagine,” she says, resting her cheek atop her knees and peering at me. “It must be hard. Not only seeing what you see, doing what you have to do, but also having faith in others to finish the job when you deliver a victim to them. Are you able to get updates? Or is it better not to know?”
“We keep in touch with the nurses’ station. They’ll let us know how it goes. It’s easier to know. More times than not, the outcome is favorable. Even the losses keep you motivated, though.”
“I don’t know how you do it. I don’t know how to be responsible for another person,” Lou says. “I’m only just starting to figure out how to be responsible for myself.” Her mouth turns into another smile. Small, like she’s trying to suppress its outward appearance.
“Did you have a good day?” I ask, hoping she’ll share. I could stand to hear something happy. Something nice. No matter how small.
“It was like riding a roller coaster, honestly,” she says with a laugh. “Ups and downs.”
“Did the ups outshine?”
“They did. I met Sam, who sold me paint while he secretly had my headlight fixed. Then, I went to Miss B’s and ate an entire club sandwich, pasta salad, and half of my French fries without guilt. After that, I came home and prepped the kitchen for paint.”
“That sounds like all ups,” I say.
“That’s because I didn’t share my downs. It doesn’t sound like you need that burden.”
“That’s not the word I’d use to describe it,” I say.
“Which? Burden?” she asks, and I nod. “Do you really want to hear about my lows?”
“I really do.” If nothing else, it makes me feel less alone with my own. Besides, I want to know Lou, and I can’t do that if she censors herself.
She turns to me but doesn’t speak for a few long moments. I’m content to sit here and watch her as she sorts through her thoughts and feelings.
Lou is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen up close and in person.
Naturally so. I’ve never seen her dressed up, with her hair done and makeup on.
I’d probably drop to my knees at her feet if I did.
Because like she is now, hair that looks like it hasn’t been brushed, dark circles still a little too visible under her eyes, and obviously too thin, she’s absolutely fucking stunning.
Her looks aren’t what holds my attention, though.
It’s not what keeps me thinking about her at night when I close my eyes and attempt to sleep.
Her sadness, her vulnerability, and her determination to see through it are what I find intriguing.
She may not see her strength, but I do. I recognized it when she stepped into my house, when she offered her hand to me.
Even though she ran away, she showed up, first. That’s some kind of bravery.
Hell, she showed up in Stowaway. A strange town where she’s completely on her own. No matter what terror she was fleeing, it takes a strong-ass person to do what she did.
“You didn’t do anything to cause my panic attack last night,” she finally says.
“I always loved to bake for other people. I couldn’t eat sweets myself, and baking them, in a weird way, took the cravings away for me.
In the beginning, I made them for him regularly.
Then, one day, he offered one to me. I declined, like I always did when someone offered me a sweet.
He kept on it. On me. It’s just one cookie, Louisa. ”
Louisa. She didn’t mean to say it.
Worry forms between her brows.
“You’re Lou here,” I reassure her, pouring more bourbon in the glass and passing it to her. “What happened next?”
She studies the glass for a beat before she takes it, smelling it and then, taking a sip.
“He held me down and forced them into my mouth until I was choking.”
I curse, and she hands me back the glass. In my line of work, I’ve seen what abusive people do to others more times than I care to remember. My question is always the same. Why? What do they get out of such sadistic treatment of others? There’s no sane reason to do what he did to her.
“It was the memory. The shame,” she says. “There’s a lot of that. I struggle to forgive myself.”
“What about that memory makes you think you need forgiveness?”
“I didn’t leave,” she says, looking away from me and back out to the sea.
“Most women in similar situations stay, for one reason or another. They deserve forgiveness, and so do you,” I say. What her reasons were, I don’t know. They don’t matter. Eventually, she did leave, that’s all that matters. “How long were you with him?”
“Almost four years. The first one wasn’t so bad. I could manage his moods better. That became impossible as time went on.”
“You shouldn’t have been responsible for his moods,” I tell her. “But I understand. My marriage was similar in that respect.”
“She had to manage your emotions?” She’s still turned away, and I don’t know her well enough to know if she’s teasing me or not. I hope she is.
“I tried to manage hers. When I stopped, she became less interested in me, and more interested in my best friend.”
“Ouch, that’s fucked up.”
“It is,” I say, taking another sip, relishing the warmth as it moves down my throat.
“Ultimately, it was for the best. We were unstable, it would have been a horrible environment for Paige to grow up in. Our current situation isn’t ideal, but at least she doesn’t witness how poorly we could treat each other. ”
“You love her a lot, huh?” Finally, she turns that pretty face back to me.
“Paige? More than anything. She’s my entire world.”
“That’s real sweet, Grady,” she tells me, a drop slipping from her eye.
Mirroring her position, I prop my cheek on my knees and watch her the way she watches me.
“Why does that bring up another low?” I want to reach over the flames and wipe her sadness away. There’s not enough trust here for that. Not yet. One day, maybe.
“I—” She pauses. “I’ve never told anyone this.”
“You don’t have to start with me, if you don’t want to. You don’t owe me anything, Lou,” I say, trying to be clear that I don’t want to pressure her.
“Is it strange that I want to tell you things?”
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I think sometimes it’s easier to talk to people who aren’t tightly entwined in our lives. It feels less judgmental when they aren’t so invested.” I don’t say that I am invested in her, or that I want to be, anyway. Lou needs friends; I’d like to be one to her.
“I was pregnant once,” she says, her soft voice shaking around the words. “I lost it before I could make any decisions for myself. Before I had much time to process it all. The next day, I woke up relieved. Does that make me a horrible person?”
“No, of course it doesn’t.”
“He said it did. I shouldn’t have told him.
Should have lied and lied and lied.” Her last word breaks on a sob.
She buries her face in her arms. I’m helpless on how to comfort her through it.
Instinctively, I want to move next to her.
Wrap her in my arms and console her. But I know better than to touch her without permission.
Her body shakes, and I wonder if she’s ever let herself grieve.
Not only the miscarriage, which is traumatic, even if she didn’t want to be pregnant, at the time.
It puts a body through a hormonal hurricane.
But also, she needs to grieve for herself.
For the life he took away from her. For all the things he’s put her through.
“Lou?”
“I’m sorry,” she says, lifting her head and angrily wiping her face with her hands. “I’m sorry.”
“Hey, there’s no reason to apologize. Can I ask you something?” She doesn’t say anything, but nods. “When was the last time you were hugged? By someone other than him?”
“I can’t remember,” she says, releasing a fresh wave of tears.
“Can I give you one? I’ll just hold you while you cry it out,” I tell her. “I’ll stop when you say so.”
“Really?” she asks. So hopeful and sorrowful at the same time.
“Come here,” I say, setting the glass aside and opening my arms. Shockingly, she doesn’t hesitate to crawl around the fire and into my lap. She faces me, grabs my flannel in both hands, and hides her face in my chest. Wrapping my arms around her shoulders, I weather her cries.
Soft wails erupt, her body shattering, only anchored by her tightly clenched fists.
Carefully, I soothe my hands along her back, keeping them high and respectful.
Aware that it wouldn’t take much to make her skitter away in fear.
She needs this release. The comfort of human touch that we take for granted until we haven’t had it for too long.
I don’t know her family situation, but it must not be great, considering she’s here alone instead of with them. How long has she been deprived of basic nurturing? Of concern? Of love?
A million questions race through my mind. I don’t ask a single one. Lou needs to unwind her nest of knots on her own timeline. I’m just thankful she feels she can trust me enough to be a sounding board.
The noises coming from her frail body break my heart. I wrap my arms a little tighter and brush my cheek along the top of her head.
A raindrop lands on my face, the dying light of the sky darkening with the clouds rolling in.
I let it come. There’s healing in rainfall.
It can wash away the old and usher in the new.
I do reach for the blanket Lou vacated, though, and pull it around her.
There’s no meat on her to keep her warm and the fire is dying quickly.
I won’t stop her. I’ll sit here through whatever Mother Nature throws at us for as long as she needs this.
Turns out to be almost an hour before her breath evens out, and she pulls her face out of my shirt to turn it up to me.
“It’s raining.”
“It is,” I say, trying not to let my smile grow too wide.
“For how long?” she asks. “Your hair is wet.”
“A while now. Yours is too,” I tell her, and she reaches up to feel it.
“You should have said. I’m so...”
“Do not fucking apologize,” I stop her. “You needed to let it out.”
I needed to be here to let her.
“Thank you, but let’s get inside. I think a storm is brewing.”
But the real storm started brewing the day this gorgeous, shattered woman hit the borders of Stowaway.