After
AFTER
The cabin’s telephone shrieks, rattling the glass of the front door. I fumble with my groceries, trying to maneuver the lock, but the key sticks.
The phone rings again. Damn it .
I drop my bags. Glass shatters, but I don’t stop to assess the damage, just wrench open the door and beeline for the ancient rotary phone by the daybed, where I yank up the receiver midring. “Hello?”
A long pause. The plastic digs into my ear. “Hi, Mina? It’s Grayson. Grayson Drake.”
His voice rolls through me, top to bottom.
Aged bourbon.
Smoky, oak-paneled rooms.
Breathless moans in the dark.
One minute, I’m standing. The next, I’m on the floor with my knees jammed together and my sneakers splayed to either side. I have no idea how I got that way, only that a wave has knocked me off my feet.
“Mina? Are you there?”
Oh, god. I clutch the phone with damp fingers. He sounds so much like Michael that I can’t breathe.
“Is it my voice?” Concern swims in his tone. “Shit. This must be weird for you. Even my mother could never tell us apart on the phone.”
“I am not talking to my dead husband right now,” I hear myself say. “I’m not. You’re someone else.”
“Yes.” His voice tightens.
“You’re Grayson.”
“Uh-huh.”
“The photographer. Not an architect.”
“That’s right.” Silence filters through the line. “Shit. I knew this was a bad idea. I just... Would it be better if I hung up?”
“No,” I say. Then wonder how that word jumped out of me so fast. “Don’t. Please.”
“Okay.” He’s quiet. Something rustles in the background, and I picture him on a sofa somewhere in Seattle—scarred eyebrow, secret tattoo, and all.
That helps. Scar. Tattoos. Things Michael never had.
“The last thing I want to do is make this hard for you,” he says.
“My husband’s dead. It’s already hard for me. Talking to you isn’t going to change that.” I bite my lip. I’m not actually convinced that’s true—it’s essentially the exact opposite of what I told Kate. But at this point, I have to know what this is about. And the longer I sit here, the more the galloping in my veins slows.
“Okay,” he says. “If you’re sure.”
I try to wait out his silence, but he doesn’t add more. Whatever he wants, it doesn’t seem as though he’s going to come out and say it.
“To be honest,” I venture, “I’m surprised you got in touch. I didn’t think you knew I existed.”
He draws a long, pained breath. A dull thud sounds on the line, followed by a silence taut enough to make me fidget. Maybe he’s dropped the phone.
“Grayson?”
“Yeah.” He answers immediately, his tone brittle. “Sorry, I’m here. Of course I knew you existed. If anything, your email made it sound like you didn’t know about me .”
I frown, wondering why he sounds so resentful of that. “I mean...I didn’t, not really. Not before you got famous, at least.”
Another long pause. “So Michael never...talked about me? Ever?”
“To be honest? No. He really didn’t.”
“Jesus Christ. That motherfucker. I shouldn’t be so surprised. I really shouldn’t.”
My lungs inflate. Him swearing helps, too. Michael rarely did. “There’s no need to get angry. ...what happened, I think it was too hard for him to talk about you. Too painful.”
“So you don’t know a thing about me, then.”
“I do,” I say slowly. “Sort of. I’ve seen pictures in magazines. Your stuff in National Geographic . It’s kind of hard not to. And we used to have a photo on our wall. That you took. Of a tornado.”
“Yeah, I gave that to Michael one year for Christmas. I couldn’t afford anything better, at the time. What happened to it?”
I wince, realizing my use of the past tense has tipped him off. “He...uh...threw it out.”
“Oh.” More rustling. “In a fit of rage, I’m guessing?”
“Michael didn’t really do fits of rage.”
“You know what I mean. His version of rage, at least? Where he got all creepily calm?”
“Well...yeah.”
He gives a broken chuckle. There’s a rawness to it, a vulnerability that makes him sound nothing like the Michael of recent years.
It makes my belly clench, but indignation flares the moment I recover. “What about that is funny, exactly? You must realize he only got rid of that picture because you hurt him badly enough that he had to cut any reminders of you out of his life, right?”
He pauses. “You think I hurt him ?”
“I know you did,” I snap. He can’t be serious, can he? Michael was the one who so desperately wanted to make peace, up until That One Time... “You know, I was there that day, when you bashed his face in. In Seattle. you got him out of jail.”
“ I got him out of jail,” he repeats flatly.
“Don’t tell me you don’t remember.”
“Oh, I remember. I’ll never forget.”
“Well, you wouldn’t have known it, but I was upstairs in our condo that day. Which means I got to be the one to try to put him back together again afterward.”
“Oh, yeah? And how did that go?”
I hesitate at the bluntly personal question. So much for small talk. Grayson has ventured straight into territory that drives a heated flush up the back of my neck. “Not that it’s any of your business, but not well. Michael was never the same after that. I don’t know what the hell you did that day, but it changed him.”
This time, his laugh turns bitter, the bourbon laced with arsenic. “Oh, come on. I didn’t change him. He was only ever himself. At least hold him accountable for his own actions.”
I clamber up off the floor. At least ten miles’ worth of frustration is suddenly bubbling up inside me, maybe eleven. I need to run hard enough and long enough to drain myself dry.
But the moment the thought forms, I catch myself. Damn. Kate was right. I’ve spent so much time bottling everything up that I don’t know how to tackle things head-on anymore.
Luckily, there’s another option. A man on the other end of the line who deserves my anger. “Do you want to know the truth?”
“Sure. Why not? I get the sense you’re going to tell me anyway.”
I bristle. “Yep. And here it is. Even though we’ve never met and I don’t know the first thing about you, I’ve hated you for fourteen years based on that day. Maybe you’re right, and that’s unfair. Maybe Michael’s the only one I can blame for...well, being Michael. But I know things would’ve gone differently if you hadn’t shown up and attacked him out of the blue. And don’t even try to deny that you were the one who picked that fight. I know it was your fault.”
“I don’t deny it,” he shoots back. “But it wasn’t out of the blue. Michael deserved every bit of what I did. He deserved worse, actually. Much worse.”
My words come out in a deadly whisper. “He got much worse, eventually. In case you’ve forgotten.”
Grayson inhales sharply, as if realizing what he’s said. “Shit. You’re right. I’m sorry. But...still. That doesn’t mean I wouldn’t hit him all over again, if I could.”
My jaw works. Briefly, I consider hanging up. I already know he’ll never call me again, so what does it matter?
Something stops me, though. In some ineffable way, it’s a relief to talk to someone like this, without worrying about whether my next remark will widen the distance or close it. It feels so fucking good to let my anger out. To allow some color to burst inside me.
I spit words through gritted teeth. “Who holds a grudge against a dead man?”
“I do, apparently.”
“Well, you sound like an asshole.”
“Probably because I am.”
His ready agreement throws me.
“But for what it’s worth,” he continues doggedly, “Michael hurt me, too. No one else has even come close to tearing me apart the way he did. You have no idea.”
That stops my tongue. He sounds so... earnest , as if he finds his wounds exhausting but feels compelled to acknowledge them anyway. And then I remember.
Grayson lost Lily, just like I lost Michael. Only, unlike me, he had someone to blame.
Between one moment and the next, my anger sputters out. I sink onto the daybed, shame rising hot in my chest. How could I forget that I don’t have a monopoly on this experience? That I’m not the only one who’s struggled to rebuild after the worst has happened?
“I’m sorry.” My voice shrinks. “You’re right. I forgot that you’ve had your world end, too.”
He sighs bitterly. “Maybe you do have an idea, then. Maybe you understand better than anyone else.”
I go quiet. Even now, I have no idea how Lily died or whether Grayson has reason to find fault with my husband. I don’t dare ask, either.
“Jesus,” I say. “I have no idea why I gave you my phone number, then got ugly within ten seconds of answering.”
“I do. Because you’re angry. Obviously.”
Try as I might, I detect no blame in his words. “You’re right. I’m pissed. Pretty much at the whole world, at this point.”
“Good. You should be.”
My brows furrow. “Why do you say that?”
“Because life hasn’t treated you all that well. And I’m not the only Drake who’s an asshole. Michael wasn’t exactly the poster child for selflessness.”
“Michael was wonderful,” I say. “At least, he used to be, before you bashed his face in. And after that, sometimes, too. He may have gotten...closed off, but he was always generous. And never cruel. Which means if he hurt you, he didn’t mean to.”
Grayson barks a laugh. “Oh, no. He knew exactly what he was doing. Trust me.”
I frown. That almost makes it sound like Michael killed Lily on purpose. Which doesn’t make the slightest bit of sense.
“You don’t think he—” I hesitate. I’ve spent fourteen years keeping Lily’s name locked behind my lips, and don’t want to free it unless Grayson does first. “—took her from you on purpose, do you?”
He remains quiet for so long that I wonder if he’s hung up. But I can still hear him breathing.
I tense. I recognize that silence, the signpost marking the point at which I’ve pushed too far. The weight of old habit settles on my shoulders. “Never mind. You don’t have to answer that.”
He sighs. “I do, though. I’m going to be honest with you, Mina. I’ll answer every question you ask. Even if they’re fucking nuclear, like that one.”
My mouth opens. No sound comes out. It’s such an un-Michael-like thing to say, and hearing it in my husband’s voice only confuses me.
“So.” Age-old pain saturates his words. “Yes. I do think he took her away on purpose.”
Now it’s my turn to deliver a heavy-breathing silence. What felt like solid ground a minute ago turns wobbly and sucking, the conversation like quicksand beneath my feet. Clearly, the bad blood between them runs deeper and darker than I knew.
Because if I’m hearing correctly, Grayson thinks my husband killed his fiancée intentionally.
Which is inconceivable. Michael might have had habits I didn’t know about—like following his brother’s every move and daydreaming about divorcing me—but he wasn’t a killer. Nothing on this earth can possibly convince me otherwise.
I glance through the open door to where my groceries lie in a heap. “This conversation has gotten way off track,” I murmur. “I know you didn’t call so I could rip open wounds that healed decades ago.”
“They never healed. But, that aside, this is exactly why I called. So you could say whatever you need to.” His tone lightens. “I did offer to let you throw coffee in my face, remember? This is probably as close as it gets, over the phone.”
Despite myself, that tugs a smile free. “But why? Why do you care? You don’t even know me.”
He pauses. “I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I’m nobody to you.”
“That’s...not true. I realize you don’t know me , apart from the shit you’ve read on the internet, but I know more about you than you realize.”
I blink, rapid-fire. That could only be true if... “Are you saying you and Michael kept in touch?”
Another sigh bleeds out of him. “Just because he never talked about me doesn’t mean he didn’t talk to me.”
“You mean you two actually spoke? that day in Seattle?”
“Not often. But yes.”
I flinch. Yesterday, I might have questioned his truthfulness. Today...
In my mind, magazine clippings and divorce papers spew from a never-ending folder of secrets. It seems I didn’t know my husband half as well as I believed. “What do you know about me, exactly?”
“That you’re a writer.” Grayson’s throaty rumble caresses my ear. “That you dreamed of writing creatively, but ended up doing articles for some medical magazine instead. Hmm, let’s see... You wanted to travel, but it caused problems with your family, and life never really gave you the chance. What else? You’re a runner, you love bright colors, you have this weird obsession with kettle corn. I have to admit, I don’t understand the popcorn thing at all, but hey. There’re worse habits.”
“Oh. Wow.” I sit back. It’s a superficial evaluation, yet my estranged brother-in-law seems to have taken my measure more precisely than my husband did. He tried, but as the years passed, the ways in which we differed mystified him.
“Am I being creepy?”
“A little,” I admit. “But also...I sound pathetic when you describe me that way. Like someone who never followed through in life. Someone who abandoned her dreams.”
His voice gentles. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
Maybe not, but aside from disconcerting me, his assessment makes me view myself in a different light. One I don’t find at all flattering.
So I deflect. Because that’s the obvious next step. “Didn’t anyone ever teach you to make small talk?”
“No,” he says. “I mean, if you really want, I could probably muddle through, but I don’t give a shit about the weather or whatever politician’s currently embarrassing himself on social media. I care about you. How you’re doing. Whether you’re all right.”
I swirl my finger into the spirals of the phone cord like I used to when I was a kid. “You don’t have to. I mean, I get that we’re technically related, but—”
“We’re not related,” he says, his voice hard.
I frown. Okaaaaay, then . “I just mean you don’t owe me anything. Whatever mess Michael left behind when he died isn’t yours to clean up. It’s mine. Granted, I’ve been doing a piss-poor job so far, but hopefully that’s about to change.”
“Oh yeah? Are you going to therapy?”
I lift my gaze to the bay windows and examine the layer of shadow at the edge of the yard. “No. I’m going into the woods.”
I have no idea why I actually say that, except that the passing squall of my anger has anchored me inside my own skin somehow, and honesty seems like a natural extension of that. Like I’m a storm cloud that’s spit out all its lightning and subsided to an easy rain.
It feels surprisingly good.
“Into the woods,” he repeats, clearly confused. “What does that mean?”
A half chuckle slips out. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.”
I hesitate. For one crazy, incandescent moment, I consider confessing. I could tell Grayson about Margo’s death and how I found solace in the woods at fifteen, if only because he absorbed my anger without batting an eyelash.
Except he’d bat one of those long, golden lashes at this. “Maybe some other time.”
“Like when?”
“I don’t know. You’d probably have to catch me in the right mood. Or very drunk.”
“All right. Easy enough. I’ll just call you a lot, until I get lucky.”
I open my mouth, but say nothing. This is...not what I expected. At all. “You don’t have to. Really. I’m okay.” My voice quavers on the last two words.
Thankfully, Grayson doesn’t know me well enough to catch it. “I know I don’t have to,” he says. “I want to.”
This time, there’s a hint of...supplication in his tone. Like he’s searching for something and for some reason has decided I’m where he can find it. “Look,” I say. “No matter what Michael’s told you, you don’t know me.”
He hesitates. “I want to.”
Something flits around inside my chest. Something that hasn’t shown its face in so long that it takes me a full ten seconds to determine its identity.
When I do, I promptly squash the feeling flat. What is happening right now? This man isn’t Michael. We aren’t flirting. Grayson is not—and never will be—a substitute for the person I loved down to the roots of my soul.
It’s just the voice. And the bizarre way in which he’s talking to me as though there’s no one else in the world he’d rather be on the phone with.
“I should go,” I say.
He sighs. I can practically taste the frustration in it. “Was that too much?”
“Yes. Or no. I don’t know. You’re just...not what I expected. I’ve spent all these years hating you, but the person I was mad at was completely different, in my head.”
“In what way?”
“I just thought... Well, I thought you were this ungrateful, angry mess.”
“Fuck.” He laughs, all gravel and smoke, and I have to close my eyes for a second. “And now you think I’m not?”
“I don’t know. Are you?”
“Yes, Mina, I’m a mess. I’m fucked up and full of scars and have a special talent for pissing off most everyone I come in contact with.”
My mouth twitches, unsure whether to bend up or down. I can’t deny that his candor feels like a cool breeze against my skin.
“But also,” he says, “I’m the kind of guy who’ll go to the ends of the earth for the people I care about. Even if there aren’t that many of them. And I’d like to think I manage to tell a decent joke now and then. And also...I’d really like to call you again. If you’ll let me.”
I go achingly still, feeling myself balanced on a knife’s edge. On either side, the world plunges away toward shadowy black depths I can only guess at, and one wrong step will send me tumbling into the abyss.
I have the distinct feeling that letting Grayson Drake call me again would only be the first of many wrong steps.
But for so long, I’ve tried to make the right choices and only managed to circle back to the beginning. I’m no better off than I was fourteen years ago, when I sprinted across town trying to catch a ride with a stranger. Then, life was poised to open up for me, but since then, I’ve gone backward. Retreated behind the same lines that have marked my worn-down territory for decades.
I try to name a single risk I’ve taken since the day I got into Michael’s car and come up blank. Because even staying with him amounted to playing it safe, in a way.
“All right,” I say. “Call me again, if you really want to.”
Air rushes out of him, as if he’s been holding his breath. “Okay. Then we’ll talk soon.”
“Okay.”
we hang up, I stare at the phone. I have no idea what to think. Nothing about that lined up with my expectations.
Shaking my head, I go clean up the groceries, managing to salvage everything except a broken jelly jar and three eggs.
Once that’s taken care of, I have nothing left to do but head into the woods.