Greyson gives the best hugs. He always has. They're stronger than anything I've ever known, but not in a way that makes me feel smothered, more so that holding me isn't enough for him. He has to feel every ounce of me pressed into every ounce of him, and in this moment of closeness, I'm awake somehow, and I feel more alive than I have in a long time.
His arms are warm and comforting as they wrap around my tiny frame and hold me against him, and for the first time in almost eight months, I feel like I can breathe. I feel like I'm home.
I close my eyes and stifle a moan as I inhale his recognizable scent of laundry detergent and woody cologne. Goosebumps erupt across every inch of my body when he turns his face and buries it in my neck – his soft lips brushing against my skin – and the heat of his palms burn into the material on the back of my dress. I don't want to let him go, and from the way he's digging his fingertips into my back, he doesn't either. It's only when I hear Jo clear her throat that I realize how long we've been holding on to each other.
"I'm so sorry, Grey." I pull away from him and tuck my hands behind my back. It's the only way I can be sure I won't reach for him again. "Your dad...he was...I'm just really sorry."
Greyson brushes his index finger under his nose and clears his throat. "Thanks for coming. I know how hard it must have been for you to get out of Manhattan. I really appreciate it."
"Yeah, of course. Thanks for having me."
He peeks at me from underneath his long back eyelashes, and the corners of his mouth curl up in an amused smile. "Um..."
"I'm sorry." I shake my head and laugh awkwardly. "That was a weird thing to say."
"It's alright." He reaches out and brushes my hair off my forehead. "I'm happy to see you."
"I wish I could have been here for you when it happened – for your family. I'm just – I'm sorry I wasn't here for you. Again."
"Delaney, it's really okay. None of us expected you to be here. It's been a while and we've all moved on. Right?"
Well...okay then.
"Yeah. Right." I settle into a fake smile. "Of course."
His tie is crooked, and on instinct I reach out and adjust it, and almost as soon as I open my mouth to ask if it would be okay if I sat with his family, a gorgeous, petite, yet curvaceous woman with thick, lustrous deep auburn hair sandwiches herself between us. She's dressed in a dark gray, sleeveless wool dress, with a belt that accentuates her narrow waist and sweetheart neckline that highlights her voluptuous chest. The dress fits her like a second skin. She's absolutely stunning.
"Babe, your mom is ready to start the service." She doesn't even notice me as she drags her obsidian black nails down the sleeve of his navy-blue suit jacket. "You ready?"
My shoulders sag, and I let out a hard sigh as I watch them together. I don't miss the way her eyes turn to animated hearts when she looks up at him, or the way she's comfortable enough to caress his body – like she's been doing it for a while now – and his face softens when she speaks. Greyson mentioned how we've all moved on, so is this beautiful specimen his new girlfriend?
"As ready as I'll ever be, I guess," he mumbles. I watch him – entranced – as he runs his fingers through his thick, dark hair. He turns to me and smiles warmly. "Thanks again for coming, Delaney. I'll see you later."
I clutch my chest as I struggle to take a deep breath, and my eyes fill with tears as I watch them walk away and take a seat in the front row with Cole and Mrs. McKinnie. Greyson's hands are shoved in the front pockets of his pants, but my eyes are focused on her, and the way her arm is linked through his.
It should be me. I should be the one by his side in this moment, but because I went to New York to pursue my dream, I'm stuck watching from the sidelines while Greyson's Sports Illustrated Bathing Suit Edition cover model girlfriend comforts him instead.
But I should have been there for him through all of this. It should have been me.
My stomach turns as I observe the two of them. The redhead has moved and is now sitting behind Greyson in the second row, but she has her tiny hands on his broad shoulders, and his mother smiles and chats with her, treating her like she's already a part of the family. After we broke up last summer, I knew he'd eventually get involved with someone else, it was inevitable, but I didn't expect it to happen so soon. Seven months has passed, and I can't think about even kissing another guy without feeling sick, yet Greyson is already in a full-blown relationship, and he's flaunting it as if I mean nothing. As if we meant nothing.
My entire body breaks out in a cold sweat, and my stomach churns. I pull my hair off my neck and drape it over one shoulder, closing my eyes as I take a deep breath. My mouth feels gummy with excess saliva, and I press my clammy, trembling hand to my mouth as bile burns my throat, but it's not just bile and I'm not going to be able to swallow it down this time.
I gag as my eyes dart frantically around the room. If I don't find a bathroom soon, I'm going to puke right here on the floor, in front of everyone. I hurry through the viewing room – angry scolds coming from irate guests as I push them out of the way – and finally find the restroom. As soon as I open the door, I lunge toward the toilet. My sweaty hands grip the edge of the seat tightly as I empty my stomach of the breakfast I'd choked down this morning. Tears spill from my eyes with each violent heave. The taste of scrambled eggs, bacon, and black coffee fill my mouth as I rid myself of the last little bit.
"Delaney, are you okay?" Jo asks as she bursts through the bathroom door. She gathers my hair in her hand as I continue to dry heave. "What's wrong?"
"I threw up."
"Uh...yeah. I can see that, Captain Obvious." She helps me up and turns on the cold water so I can rinse my mouth. "You were fine. What happened? Do you think it's something you ate?"
"No. I've been nauseous for days."
"Oh my, God. Are you pregnant? I was so nauseous when I was pregnant with Hannah. I threw up nearly every day for three months."
I swish disgusting tap water in my mouth and spit it in the sink. "You have to have sex to get pregnant."
"Duh, I think I know..." she trails off. "Wait, you've been in New York for almost eight months." Her jaw falls slack, and she frowns as she studies me. "You're telling me you haven't slept with anyone while you've been there? Not even a one-night stand or a casual relationship? I mean, you're you – successful, sweet, gorgeous. You've got options. Models, athletes, actors, entrepreneurs –"
"Read the room, Jo," I bark, wiping snot from my nose with the back of my hand. "I'm not interested in anyone."
"You're right. Shit. Of course, you're not interested. I'm sorry." She rubs my back soothingly. "Can I get you anything? Ginger ale? Saltines? A breath mint?"
I dip my head and close my eyes in hopes the room will stop spinning, but all I see is Mr. McKinnie's corpse lying in that coffin, and Greyson and that exquisite redhead by his side as she consoles him. She filled the spot that belongs to me, but unfortunately, I can no longer claim.
I cough into the sink as another bout of nausea hit me.
"He's with someone," I mumble.
"What?"
"He's with someone, and she's beautiful." I lift my head and stare at my pale, sweaty reflection in the mirror. "Did you know?"
"No, I had no idea. I haven't really talked to him."
"I'm not used to being jealous when it comes to Greyson, and I've gotta tell you, I don't love the way it feels."
Jo cracks the door open and peers into the viewing room. "Oh, I see." She pulls a paper towel from the holder on the wall and wipes leftover tears and streaks of mascara from under my eyes. "Her."
"Yeah...her." I hold my hand under the cold water until it stings and press my palm to my forehead. "She's everything I'm not. She's petite, yet curvy in all the right places. She's all doe-eyed, with freckles that look like a freaking Snapchat filter, and she's wearing that dress like it was custom made for her. Not to mention she's available to him. They probably met in Chicago. She's perfect and I'm...I'm not."
"Del –"
"And her hair," I say. I drop my head in my hands as a smothered sob bursts from my throat. "Why does it have to be red?"
"Oh, please. That color is straight from a box. I could see that splotchy dye job from a mile away. Why does that matter anyway?"
"The girl Will cheated on me with has the most beautiful red hair I've ever seen. I walked in the bedroom and there she was, draped across the bed in all her naked glory, looking like the damn Little Mermaid." I can feel the weight of Jo's stare in the reflection of the bathroom mirror. "It's stupid, I know. It's only hair, but it's just another part of my divorce that'll always make me feel like I wasn't enough. Not for Will, and apparently not for Greyson either."
"You are enough, Delaney. Any man that can't see that isn't worth your time anyway."
I sniffle. "Thanks."
"I'm so sorry, babe." She wraps her arms around me and rests her chin on my shoulder. "I know today has been hard, and I understand why you're so upset right now, but you need to pull it together. We still have the service and the reception at the McKinnie's to get through, and girlfriend or not, that man out there is gonna need you today. He's gonna need a friend. Do you think you can do that?"
I sigh, reluctant to agree to her terms, but I know she's right – so I nod. Greyson and Mrs. McKinnie – even Cole – are going to need me today. In the last ten months, I've experienced disappointment, rejection, hopelessness, and utter heartache, but it's not about me anymore. My life is on the up-and-up. I've mourned my sad, pathetic past, and I've accepted it for what it is, and now it's time for me to straighten my spine and be there for the people who were there for me when I needed them. It's time for me to suck it up and support the McKinnie's, the best way I can.
When I'm presentable, Jo and I finally emerge from the bathroom and settle into two seats a few rows behind the McKinnie's that Mitchell had saved for us. I fold my hands in my lap and drop my chin but continue to stare at Greyson from underneath my eyelashes – more so the hand that's now massaging the back of his neck.
I want to cut each of her perfectly manicured fingers off one at a time with a pair of rusty gardening shears.
"Are you okay, Del?" Mitchell asks.
I turn my face toward him, continuing to keep my eyes on Greyson and her. "I'm fine."
"You sure? You look a little green."
"Uh...yeah. I wasn't feeling well. Overwhelmed and all, but I'm good now. Just needed some air."
"Okay. If you say so," he says. He leans toward me and whispers, "You might wanna do yourself a favor and stop staring at Greyson. You have crazy eyes and kind of look like a psycho."
I pull my stare from the front of the room and glare at him, but blood immediately rushes to my cheeks, and I know the blush on my face has given me away.
"I do not look like a psycho!" I whisper-yell.
"Litte bit," he argues.
"The coffin is in that direction. Where else am I supposed to look?"
He reaches out and pats me on the knee. "Mmhmm."
The burial is private, family only, so after my parents tell Mrs. McKinnie not to worry and take her time at the cemetery, we leave the funeral home and go straight to their house to help set up for the reception.
Except we're not the only ones who offered to help.
"I've gotta say, that little redhead is helpful, but she's a real pain in the ass," my mother whispers. I don't miss the way she peeks over her shoulder as she loads utensil holders with plastic cutlery. "She yelled at me for not ironing the tablecloth before I laid it over the dining room table. Literally scolded me like I'm a child! I tried to tell her there's going to be so many plates and bowls, no one will notice if the damn tablecloth is ironed or not, but she didn't want to hear it. She's running around like she owns the place."
"Hmm," I hum. It's all I can muster.
Truth is, my heart dropped the minute I saw the Isla Fisher look-a-like walk through the McKinnie's front door, and I rattled off a stupid excuse as to why I needed to be in the kitchen. I needed to tend to the strawberries for the fruit salad, I think I said, and I've been hiding ever since.
Lame excuse to avoid Greyson's new girlfriend? Check.
"Who is she, anyway?"
"Um..." I clear my throat and put on my best fake smile. "I think she's Greyson's new girlfriend."
"Oh."
"Yeah. I mean, I don't know for sure – he didn't say anything to me – but she was with him at the funeral home and now she's here. It's just an assumption, but all signs point to her being his girlfriend," I say, shrugging noncommittally.
My mother rubs my back and nods understandingly. "I'm sorry, sweetie."
"He hasn't said anything to dad about it?"
"As far as I know they don't talk about that kind of stuff."
I sigh. "It's fine," I lie, waving her off. "We were together and now we're not. I didn't expect him to stay single forever."
Commotion from the front room causes me to place my knife on the cutting board, and my mother and I both turn to see what it was. The sing-song voice of Mrs. Warner floats through the house.
People are starting to arrive.
"I'll go greet them. I know you're probably uncomfortable being out there with everyone," my mother offers.
"No, it's okay." I wipe my sticky hands from cutting fruit on a paper towel. "I'll go. I've been gone for a while, and I hardly spoke to anyone today. I don't want to be rude. Plus, I could use the distraction."
I welcome the Warner's – and every other guest that shows up after them – with a kind smile and open arms. I take their coats, laying them across the bed in the downstairs guest room, place their sympathy cards on the end table near the front door, and when they ask where they can put the dishes they brought, I happily guide them in the direction of the large dining room. Everything from the pale pink acrylic on my fingernails to the pleasantries coming out of my mouth are fake, but I happily welcome the distraction.
My mother was right when she said no one would notice if the tablecloth had been ironed or not, because by the time most of the guests have arrived, there are so many plates, bowls, and casserole dishes on the table there is barely an inch of space between each one. There is potato and three different forms of pasta salad, fruit and vegetable trays and a charcuterie board filled with delicious looking meats and cheeses. There are deviled eggs and spinach dip, sweet and sour cocktail meatballs, steamed shrimp and warm Cuban sliders. There are trays of crispy fried chicken, hush puppies, a balsamic three bean salad and flaky buttermilk biscuits. The number of casseroles is obscene – Turkey tetrazzini. Sweet potato. Baked macaroni and cheese. Southern pineapple. Chicken and rice. Three cheese au gratin potatoes – but overindulgence has always been the South Grove way when we all come together.
Mrs. McKinnie will be prepared with frozen dinners for months.
"Lynette Lee brought her baked ziti," my mother mutters in my ear. She places the casserole dish on the kitchen counter and sticks her finger down her throat in a mock gag. "I'll never understand how she has the ability to overcook and undercook the noodles. And what's with the Ritz cracker topping? Bakes ziti is marinara sauce, mozzarella cheese, and noodles. Not...whatever this monstrosity is."
"I just hope the girls didn't bring anything. I honestly can't decide which one of the three is the worse cook. The burnt, yet still partially raw blackberry pie Sandy brought to the block party last Fourth of July..." I shudder in disgust. "Gross."
An hour and a half later, while all the guests are mingling and comfortably socializing, the McKinnie's finally show up. They're bombarded with condolences as soon as they walk through the door. Mrs. McKinnie and Cole smile as they accept everyone's sympathies graciously, but Greyson keeps his head down as he pushes his way through the crowd and heads straight for the makeshift bar. I watch as he pours himself a glass of Scotch and drinks its entirety in one sip. He pours another, drinks that one, and pours himself a third. When he lifts his eyes, he catches me watching him, but instead of coming to me, he clenches his jaw and leaves the room.
I immediately think back to the day last summer when I ran into Mr. McKinnie in Maribelle's, remembering what he told me about Greyson's drinking when he got home from St. Louis. He was lost, and depressed, and angry back then, and I can only imagine that he's worse off now. He lost his best friend; how could he not be? I just hope this isn't going to be a setback for him. I won't be around to help him if it is.
No. Stop it, Delaney. Taking care of Greyson isn't your responsibility anymore.
My first instinct is to babysit Greyson, but instead of making sure he doesn't drink the entire bottle of Scotch, I decide to busy myself with the reception. I refill drinks and rearrange the dishes on the table, setting the nearly empty ones to the back and bringing the ones that've barely been touched forward. I clean up after guests – throwing away their dirty plates, empty glasses, and napkins – and toss empty wine and liquor bottles in the recycle bin. My mother watches me with an arched eyebrow, but it's either I channel my inner Mrs. Doubtfire, or I attach myself to Greyson like a barnacle.
A few hours later, while I'm doing dishes, I can't help but overhear a conversation between two women I don't recognize.
"The service was really beautiful. Don't you think?" asks Jane Doe number one.
"It really was, and the flowers were gorgeous," Jane Doe number two responds. "Cole said some lovely things about his father, but I can't help but notice that Greyson hasn't spoken to anyone. Have you noticed that?"
"I certainly have. The boy's been on mute all day."
"Don't you think that's rude? His father supported him while he was off in St. Louis doing God knows what with God knows who. He was Greyson's biggest fan. He took him in after he retired and offered him a job at his construction company – no questions asked, no experience required. The least he can do is say a few words about his father, or even mutter a thank you when someone gives him their condolences or tells him what a great man his father was."
"You're just bitter because Greyson got the job your son applied for," Jane Doe number one declares.
I continue to wash dishes as I peek over my shoulder and toward the woman.
Jane Doe number two huffs in annoyance. "That may be true, but Danny deserved that job. Do you know how many times I watched Stephen drag a drunk and disorderly Greyson out of a bar? People let him get away with everything because they see him as some sort of celebrity. He was an absolute mess back then, and from the looks of him today, he still is."
"Can you blame him? His father just died. Greyson has to live with the reality that Stephen will never see him get married or become a father. They'll never celebrate a holiday together ever again or watch a ball game. Every milestone for the rest of his life will happen without his father. I can't even imagine what that must feel like for him."
"Okay, fine. Maybe I'm being judgmental. At least he's not alone, right? The whole town will be here for them, and I'm sure that redhead that's been glued to his side all day will be more than happy to kiss, or fuck, away all his sorrows. She's got that mysteriously beautiful thing going on. They look great together," Jane Doe two says.
Her words startle me, and I drop a serving plate in the sink, splashing myself in the process.
"Shit," I hiss. I grab the kitchen towel from the handle on the oven and wipe bubbles and dirty dish water from my arms and the front of my dress.
I can feel eyes on me as I dry off, and since I'm absolutely done with today, I turn around and face them as I say, "Try having a little couth, ladies. You're at a funeral reception and instead of celebrating Mr. McKinnie's life with the rest of the town, you're in here talking shit on his grieving son. Both of you should be ashamed of yourselves." I throw the towel on the counter and smile sarcastically at them. "Have a lovely evening."
Once I'm away from them, I breathe a sigh of relief – thankful I no longer have to hear about all the things Mr. McKinnie will miss or how the gorgeous, mysterious redhead will comfort Greyson in his time of need – but that reprieve doesn't last long. As soon as I walk into the living room my eyes immediately fall on Greyson. He's perched on a chair in the corner of the room with a full glass of Scotch in one hand and his other arm draped across the back of his new girlfriend's chair. His eyes are cold and vacant as he stares into space. The redhead – who hasn't bothered to introduce herself to me – is next to him, practically in his lap, and my breath catches in my throat when she rests her hand on his thigh and leans in to whisper in his ear.
I cross my arms against my chest and sigh.
Why is he doing this? I get that we broke up a while ago, and I'll eventually accept the fact that he found someone else, but does he have to be so cavalier about it? Is she here to support him through this, or is she just here to show me he's moved on and he doesn't care how hurt and bombarded I feel? Even if I had met someone, I wouldn't have brought him with me, because the funeral of your former best friend/love of your life's father isn't the place to announce a new relationship. At least, that's my belief.
I could make a scene. I could scream and yell and demand he tell me every detail of his personal life since I moved back to New York, and maybe if I was a different type of girl I would, but what Greyson does with his time is no longer my business. He made it clear when he broke up with me that he was ready to put our relationship in the past for good and move on to the next chapter. So, if he wants to treat me like a stranger, then a stranger I'll be.
"Excuse me, everyone," Mrs. McKinnie announces. She stands from her chair and taps her fork against her wine glass. Ting. Ting. Ting. "I just want to say a few words while everyone is still here. First, I'd like to thank all of you for being here for me and my family in our time of need. One of the things I love most about South Grove is the comradery. I've lived in a lot of places, but I've never seen a town band together like we do when there's a crisis. Whether it's hurricane relief, a fundraiser for needy families, or a death, South Grove is always there for each other, and for that I am and always will be eternally grateful. I also wanted to thank you all for being here today. I know you've taken time out of your busy schedules – and some of you have traveled miles – to be here for us. Cole, Greyson, and I will never be able to express how much we appreciate all your support. Stephen loved South Grove and he'd be so happy to see all of you –"
Her speech is cut short by a loud squeak. When I look in the direction of where the disruption came from my hearts drops, and my fingers nervously clench my father's shoulders. Greyson turns toward his mother as he stands from his chair, and the scowl on his face is enough to make my blood run cold and cause a chill to race up my spine. He slams his glass down so hard on the table next to him, scotch spills everywhere and the glass itself shatters, and he stalks toward the front door.
"No!" he bellows.
"Greyson, sweetheart," his mother calls after him. "Please don't –"
He holds his hand up to stop her, and when he pauses at the door, I think maybe he's changed his mind and he'll let her finish, but instead he throws the door open, and I jump as it slams shut behind him.
Whispers begin to circulate around the room – small-town gossip no doubt beginning to flourish – and I can see the panic in Mrs. McKinnie's eyes. She's embarrassed. Her fingers pull at the sterling silver heart around her neck as she frantically searches the room for an ally, and the moment her eyes lock with mine, and they grow hopeful, I know what I need to do.
I kiss my father on top of his bald head and whisper in his ear that I'll be back.
"Take my car. My keys are on the hook by the door," Mrs. McKinnie says as I rush toward her. "Please find him, Delaney. He shouldn't be alone right now."
I wrap my arms around her neck and place a soft kiss on her cheek.
"I know where he is," I whisper in her ear. "I'll take care of him. I promise."
Thanks for reading!