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“Thank you.” I slide my palm against hers, bracing for the electric jolt that follows when I catch my gaze on her heart-shaped mouth—the one that can never be mine. “Grant told me what you did, and I’m extremely grateful.”
“I’m just glad you’re okay.” Her bright green eyes hold mine and her voice is library-soft. “I’ll let the two of you catch up. I’m going to see if Georgette needs anything.”
“Thanks, babe. I love you so much.” Grant squeezes her hand as she walks away.
I love you so much …
My jaw is clenched as the brain-squeezing tautness of a tension headache forms.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” Grant asks. His gaze drops as he watches her go, and he bites his lip, though I don’t think he realizes he’s doing it.
Old habits die hard.
“Yeah. You two seem really … in sync.”
His brows rise and he scratches at his temple. “Don’t know how I got so lucky.”
Our recent prenup conversation floats through my mind. I resist the urge to ask if he’s referring to her … or her father’s money.
“You doing okay?” I change the subject. “So sorry about your dad. He was one of the best.”
“Thanks, man.” He nods. “It’s hard, but just taking things one day at a time. That’s all you can do. At least he got to meet Brie. That’s the little bit of solace I’ve found in all of this.”
“Yeah? Did he like her?”
“Psh. No. He loved her. He’s the one who told me to lock her down,” he says with a teary-eyed chuckle. “Told me a woman like that only comes around once in a lifetime if you’re lucky.” Grant shrugs. “I guess after watching what you went through and talking to my dad, I realized I wanted more for myself. A wife who loves me like my mom loved my dad. A couple of kids. Family vacations. All that stuff.”
I can’t help but wonder if he was waxing poetic about his dream life while he was balls-deep in Serena McQuiston, but I keep that question to myself.
The man just lost his father.
He’s feeling nostalgic and wistful.
I’ll let him have his moment.
“Excuse me. Sorry to interrupt,” an older woman in a pinstripe suit stands in the doorway. “We’re about to begin the service.”
Grant gives me a tight-lipped nod. “I should find my girl. Oh, and hey. We’re still good for Friday.”
“Friday?”
“Yeah. Your party …”
“You guys are still coming?” I squint.
“Of course we’re coming. You’re my best friend. Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
19
Brie
Raucous laughter bursts from the kitchen and fills the entirety of Grant’s childhood home. He and his uncles and cousins are playing cards while his mother serves up a buffet line of reheated leftovers that neighbors and friends have been dropping off left and right all week.
I’m seated in the front room on a floral sofa with plaid pillows. A Terry Redlin picture adorns the wall behind me and a brass corner lamp gives off a cozy glow as I page through one of the photo albums his mother left sitting out.
Grant had a happy childhood from what I can tell. Lots of trips to the shore. Carnivals. Fourth of July ice cream socials. Colorful birthday parties with rented clowns. An abundance of family and friends. Growing up with four sisters, I can’t wrap my head around life as an only child.
I haven’t had the chance to ask if he was an only child by choice, and given the fact that we only buried his father yesterday, it doesn’t seem like it’d be an appropriate question to ask in the near future.
I close the burgundy album and reach for the smaller one with the powder blue cover. The first picture inside is from Mike and Georgette’s wedding day. They’re almost unrecognizable with their full, youthful faces, wide eyes, and big hair, but I grin, happy for them as I page through their memories.
If I have half of what these two had, I’ll consider myself fortunate.
“Hey. There you are.” Grant stands on the other side of the room. “Went looking for you. Thought maybe you were upstairs. Mom wanted to know if you were hungry?”
A rupture of laughter flows from down the hall.
So many of this week’s events have taken me back to Kari’s death five years ago.
The phone call you never want to get.
The beautiful flowers that seem to never stop coming.
The scent of food that’s been reheated far too many times.
Perfume. Tissues. Tears.
The carbon-copy greeting-card phrases everyone gives one another because we never truly know what to say in situations like these.
A swell of emotion has resided in my chest all week. And I intend to keep it there. None of this is about me.
“I’ll grab a plate in a few,” I say.
“What are you doing in here all by yourself anyway?” His gaze falls to the wedding album in my lap. Before I answer, he takes a seat next to me, peels the photo book from my hands, and begins to flip through the plastic-covered pages. “I haven’t seen this in ages … wow. Look how young they were.”
