13. Macy

Chapter 13

Macy

I went online and bought a treadmill that morning because I'm not going to let Grayson take away my newfound love for running. Wow. That's a sentence I never thought I'd say.

Every time I'm able to run just a little farther, it gives me a sense of confidence. Plus, it helps my creativity, which is useful given that I'm an author.

I abhor how much I lust to feel Grayson's touch on my skin. I despise myself for how quickly my feelings are growing for him. I barely know him, yet I nearly turned into a puddle at the sight of his dimples, so much so that I kissed him. It's exactly the sort of thing I promised myself I'd never do after my relationship with Walter.

When I told Elliot about the treadmill I bought secondhand, he insisted on coming with me to pick it up. I didn't interject, since I had to go to a stranger's house to get it. I was glad to have Elliot with me to deter any weirdos from being, well, weird. And he has a pickup truck, so that helped.

Sarah met us back at my house and we drank wine while I set it up, and by set it up, I mean plugged it into the wall. We laughed and got wine drunk, playing games, and catching up on each other's lives.

Occasionally, I'll catch a glimpse of Grayson's house through my open windows, and deep down I wanted him to be here, drinking and playing charades with my friends. I blamed that silly thought on the alcohol.

The following week was spent in a similar fashion. I ran on my new treadmill, but it wasn't the same as running outside beside Grayson. I found myself missing his arrogant comments. I worked at the dinner table until my fingers cramped and my eyes ached. Then I'd hangout with my friends.

Tonight, I'm hosting Sarah and Tammy for a girl's night. We're sitting on my back porch and picking at my sad attempt of a charcuterie board. I even strung star shaped string lights along the porch to give it some life. One of the stars occasionally flickers, but I think it gives the space some character.

"Your grandma would be happy you are staying here," Tammy says.

"Yeah." I smile. "She would." I glance at the crescent in the sky, which was my grandma's favorite moon phase.

Later into the night, right as my guests are beginning to leave, the irksome pelican shows up on my porch railing. Tammy lets out a laugh.

"What?" I ask.

"I'm just surprised that bird still comes here."

"What do you mean?" Sarah asks.

Tammy shakes her head. "Macy's grandfather fed him like he was his pet." She looks at me. "Your grandma reprimanded him for it, but after a while, I think she started liking the bird. I caught her ‘dropping' food off the porch a few times when it came by."

"How do you know it's the same one?" Sarah asks.

"It's injured," Tammy says.

I squint my eyes and notice he isn't putting his weight on his left foot.

"Your grandpa named him Ivin," Tammy says, grabbing her purse. She walks down the porch steps. "Thank you for a pleasant evening, ladies, but it's way past this old hag's bedtime."

"I think I'm going to call it a night too," Sarah says.

Once they leave, I grab the bottle of wine, three empty glasses, and my charcuterie board. I balance all the items and manage to open the sliding glass door, but once I'm inside, I have to set the bottle down or everything will slip from my grasp. I place it on the closest thing I can reach, the shelf of my grandparent's ocean treasures.

I jump from the sound of glass shattering. I slowly look down to find a pile of broken sand dollars, cracked starfish, broken glass, and spilled wine. I can't do anything besides freeze, as if I can stop time from moving forward.

My grandparent's favorite thing in this house was the collection, and in one fell swoop, I destroyed it. I bend down to see if anything is salvageable. The only item that didn't break is a bleached piece of coral. I flip it over and a sob leaves me. It's stained by the wine. I toss it with a frustrated cry.

I curl into the fetal position and weep, not caring how loud I'm being. I think about that summer before they died. How Walter told me to stay in Idaho and I listened. How my knees met the concrete of our garage four months later when I got the call that a drunk driver went eighty miles an hour into my grandpa's truck, who was sitting in it at a red light. He was a minute from returning home to bring my grandma flowers like he did every Saturday for over fifty years.

I felt numb when I answered the phone the next day, and the person on the other line told me that my grandma had a heart attack from the news. I remember rushing to the airport, and right as I made it to my terminal, it was too late. She was already gone.

I'm unable to breathe past the splintering pain in my chest. My head throbs and I squeeze my eyes tight.

I startle when I feel a gentle touch on my cheek. My eyes shoot open.

Grayson is crouched in front of me. His eyebrows pull together, and I've never seen him look so serious. "Breathe, Mace," he says tenderly.

I try to take a deep breath, but I can't stop the sobs that leave me.

He pulls me off the ground beneath my arms and then folds me into the warmth of his embrace. My cheek presses against his chest and the rhythm of his heart beneath my ear soothes me, but I can't help but notice how fast it beats.

I don't know how long I'm in his arms, but eventually, once my breathing has slowed and I'm no longer crying, he asks in a voice that promises death, "Did someone hurt you?" He stiffens the longer I take to answer.

"No." My voice comes out as a broken whisper.

"What happened? I heard you screaming and I—" He chokes on his words. "I was terrified ."

"I broke my grandparent's collection," I whisper, gesturing to the mess. "And then grief sort of took over," I say, hoping it is explanation enough.

I feel the pad of his finger beneath my chin. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he lifts my face toward his. His breath catches when he looks at me. "You're bleeding." He quickly picks me up as if I weigh nothing. He's careful to avoid stepping on glass.

He sets my butt on the counter and grabs a roll of paper towels. He spreads my legs, steps between them, and never removes his concerned gaze. I'm stuck in a trance as his face gets closer to mine, until I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. His eyes are on my temple, then they meet mine for a moment before a sharp pain makes me cry out. I gasp, blinking at the small shard of glass he pulled from my skin, that he now holds between his fingers. He presses a bundled up paper towel to the spot.

"How did you get inside?" I ask.

"Your front door was unlocked."

I take in his appearance. He's wearing loose sweats and nothing else. He must've jumped out of bed. He doesn't even have shoes on, and I wince at the thought of walking barefoot on the tiny white rocks in our front yards. His naked chest makes a chill lick down my spine. His body is sculpted like he lives at the gym. Beautiful.

He removes the paper towel and inspects the injury. "The cut isn't deep. A bandage should take care of it."

"There's some in the cabinet." I gesture to the one directly beside my head. He reaches his arm past me, causing my face to be within an inch of his exposed chest. His woodsy scent wafts around me.

He pulls back and opens the package, and then places the bandage on my temple. "There," he says in a low, raspy voice.

I had no idea there was even a cut there. The glass must've pierced my skin when I curled onto the floor. "Thank you."

He gives me a tight-lipped smile and turns like he's going to leave. I don't know what compels me to, but I say quickly, "Stay."

His spine goes straight, and the muscles in his back flex before they relax. He slowly turns to me. The night is draping over us like a cloak. Like we're in a dream, an alternate dimension. "Have you ever lost someone?"

His jaw sets and his eyes fill with a world of pain. He doesn't elaborate once he says, "Yes."

"Recently, or?"

His gaze is faraway. "A long time ago."

I want to ask a million questions. I want to look at the mystery before me and understand everything there is to know about him. The thought alone frightens me. "Does it ever stop hurting?"

His eyes rake over me. "No."

I glance at the ruins of my grandparent's collection. My eyebrows pinch together, and an overwhelming sensation takes over at the thought of cleaning it. At throwing away the broken bits of what once was invaluable to two people. Items they spent their marriage collecting. He follows my line of sight. "Come to my house," he says, as if he knows I can't deal with the mess right now.

Thankful, I simply nod and hop down from the counter. He freezes at the sight of my treadmill. He doesn't say anything about it when we walk in silence to his front door, which is ajar, like he was in such a rush he didn't bother shutting it. He switches on the kitchen light and leads me to his couch. I sit down, and he disappears for a moment, only to return wearing a shirt.

He sits down on the opposite end of the sofa and drapes an arm over the back. I lift my knees to my chest to get comfortable. Silence stretches between us before he says, "It doesn't stop hurting." He repeats what he said in my kitchen, looking thoughtful for a moment. "But I have this theory that if you fill your life with things that bring you joy, eventually happiness becomes bigger than the grief."

"And what brings you joy, Grayson?"

Shadows are covering him, but the light from the kitchen paints the edge of his face. I feel his gaze over my entire body. "I'm still figuring that out."

"Hence why it's only a theory," I surmise.

His head dips ever so slightly.

I take in his living room, the minimalism. Pictures of friends or family are nowhere in sight. The wooden coffee table rests only one coaster.

"What are you thinking?" he asks in a voice that borders on pleading.

Between what Sarah told me and the lonely nature of his house, I wonder if he's as wounded as I am after losing my grandparents. His isolation is telling, so perhaps more. "I'm thinking that this life doesn't let a single person pass without pressing in on them." The idea leaves me hopeless, but then I look at Grayson. Like really look at him. In defiance of the darkness that I assume once colored him, he's still standing. "We don't break, but bits and pieces of ourselves cave in. Our souls crack. Some more than others, but we're all marked with the fractures of this world."

His eyebrows are pulling together in concentration of my words.

"And I think—" My heart cracks and I will away tears that threaten to fill my eyes. "I think the biggest challenge is learning to smile with holes in our souls."

Grayson looks away for a moment, seeming like he's digesting every word. He scoots closer to me, blue eyes shining like a sea reflecting the sun. "Your mind is marvelous." His serious demeanor crumbles as his eyes soften and wrinkle at the sides. "You should put that in a book." He grins.

I laugh easily, and Grayson's answering smile is a rainbow in a gray sky. It's my turn to ask. "What are you thinking?"

His head dips and his eyes lift to mine. "That everyone has a story. We're all trying our best, but the world doesn't seem to let up."

"But we can be kinder to one another." The moment I say it, my heart sinks. I look at the man sitting across from me with a new understanding.

"Why so grim?" he asks quietly, no longer smiling.

I remember the look on his face after I snapped at him. How he looked gutted. "I was so mean," I whisper into the night.

"It's nothing I didn't deserve."

I shake my head immediately. "You didn't deserve it."

"You better not go soft on me, Mace." He's closer now. "I lied before. I do know one thing that brings me joy." He breathes, reaching out to tuck a stray hair behind my ear. "Arguing with you is my greatest rapture." He's impossibly closer. "Your fire is thrilling." His voice is like liquid dripping down my skin.

There is too much space separating us, yet not enough. I want to pull him close yet push him away. His eyes darken as if he can see the thoughts clearly on my face.

I break the wave of tension consuming us by looking away and saying, "It's getting late."

He simply says, "Sleep in my bed."

My eyes widen.

"No, I mean, you sleep in my bed, and I'll sleep out here on the couch."

I tilt my head. "That's ridiculous."

"The sheets are clean." He shrugs.

"No, I mean, why would I sleep here? My bed is right next doo—" And then the image of my grandparent's collection, ruined and shattered, comes to mind and I feel my expression fall.

"My room is down the hall on the left," he says, grabbing a throw blanket off the back of his couch and getting comfortable.

"I'll sleep on the couch if anything."

"No," he says definitively, rolling on his side and shutting his eyes.

I hesitantly stand and look at the hallway, then back at Grayson. "Are you sur?—"

"Go," he all but growls the words.

"Fine," I mumble. As I enter the hallway I look back. "Thank you."

His eyes are still closed when he smiles subtly.

The door to his room is already open, the bed unmade since he was laying in it when he heard my cries. I shut the door behind me and take in the simple space. His bedding is light gray, and like the rest of his house, there are no decorations. My attention snags on his bedside table, and I realize there is a tiny picture frame. I walk up to it and see that it's not a picture, but a note. Written in childlike handwriting on a piece of notebook paper says, "I love you, Grayson." The "a" in his name is backward and it is written in purple marker. A child no older than five or six must have written it.

I climb into his bed. It smells like him, and when I wrap myself in his plush comforter, my heart aches. I realize as I stare at the framed note, it was angled directly at the bed, so he'd see it before falling asleep and the moment he woke up. I know nothing about Grayson. As slumber washes over me, I dream of blue eyes like the ocean raging with pain of the greatest storm.

I climb out of Grayson's bed and look for the bathroom, which is conveniently right across from his room. I comb my fingers through my hair and splash water on my face. I put some mint toothpaste on my finger and rub my teeth with it.

His living room is empty, and his throw blanket is folded on the back of his couch like it was never touched.

I put on my shoes and brace myself to go home. When I open my front door, my eyes go straight to the mess. I gasp. The shelf is hanging back on the wall. As I walk further in, I see my grandparent's collection resting on a towel on the dinner table. By looking at them now, you'd never know they were shattered into pieces the night prior. There is a note that says "Don't touch. Glue is still drying." Soaking in a bowl with bleach is the piece of coral that was stained in wine.

"Oh my," I breathe out the words. Grayson did this. Determination to find the man who did this thoughtful thing for me carries me out my front door, and I run.

I probably look insane, still in my clothes from last night and wearing flip flops. The strands of hair trailing behind me in the wind are an entity on their own. I follow the path we used to run together and then I spot him wearing shorts and sneakers with sweat gleaming along his bare back. He doesn't see me, and I can't catch my breath enough to call his name, so I push myself further until I can reach him. I all but slam into his sweaty back. He quickly turns around; his alert expression relaxes when he sees that it's me.

I hold up a finger while I catch my breath. He's taking in my appearance, and when his eyes fall on my flip flops, the corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement. "Looking for me?"

I throw myself at him, wrapping my arms around his waist and burying my head in his bare chest. He stiffens, then slowly wraps his arms around me. He holds me tight, resting his chin on top of my head. "I had to find you," I whisper. "Thank you."

"I have no idea what you're thanking me for," he says. "But you're being unusually nice to me, so I'll take credit for whatever it is."

I lift my face so I can see him. "Are you always so insufferable?"

"That depends. Are you always this tangled up with insufferable men?" he rasps. "Because if so, I can be intolerable."

I peel myself from him and cross my arms. "You are so weird."

He doesn't miss a beat. "You are so pretty."

Warmth creeps into my cheeks and I hope he thinks it's from running. I clear my throat. "Anyway, I came here to say thank you. So, thank you. I'm going now." I toss my thumb over my shoulder.

He grins. "See you around, Mace."

I remember how to move my feet and begin walking the way I came. Once I get a good distance away, I look over my shoulder to see him still standing there, watching me.

"Creep!" I call, but when I turn around, I can't control the smile stretching across my face.