Page 14 of Giving Grace

Not a goddamned thing.

Like this morning never happened.

I toss the note back into the drawer and slam it closed. Standing, I take the beer with me into the bathroom and camp out in the doorway. Whirlpool tub big enough to qualify as a hot tub. Separate walk-in shower that looks like it could fit the New England offensive line and leave room for a cheerleader or two. Dual shower showerheads. Two sink vanity. High-end towels. Spa-quality bath products.

Six months ago, I was digging my own latrine and washing my balls with army-issue wet naps. A month later I was down a testicle and suffering the indignity of having my ass wiped by my best friend while I mentally cataloged all the things in the room I could kill myself with if I wasn’t such a useless lump of shit.

Taking a long pull from my beer, I start to feel the warm, chemical spread of oxy swimming through my system. The pain in my leg starts to melt away and I drain the beer dry in an effort to smother the guilt and apprehension that comes with the relief. The thing that whispers you’re just like your father in my ear, over and over until it’s as loud as a shout.

“Fuck it,” I mutter it out loud, rounding on wonderfully numb legs intent on a trip the kitchen to get myself another beer. Maybe another oxy. I make it as far as the living room before I bitch out and park my ass on the couch. Not because my leg hurts but because turning into my father is a legit possibility and if that’s where I’m heading then, promise or no promise, I might as well just off myself right now and get it over with.

Snagging the remote off the coffee table, and prepare myself for a brain battle royale, trying to figure it out. Looking at it, instead of frustration and confusion, I feel a now familiar mixture of shame and relief because the remote’s button panel is so simple a toddler could figure it out. Aiming it at a huge flat screen hanging on the wall, I punch the big green button marked ON, and resign myself to long, solitary day of doing nothing.

Nine

Grace

What the fuck are you doing, Grace?

Seriously—what the fuck are you doing?

When I asked myself that question an hour ago, the answer was simple—Molly was finally asleep after a long day of driving me bonkers and Cari was zoned out in her studio and without either of them to pester me, I was bored out of my skull.

So, I told myself I was going for a walk. I pulled a brush through my hair and put on some mascara. Slipped on my low-top chucks and knocked on Cari’s studio door before pushing it open.

My sister likes to paint in her underwear, always has, and she has a habit of swiping her loaded paintbrush against her legs while she works, so when I catch sight of a half-naked Cari covered in paint, it’s not a surprise.

“Hey,” I pitch my voice loud enough to combat the earbuds she has buried in her ears.

She pulls a single bud free and lets it dangle from its wire. “Yeah?” she says without looking away from the canvas in front of her.

“Molly’s asleep.” I sigh and lean against the doorframe. “I’m bored.”

“Uhhh… okay.” Frowning at the canvas, Cari swipes her brush along the top of her thigh, leaving a bright blue stripe in its wake. Lifting her brush she reloads it with blue and starts making broad, bold strokes. “So do something.”

I was hoping she’d say that.

“I thought maybe I’d go for a walk or—”

“A walk, for fuck’s sake?” Dropping her arm again, she sticks her brush in a glass jar full of murky liquid. “Just go see him already,” she laughs at me.

“Just go see him?” I immediately bristle because him is Ryan and go see him is exactly what I want to do, I’m just not ready to admit it yet. “What are you talking about? I just—”

Turning away from her canvas, Cari her stacks paint-stained hands on her hips and sighs. “Kathrine Grace Faraday.” She shakes her head at me. “You don’t have to tell me what’s going on with Ryan—you don’t even have to admit that something is going on—I saw it written all over you the second you walked into the kitchen, so don’t stand there and play dumb.” She sounds amused and exasperated when she says it, like when she had to scold Molly for flushing socks down the toilet back home. “Just tell me he’s good to you and so I can stop worrying about it.”

“He—” I nod my head and swallow hard against the lump lodged in my throat because it’s a reminder of the conversation I had with Tess this afternoon. “I don’t know what Ryan and I are. I don’t know what’s happening—that’s the truth.” Slipping into the room on a sigh, I slink my way to the bed and sit on its edge. “I just know that whatever it is, it’s happening fast and that no matter how angry he makes me, I can’t seem to stay away from him.”

“He’s a Gilroy, in all the ways that count.” Cari smiles and shakes her head a little. “So yeah—that sounds about right.” Looking away from me, she reaches for the paintbrush in the jar and gives it a vigorous swish before pulling it out. “You still haven’t told me whether or not he’s good to you.” It’s a problem—or has been in the past—for the both of us. Getting involved with guys who use us. Blind us with pretty words and lofty promises just so they can feel better about hurting us on a whim. I think about the way she looked when she came home last year, standing in our front year with angry red and purple rings around her neck. A busted lip and an eye that was half swollen shut. That’s when I get it. She’s just not being nosy. She’s not trying to be an overbearing older sister. She understands me better than anyone and she’s genuinely worried about me.

I’ll never hurt you, Grace.

Never you and never Molly.

“He’s a Gilroy, right?” I say, even though I know that’s not how Ryan sees himself. “I don’t think any of them could mistreat a woman if their life depended on it.”

“I keep forgetting you just got here,” she says with a soft laugh while she cleans her brush with the hem of her paint-splattered shirt. “That means you missed the Conner Gilroy shitshow.” Before I can ask her what she means by that, she keeps talking. “Just promise me you’re being careful and that if he—”

“He won’t.” I stand up, feeling suddenly defensive. “He won’t hurt me,” I tell her, even though I’m pretty sure it might be a lie. “Either way, I’m a big girl, Cari—I can handle Ryan O’Connell.”

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