Page 2 of Saving Grace

I wasn’t in the mood for chasing her. It was noon, on a Monday. Someone would call the police and drawing the attention of the police was always unwanted in my line of business.

“Grace Devereux, when we get grown, I’m gon’ marry you.” I drawled in the southern accent I had long ago tucked away. Those were the words I’d said to her twelve years earlier when I was just a thirteen-year-old, malnourished boy from the local trailer park.

She cocked her head to the right and scanned my face in search of recognition.

It didn't take her long to find it. I watched the story of us flash in her pretty hazel eyes. Her memories transforming her facial features.

“Atticus?” Her southern accent wrapped around my name. I felt it tug at my heart.

I nodded.

She gasped. Her hand flew up to cover her heart-shaped lips, then suddenly she launched herself into me, wrapping me in her arms. She squeezed me as if she would never let go and I was hoping she wouldn’t. I encircled my arms around her Inhaling her, breathing in the scent that was so indescribably Grace deep into my lungs.

I was not surprised to find that she still smelled like strawberries. I remember spending many a Saturday’s with her, walking three miles in the hot Mississippi sun to the local flea market so she could buy cheap bottles of strawberry lotions, body sprays and soaps. She loved the smell. Said it calmed her down. Being in her presence calmed me, she was like a salve on my wounded soul.

Pulling away, she went to back up.

I tightened my hold on her, pulling her against me.

She draped her arms around my neck. She smelled so good.

“Well, ok then, I guess I don’t need my personal space.” Her voice was still as sweet as her grandma’s iced tea.

She cocked an eyebrow and smiled up at me. I could feel the warmth of it on my face. “God, you look so different.”

“So do you.” She had become a spectacle to stare at, with the type of face men waged wars over. And she felt so soft. So, fucking soft against me. I couldn’t help myself. My eyes fell to her exposed cleavage. Yes, she had certainly changed a lot. The large breasts she had pressed against the hard plains of my chest hadn’t been there before, she was barely a B cup back then.

“Stop looking at my tits.”She swatted my arm with her purse. Again, she attempted to remove herself from my embrace, but I held on. It had been so long since I’d touched her, I wasn’t ready to let go yet.

A few seconds passed with us just standing in silence, examining each other’s faces.

She was still the prettiest woman I’d ever seen. Her round face gave her the appearance of being much younger, I’d developed an obsession with the singer Jill Scott a few years ago because she and Grace favored so much.

She surprised me when she reached out and ghosted the soft pad of her thumb across the long scar that started at my eyebrow and ended at the collar of my dress shirt. Her eyes filled with tears. She was remembering what I’d tried to forget, but never seemed to be able to.

The memories of the abuse I suffered at the hands of my father still haunted me—even years after I’d killed him. Sometimes I’d wake up in the middle of the night, drenched in sweat, and fighting invisible demons.

Feeling her pity for me rolling off her in waves, I dropped my hand from her waist, letting her go. I took a step back, no longer wanting her in my personal space. I didn’t need nor want her pity. The person she remembered, the one who’d cried in her arms the night his daddy had hit him in the head with a shovel as a punishment for running away— no longer existed. He couldn’t exist. He was weak.

Growing up with my father had been hell. He was a mean, bigoted drunk who would beat me and my momma for nothing more than breathing too loud. After she ran her off the abuse only got worse.

I grew to hate him so much that even after his death I refused to even speak his name.

When I finally got fed up with him I tried to run away like my mother had done. I nearly starved to death out in the woods. Grace had found me then, when I was at my lowest and salvaged what little bit of my humanity I had left. The only part of that life I wanted to hold on to was Grace. But I wanted her without pity or guilt.

“Atticus.” She shifted, reaching for me.

I sidestepped, avoiding her touch. Even with us being outside in the wide open, her gaze on me made me feel claustrophobic, like the past was closing in on me and trying to suck the life out of me. I took another step back, running away from the comfort she offered.

She frowned and took a step forward.

I raised my hand in an attempt at warding off her empathy “Don’t, I— that’s the past. Let’s be about the present.” My voice shook. I cleared my throat and slid my sweaty palms into the pockets of my pants. That’s all it took for me to get back into character, Atticus had been replaced by Roman.

Roman was strong, Roman didn’t need her, as much. She didn’t know all of Roman’s secrets and shame.

Roman was nothing like the boy who cried on her shoulder, who had begged her for food and affection. Her Atticus was dead and buried back in the swamps of Mississippi. I was now Roman.

A new man, not a fucking weak boy. I’d been reinvented. I was no longer needy and pathetic and I owed it all to one man. My life had changed for the better the day my grandfather—Roman Esposito found me.

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