Page 21 of Every Chance After

“That’s pretty good,” I admit, “as long as you burn that sketch.”

Her face grows serious again. “Can I just throw it away?”

“Fine.”

I exit the guest bedroom, once the room I shared with Colin, and sneak into the bathroom across the hall.

Leaning against the sink, I vaguely remember Dad finding me in Marina’s room once she’d fallen asleep, driving mehome—my childhood home, it turns out—and pushing me into a shower. Trying to eat, but failing. Crawling into bed, sopping up tears with my pillow like she did.

I can’t remember the last time I cried like that. I don’t cry, generally. Not that I have some idiotic machoism about it—men can, should, and do cry—but I prefer not to. When you’re a doctor, it’s best to be as emotionless as possible. It’s oddly comforting.

Staring into the bathroom mirror, I look older than yesterday. Marigold’s drawing wasn’t that far off. Baggy red eyes. Matted lines from sleep and worry. Rough stubble, grays mixing with the browns. I look almost as bad as I feel.

Is she okay? Should I call? What would I say?

Hey, Marina. It’s me, the asshole who wrecked your wedding day and nearly ended your life. Can you please alleviate my guilt and tell me that you’re okay? Can I hold your hand again so I’ll feel better?

Goddamnit.

Splashing my face with ice-cold water, I know I must leave her alone. She doesn’t need me around, reminding her of what she’s lost.

She’s suffered enough.

Nothing can be done.

In the kitchen, the dogs yap and yowl when I appear. Harley Quinn, my chocolate lab with a stubbed tail, reaches me first, wiggling her ass and drooling on the hardwoods. I rub behind her ears with one hand and along Hannibal’s back with the other. A Bassett Hound, he howls his appreciation, perking his ears, one of them only halfway, as it was nearly ripped off as a puppy. Finally, my three-legged German Shepherd, Blackbeard, moseys between them, politely waiting his turn, which I often tell him is very un-pirate-like.

Fighting the soreness, I wrestle them to the floor, letting them get their fill of my overdue attention.

A shadow moves over us. Mom stands there, hands on hips and looking exasperated, watching us with a mix of delight and criticism.

“Grady, don’t get them wound up. They just settled. They’ve been underfoot all morning like they know something’s wrong.”

“Yeah, they want to go home,” I say, standing up.

She pushes a sandwich plate at me. “Here. Have a BLAT.”

“What’s a BLAT?”

“A bacon, lettuce, avocado, and tomato sandwich. You need lycopene for antioxidants and vitamin C in the tomatoes, and avocado is a superfood, rich in vitamins C, K, and E. You need the energy. The bacon makes it taste good,” she explains. “Right, doggies?”

Blackbeard grunts an affirmative, speaking for the group.

Mom, a.k.a. Carmela Tripp, is the town’s pharmacist and a staunch believer that the right vitamin, mineral, medication, or meal will cure anything from a sour stomach to a bad mood—she’s yet to convince me.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her voice pitching higher.

“Fine.” I take the plate and sit at the elongated island next to Marigold.

“I could call Dr. Hinky.” She reaches for her phone.

“Gil’s shrink? Why?”

“You need someone to talk to, Grady,” she sighs. “What happened yesterday?—”

“Not now, Mom. Please.”

“It’s traumatic,” she continues, “and not just for… them.”

---