Page 58 of Every Chance After

“That’s bullshit!”I blurt.

All eyes in the Seagrove Public Library magnetize to me, standing with Marigold in the checkout line. The two women in front of me, whose conversation I’ve just butted into, stare over their shoulders with their gossiping, hate-spewing eyes.

“You heard me,” I tell them. “And you’re jerks for talking like that.”

“Um, mind your own business,” one says ironically.

“Watch your filthy mouth, Grouchy Tripp, or I’ll have a word with Carmela,” says the other.

“You’re going to tattle on me?” I spit back. “Grow up.”

“Sir, quiet, please,” says the librarian at the counter.

“Grady, rules,” Marigold whispers, cowering with embarrassment beside me.

Another checkout opens, and the irritating gossipers flee to it. I scrub a hand over my face as if I can wipe their words away. But I only get angrier the more I think about it.

No one should talk about Marina that way.

It’s been two weeks since I’ve been by her place. Once her migraine subsided and after the awkward encounter with Cora, I reinstated my policy to limit my involvement. The last thing I want to do is make things harder for her with the Sullivans.

But we text often.

This morning, when asking for my usual update on her healing, she answered with an adorable picture of her cats, staring up wantonly at the camera.

We’re cat-tastic!

Her response, as cheesy as it was, made me laugh. I texted back with a similar picture of my three dogs begging for breakfast.

We’re dog-gone happy for you.

Not one of my best jokes, but she still responded with three laughing-with-tears emojis. Swapping pet pics has become a daily trend for us.

Two nights ago, I sent her a picture of an orangey sunset over the lake. The golds and reds mixed so beautifully that it reminded me of her hair. She has sunset hair—I decided. But I didn’t include words. Didn’t know what to say with it, anyway.

Still, she texted back:Oh, Grady. How lovely. I needed that.

Our short communication bursts are nothing compared to our delightful back-and-forths over the dumbest things. Recovering from surgery, stuck in bed or on the couch, I suspect she’s bored.

But I like the engagement. And it’s something I can do for her. Without getting in the way or upsetting Ashe the Ass. He’s home by now, hopefully groveling. I don’t know. I don’t ask.

Instead, she talks about her preference for British TV.

They’re real people, Grady. Not air-brushed or boob-jobbed to please American eyes. Plus, I love the accent. Can you do a British accent?

No. Can you?

Oh, yes. Cockney and the Queen’s English. I practice with the cats.

Of course, she does, I think, grinning. This prompted a phone call so I could hear her attempts. Between laughing my ass off, I assured her they were “passable.” They weren’t. Not even close.

When we returned to texting, I confessed my TV habits.

I watch National Geographic and Discovery. Nature shows. They put me to sleep like a grandfather in a recliner, but it’s how I relax.

If only your dogs could take pics of that, I’d bribe them for copies.

I’m not ashamed of my old-man-ness. I own it.

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