Page 18 of Letters of Faith
He’s lying on the couch beside his desk, with his face down into the cushions. When he hears me step towards him, he turns his head up so I can see his face. I hold my breath so that I don’t gasp. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him like this. His eyes are red from a sleepless night, and the scruff on his jaw is longer than usual. His clothes are rumpled and creased from a night of sleeping in them, and when I get close enough, I can smell alcohol on him.
“Oh, Gray, what happened? Why didn’t you call me?”
A mirthless laugh slips past his lips, and he winces at the sound.
“I was coping.”
“With which part—Nate or your brother?”
He’s been spiraling since the day his dad, Kip Montgomery, showed up in his life, and I don’t know if it’s because he wants to have a relationship with his dad or because he’s so scared to have a family that he might lose. Either way, this version of him scares me. There was a time when Grayson was so lost in his anger that I never thought he would find his way out, but when Nate’s dad left, it gave him a reason to be there for someone else. Now he’s spiraling again, and I have to find a way to be there for him.
He’s all I have left.
“Both,” he says, turning his head back into the cushions.
Sweeping his legs off the couch, I sit down beside him.
“I’d be happy to beat Brooks up for you if you’d like,” I say, shrugging my shoulder.
A real chuckle shakes his back.
“Easy, Peach.” His words are muffled by the cushions his face is shoved into, but I still hear the smile in his voice. I don’t want to be the reason he loses that smile, but we need to talk.
“Gray, sit up and talk to me. Why didn’t you call me yesterday?”
There’s a grunt, and then he’s sitting up. His thigh brushes against the outside of mine, and I let my eyes wander over his frame, taking in just how bad the situation is. He looks haggard—like he’s lived a thousand lives in the past year.
He’s not looking at me when he responds, spreading his legs wide and resting his elbows on his knees so that he’s staring at his hands. “You told me what you needed yesterday, Georgia, and I respected that. There aren’t many people in this town who respect that you are big enough to make your own decisions, but I do. Nate might have been my best friend, but he was your husband. Yesterday wasn’t about my grief. It was about yours. I handled it my way, and you handled it yours. Now, if you had told me you needed me, I would have beenthere, but don’t feel bad because you didn’t.”
“Gray—” I say, laying my hand against his leg. “You aren’t an island, and I’m not so far gone that I can’t recognize that other people are hurt by Nate’s death, too. I’m not that selfish.”
“No one’s ever accused you of being selfish, Peach. It’s the opposite. You could use a few more selfish decisions,” he says, turning his head to look up at me, a smirk causing his dimple to poke in. Something warm settles in my stomach when he looks at me that way—like he can see past the broken shell of who I’ve become to the girl I used to be before cancer tore my life apart.
I don’t ask him what he means. Grayson’s been telling me to make more selfish decisions for months, but that’s hard. I don’t like disappointing people. The most selfish thing I’ve done my whole life is stay at Grayson’s house, and that’s only because I can’t physically force myself to go back to a house where I watched my husband die.
I think back to the letter still hidden between the pages of my book.
Moving on—loving anyone but Nate—feels selfish.
For a minute, I debate whether I should tell Grayson about the letter to get his opinion, but when I look over, he’s already standing and looking a little green. I want to tell him to go home and rest, but he’s stubborn, and I would be wasting my breath.
The letter can wait.
“Let’s do something tonight in memory of Nate—together,” I say.
He stretches his arms above his head, turning to face me. “What did you have in mind?”
A grin spreads across my face because I know exactly what Nate would do if he were here. “Leave it to me.”
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“Georgia, it’s freezing outside. You’re going to catch a cold,” Grayson calls behind me.
“Oh, come on, you big baby. When did you turn into such a wimp?”
“When I woke up with a hangover.”
“And whose fault is that?” I quip.
