Page 29 of Letters of Faith
“Oh, you know how it is. But enough about me,” she says, batting away my question like a fly buzzing around. I want to tell her I don’t know how it is, but it won’t deter her from what I know is coming. Instead, I keep quiet and wait for her to continue. “We are all so glad to see you here. Right ladies?”
The women around her nod like bobbleheads. I worry their heads might fall off when the nods continue past what should be socially acceptable. They are Mrs. Adams’s loyal followers. If she says jump, they say how high. If she jumps off a bridge, they are going with her—literally. They all went bungee jumping at Mrs. Adams’s insistence two years ago. Sometimes, I wonder if the woman is certifiable. Yet, despite her eccentricities, she’s good for the community—arranging fundraisers, heading festivals, dropping in several times a month to check on the woman who lost her husband to cancer. She hasn’t missed a month since Nate died, and she never comes empty-handed, alwaysbringing apple pie—Nate’s favorite.
“Well—thanks,” I say, drawing the words out and waiting for the other shoe to drop because, with her, there’s always another shoe.
“Since you’re here—” Mrs. Adam starts—and there it is, the other shoe. “We need someone to man a booth for us. Lucille here doesn’t draw in the customers as much as a young, pretty face would.”
She gestures to the woman standing to her right, who looks suspiciously sheepish. Grayson grumbles under his breath beside me, but I don’t catch what he says. Neither Mrs. Adams nor any of the other women have bothered acknowledging Grayson since we’ve been standing here, and as much as I like Mrs. Adams, anger at her blatant slight towards the man who has been there for me the last year bubbles in my chest. I hate it when the townspeople treat Grayson like he’s still that lost kid who caused trouble. He hasn’t been that person in a long time, but they never let him forget it.
I open my mouth to respond, but she barrels over me like a freight train. “Besides, we have some young bucks we would like to introduce you to. It’s about time you start to move on.”
At that, she’s taking my arm and pulling me along with her. I should tell her to stop, pull my arm away, walk back to Grayson, and continue our night, but my mind is frozen from the audacity.
Throughout this whole grief process, there’s always someone telling me how I should grieve. What’s appropriate at what time, and I hate it.
I hate it so much.
Their intentions are pure. I know they are, but that doesn’t stop me from wanting to rage and throw things every time it happens. The problem is that I hate disappointing people—especially those I love. It makes my skin crawl just with the thought of it, so I’ve let them shove their opinions down my throat. But this—this crosses a line.
“That will be enough.”
Grayson’s voice is low and dangerous, just barely heard over thenoise of the crowd, but it causes Mrs. Adams and her posse to stop in their tracks. A shiver runs down my spine when I catch a glimpse of Grayson’s face. It’s stone cold. His blue eyes flicker with fire—dark and dangerous—a soldier standing ready to save the day.
He stalks towards us—his careful control over his anger is apparent with each step he takes. The thing about control, though, is, one slip—one tiny nudge—and then it’s gone, and you’re left with mass destruction.
“Georgia will not be going with you. She didn’t come here to work, and she sure didn’t ask you to set her up. When she is ready to move on, she will, but until then, you will back off. Am I clear?” Grayson says, all while staring Mrs. Adams down. He doesn’t blink, letting the flame burn brighter in his eyes until his irises are consumed with his anger.
To her credit, most grown men would cower under Grayson’s demanding presence, but she doesn’t bat an eye. Staring him down the same way he is her.
I watch as the muscle in his jaw jumps once, grinding his molars together, and then his body relaxes, letting the anger melt from his body and leaving frustration behind.
After a moment, she gives him a nod of acceptance. Letting go of my hand, she turns and shoves through the crowd, her gang of women following closely at her heels.
Turning to Grayson, I see his fists clenching at his sides, the only remnants of his anger. Taking careful steps, I approach him until I’m right in front of him. He doesn’t move, head still held high, but his eyes dip down to mine.
He looks like a wounded animal. I lift my arms slowly as if he might dart if I move too fast. He flinches but otherwise remains immovable until my arms wrap around his waist. He’s pure muscle in a 6’ 3” form.
“Thank you for always saving me,” I whisper into his chest.
As my breath fans across his chest, that stone facade crumbles, and he leans into me, dropping his chin so it’s pressed against the top of my head. His arms wrapped around my shoulders, squeezing me tight to him.
“Anytime, Peach.”
I should pull away. We are in a crowd of people who thrive on gossip, but I can’t make myself—not yet.
It’s been a year since I felt cherished, and I want that connection again, if only for a moment. So, I let myself be selfish.
“I’ve been worried about you,” I say against his chest.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Georgia.”
“But I do, Grayson. I was there for all the times your anger got you in trouble. Don’t get me wrong, I know you had a reason to be angry, but you’ve made so much of yourself. I don’t want to see you go back.”
He jerks back as if I’ve slapped him, and as he stares down at me, there’s hurt written across his features.
“Are you—” he starts and clears his throat to try again. “Are you scared of me?”
My hand finds the line of his jaw, and he relaxes into it just a little bit.
