Page 35 of Letters of Faith
Pulling out a bar stool, I put the bottle of conditioner and brush on the counter in front of me.
“Maybe a little.”
“We’ll get there.”
And that’s the part that confuses me. He never acts like my pain is just mine to handle. We were friends before Nate died, but he was always more Nate’s than mine. I don’t get why he’s done so much for me, but I also don’t have enough energy to question him today.
Turning from the stove, he slides a plate of spaghetti and garlic toast in front of me.
“Eat,” he demands.
His voice is forceful, but his eyes soften when he says it.
“I’m not hungry,” I protest.
“Georgia, you’re going to eat if I have to feed you myself. I’m not letting you fall into the hole of your depression again. I didn’t notice last time until it was too late, but I see you this time—so eat.”
He holds my gaze in a test of wills until, finally, I blink.
“Fine, but I have to get the knots out of my hair first,” I say, pointing to the brush on the counter.
Without a word, Grayson walks around the counter until he’s standing beside me. Then he picks up the conditioner and spritzes it into my hair. The brush is in front of me, and he picks it up, gentlystroking it through my hair.
My eyes drift close, and a content sigh slips past my lips. Having someone brush your hair is a different type of intimacy. Grayson’s fingers follow the path of the brush, massaging my scalp as he works the tangles out.
“Gray—” I whisper.
“Shh, Peach. Just let me take care of you.”
And because I am powerless to resist this man, I do.
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Everything around me is white. The floor blends in with the walls and the ceiling, making it hard to determine where one starts and the other ends.
A figure steps out of the brightness surrounding me, and my heart pitter patters to an unnatural rhythm.
Nate.
I know I’m dreaming because I only ever see him in my dreams anymore, but those dreams have started to become few and far between. I’m forgetting him, and that hurts.
“Hi, baby,” he says, drawing closer but staying just out of reach.
I want to reach out and touch him, feel his skin against my hand, but every time I’ve tried, my hand passes through him—a mirage, like all the dreams we planned together.
“I miss you,” I whisper.
“I miss you, too—-more than you can ever know, but you have Grayson now. He’s taking good care of you. Let him, Georgia.”
My eyes fly open, and Nate disappears into the recesses of my mind. Every night I go to sleep, I crave these dreams—one more night I get to spend with Nate, even though I know it’s only in my mind.
Tonight’s dream falls under the umbrella of guilt. I don’t know when it happened, but Grayson has started to feel less like a friend and more like—I don’t know. I don’t know what category he falls under anymore, making my stomach churn whenever I think about it.
Gray took care of me last night. After he finished brushing my hair, we ate in silence, and then he guided me over to the couch, stuck a book in my hand, and turned a movie on for me.
It was comfortable. My chest ached a little less when he was there.
Then, when I fell asleep reading, he scooped me up in his arms again and carried me to my bed. That was the second time he had carried me. The first time, I was too lost in my fog to notice, but the second time, all I could focus on was how his biceps bunched against my side.
