Page 6 of Letters of Faith
“I bet you are,” Harper coughs under her breath.
“Enough,” Ellie’s voice bounces off the walls, ricocheting until they hit their intended targets.
In all the years I’ve known her, I’ve never heard Ellie raise her voice. I squeeze the tissue in my hand, my veneer cracking. We haven’t even made it to the funeral yet. How will we survive that if we can’t handle planning it?
“Georgia,” Ellie says, her voice calmer now. “The speaker seems like it’s important to Harper. Can we let her decide this one?”
“Yeah, Ellie. That’s fine.”
When I answer, I avoid Grayson’s eyes. I know what I’ll find there—disappointment.
Chapter 3
Grayson
12 months ago
Spots swim in front of my eyes as I step out of the dimly lit church. The tie around my neck is suffocating, and it’s only marginally better when I pull at the knot pushing into my Adam’s apple. Unbuttoning the cuffs of my sleeves, I roll the material over my forearms, revealing the tattoos that wrap around them. A fresh one stings at the base of my wrist where my shirt has rubbed over it the past two hours. It’s an orchid, small and unnoticeable—a promise. Compared to the others surrounding it, it’s feminine but fitting all the same.
Taking the steps two at a time, I descend into the crowd of people milling about in the parking lot—neighbors talking among neighbors—but as I walk through them, their voices become hushed, eyes turning judgmental.
I don’t lower my eyes, making direct eye contact with each person I pass. If the townspeople had their way, they would have run me out years ago, specifically when I was a teenage menace, drinking too much for my own good and wreaking havoc. But I’m not that kid anymore, and I’m not easily pushed around. It’s what makes me a good businessman, and my business has brought them a lot of job opportunities over the last couple of years—not that they willever acknowledge that. They can ask me for donations for their kid’s softball team, but heaven forbid they appreciate the boost in the local economy.
The feeling is mutual, though. I despise this town, yet I willingly choose to be here for two reasons—and two reasons only. Well, one reason now, I guess.
Pain stabs my gut as I let my eyes wander, searching for the sole reason I will continue to stay. After several seconds, I find her standing at the edge of the parking lot, politely smiling and greeting people as they walk by her.
Georgia, the town’s sweetheart, their darling girl, and my best friend’s wife is putting on a brave face so no one worries, but just one glance should tell these intentionally blind idiots that she’s hurting underneath that polite smile.
Her eyes land on me, and a plea for help burns in those green irises.
For one minute, I pause, considering the weight of the letter burning a hole in my pocket—a letter that, if anything, will only add to her heartache today. Guilt eats at my insides when I think about what it means for me—for Georgia—but now’s not the time to think about it. I place my guilt back in the nicely wrapped box it came from, intending to leave it there forever.
Dropping my shoulder, I push through the people waiting to talk to Georgia, not bothering to apologize or listen to the protests behind my back.
When she called to tell me Nate was gone, I was sad—of course, I was sad. The man was my best friend, my only friend, but my sadness was overpowered by the fact that the strongest woman I knew was breaking—and if she broke, so would I.
I promised myself that day I would do anything to protect her—even if it meant protecting her from herself.
Georgia is a perpetual people pleaser, and I can see that comingout in her today. She refuses to tell anyone she needs space because she doesn’t want to hurt their feelings. Standing by the coffin before the service, she flinched whenever someone touched her. It took everything I had not to intervene—it wasn’t the time. She needed to feel like she was giving to someone else so she wouldn’t fall apart—but now it’s time she let it happen.
Stepping in front of her, I block the path of the crowd that continues to smother her and place my hands on either side of her face, lifting it so she’s looking at me. I notice Harper shaking her head out of the corner of my eye. Her husband stands by her side, glaring at everyone around him. I ignore them both. Harper has a lot of opinions, but none that matter to me.
“What do you need me to do?” I ask. My voice is low, so no one else can hear. I might not be afraid of offending the people here, but Georgia is. She hates upsetting anyone—hates confrontation—but if she needs me to take the fall and get her out of here, I will because she deserves as much peace as she can get today.
“I’m fine,” she says, but it’s a lie. Her breathing is becoming shallow, and I know if I don’t get her out of here soon, we will have a repeat of what happened a week ago.
“You’re not. You don’t have to pretend with me. I’m not one of them,” I say, jerking my head to the people behind us.
She starts to protest, reaching to push my hands off her face, but instead, her fingernails dig into my skin, holding on for dear life as her breathing quickens.
That alone makes my decision for me.
I gently pull my hands away from her face and grab both her hands in one of mine. Then I turn so she’s behind me—hidden from all the vultures who can’t seem to understand that this is not how she needs to grieve. Lowering my eyebrows, I glare—making eye contact with each of them until a chorus of “hmphs” resounds through the crowd,but I’m not here to be liked.
I’m here for Georgia.
“That will be all,” I say, my voice low and menacing—leaving no room for argument.
