Page 7 of Letters of Faith
I don’t wait for them to respond to my threat. With Georgia’s hand still in mine, I pull her along so that she stays behind me, away from the crowd, and when we reach my truck, I open the door, pull her in front of me, and lift her by her waist into the passenger seat. Tears swim in her eyes, waiting to spill over her long eyelashes as her chin wobbles.
“Let it out, Georgia,” I say, my thumb rubbing gently across her wrist. “You don’t have to be strong—not today.”
As the tears start falling onto her cheeks, her emerald eyes lift so I can see all the pain she’s hidden over the last year. It’s enough to bring me to my knees.
“Thank you,” she whispers, and those two words finally drive home the trouble I’m in.
______________________
The road in front of Georgia and Nate’s house is packed with cars. I let out a curse that has Georgia throwing me a glare. It’s a sign of life, and I’m tempted to let another drop just to see it again.
“Do you want to decide what to do, or do you want me to?” I ask, throwing her another glance.
She looks so small in the front seat of my truck, her black dress swallowing her frame. She’s lost weight in the two months since she found out that Nate was terminal. Dark circles line the undersides of her eyes, making her look sick.
“I should probably go in since everyone is here,” she says, avoiding eye contact.
Slamming on my breaks, we stop in the middle of the subdivision road.
“Georgia,” I say, leaving one hand on the steering wheel and the other gripping the center console. “I didn’t ask what you think those people expect you to do. I asked whatyouwanted to do. You don’t owe anybody anything. I know it’s not in your nature, but today, it’s okay for you to be selfish.”
Her brows knit together as if she can’t fathom the thought, and the truth is, she probably can’t. “They’re waiting on me. It would be rude not to show up. Besides, where would I go?”
My knuckles are starting to turn white on the steering wheel. Everything in me is screaming at me to pull my truck into her driveway and kick every one of these overbearing busybodies out, but I won’t, at least not until she tells me that’s what she needs.
“Let’s pretend it wouldn’t be rude to leave. Would you want to stay then?” I ask.
“No,” she whispers.
“Why not?” I prompt.
She’s folding the hem of her dress between her hands over and over again, worrying it and creating wrinkles. Her eyes stay on her hands as she says, “It hurts to be in that house.”
It’s answer enough for me.
Throwing my truck in reverse, I place my hand on the back of her headrest as I watch behind me, avoiding cars until I can turn around.
“What are you doing?”
Coming to a stop in a driveway down the street, I turn back around and throw the gearshift into drive.
“I’m doing what you asked.”
She looks at me, confused. “I just said that I wanted to go in there.”
“No. You said that you should probably go in there. Then we played pretend, and you said it hurts you—so I made an executive decision.”
“An executive decision,” she questions.
“Yeah. We’re leaving.”
“And going where?”
“My house.”
Her mouth falls open, and she stares at me, bewildered. Color fills her cheeks for the first time in months. Before he died, I went to visit Nate every day, and each time, I would find the same picture when I walked in—Nate asleep in the hospital bed they had brought into the living room and Georgia sitting beside him, watching him as if he might take his last breath if she looked away. Loving Nate through his death took a toll on her.
“Grayson,” she chides.
