Page 131 of Goodbye Again
“Why are you picking a fight?” he asks, running his hands down my arms and loosely holding my wrists.
“I don’t know,” I admit.But you do,a small voice that sounds like Gramma says.
He wraps me in his arms, my cheek pressed against his chest. I can hear his heart beating, reminding me of every memory we have. More good than bad. More right than wrong.
But the last sentence echoes in my mind later that night as I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling.
More right than wrong.
More right than wrong.
More right than wrong.
The pulse of the thought repeats over and over until I’m certain it’s a lie.
Gramma Elle
“If you want to kill your husband, feed them lots of salt.”
“HEY, GRAMMA,” I SAY, climbing the porch steps. The weather is mild and the air smells like freshly planted petunias. She’s sipping an iced tea and rocking in the wooden rocking chair.
“Your footsteps seem heavy today.”
I nod and collapse in the chair next to her.
“Wedding plans stressful?” She glances at me and back at the tire swing in the yard.
“Not really,” I answer, letting the light sway of the swing hypnotize me.
“Cold feet?”
My gaze darts to her for a split second before I focus once again on the tire swing.
“Julia—”
“No, Gramma!” I interrupt, exasperated.
She sips her tea with a smirk on her face.
“You don’t believe me, but I’m not getting cold feet. I love Donavan. I’m marrying him. I have the dress. The menu. The invites have been sent. The wedding is sixty days away.”
She sips again with an insolent look on her face. “Sounds romantic.”
“Gramma...” I whine.
“Listen, Julia, I love you so much and you’re so good at what you do. But you’re only good at it when it comes to other people, not yourself.”
My brow furrows. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, you aren’t being honest with yourself. You aren’t examining your emotions and where they’re actually coming from,” she says.
I process for a moment. “You should have been a therapist.”
She laughs and it evaporates into a sigh. “What are you thinking right now?”
“I don’t think I’m ready,” I say.
Gramma looks at me unconvinced. She doesn’t have to speak for me to know she thinks I’m being dishonest. I stare at her as long as I can without cracking.
