Page 54 of From Ice to Grace
“Father God, only You can bring true healing,” I whisper, my heart reaching toward Heaven. “Help me heal from these wounds, please. You want us to have grace with others…but how? How did You give grace when others didn’t deserve it?”
Sitting on the couch, I wait for an answer, for peace, for anything. I run my fingers over the blanket and pillow that is now neatly folded. Declan must’ve at least made his makeshift bed before leaving this morning.
Have grace with Declan.
The words echo, louder than I want them too. Grace for Declan, forgiveness for Axel. My gaze shifts over the boxes standing everywhere—some half-packed, others taped and ready to go.
He knows I’m moving now. He knows the secret I’ve been keeping from my brother.
In a little more than a week, I’ll have to move. I’m still stuck on exactly what I’m going to do. Realistically, I know I’ll have to move in with EJ. That is the only option if I’m serious about staying another four weeks to try and salvage this situation.
Although right now, that’s not the option I want to take. Last night he made it clear that he felt sorry for me. Yes, he helped me when I had nowhere else to go, and for that I’ll always be grateful. The part I can’t stand is that he somehow ended up thinking of me as someone who can’t help herself, someone who’s entirely incapable of handling her life.
Have grace with EJ.
But not moving in with him would be like giving up. I’d have to accept that New York didn’t work out and I have to go back to Sweden, then I might as well get everything organized and head back in two weeks.
The mere thought of that has my throat tightening.
Just the thought of seeing Axel again has my stomach churning, especially considering the way I saw him last.
With someone else. In a very less than appropriate position.
Have grace with yourself, Avah.
My head is spinning, tears are burning my eyes, and I’m going back and forth between forgiveness, grace and the reasons I have to hold onto my unforgiveness.
A knock on the door rips me from my spiral and I swallow the tears that are threatening to spill. Sighing, I consider ignoring whoever is on the other side of the door. It’s probably EJ coming to apologize for last night, or coming to get his phone.
And then he’ll see the boxes I tried to hide from him yesterday.
But since Declan knows, I might as well face the music. I’m sure he’ll tell EJ at some point.
Setting down my Bible on the coffee table, I get up to open the door, fully resolved to fight this out with my brother.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, my eyes widening in surprise.
Declan Murphy is standing in front of me. My gaze travels over his now freshly showered frame dressed in sweats and a Rangers hoodie, his dark hair is still damp. The butterfly band-aid above his eye is the only reminder that I dragged him off the floor of a bar last night.
“Do you always greet visitors with such a friendly face, or am I just special?” he asks, giving me his signature smile, dimple and all. “I owe you a car, remember? I borrowed your keys this morning and had it cleaned. It smells a lot nicer now, I promise.”
“You stole my car?” I ask, a bit annoyed that I didn’t notice it wasn’t even there when I got back, and more annoyed that he felt he could take it without asking me.
“The words you’re looking for are thank you,” he says easily, brushing past me. The scent of a fresh shower and cologne follows him. I won’t lie, it’s better than the bourbon and barfloor he was wearing last night.
He heads straight for my couch and plants himself there. I’m still trying to adjust to the visual of having Declan Murphy manspreading on my couch, the frown between my eyes only growing deeper with each passing second, when he gestures to the boxes in the living room.
“Why’s everything packed up,” he asks. “Or did you tell me last night?”
“What are you doing?” I ask, keeping the door open that it might remind him that this is not his apartment.
“I told you I brought back your car,” he says like it’s the most obvious thing.
“Yes…but what are you doing on my couch?” I ask, trying to figure out why he’s on my couch for the second time in the span of twenty-four hours.
He leans back, smug. “Sitting. Should I lay down instead?” he asks, kicking his feet up and resting his hands behind his head. He grins, his dimple making an appearance again.
“Where are my keys?” I ask, ignoring the strange flutter in my stomach his smile summons.
