Page 85 of Really Truly Yours

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Dragging sweaty palms down my sweaty cheeks, I watch my brother walk away. A dozen steps in, he breaks into a jog.

A run.

No pace I can match, that’s for certain.

With a groan, I stare at the puffy clouds, hunting for silver linings. What to say, what to do? I can keep hoping for the best, although that’s failed me once already.

No one is around, so I bow my head and toss out a few more prayers. God can handle curveballs, right?

I follow Tripp’s path, wondering what his demeanor will be after some cooling-off. When I reach my car, he’s not there. Another half hour passes. I take the trail to its end. Nothing.

More than an hour since he ran, I make the two-mile drive home, eyes peeled.

Avery covers her mouth when I tell her how things went down. The tears unnerve me. The fear we share haunts. Will things change now? Was my fear that Tripp might spiral off into some pit the rest of us can’t comprehend prescient?

The conversations he and I shared about the past, since God in His goodness reunited us, have always left me vaguely unsettled. Every time we talked, me pumping for details about a life I don’t remember, a wall came up.

Dang it. Prayer is the best plan, but I’d be a self-righteous hypocrite if I didn’t admit I’d like to cuss a blue streak right now. Tell my own idiotic self off. The truth has crystalized before my eyes, and I should have followed my gut. There are reasons why my brother resisted the past. I should never have pushed.

And now, the bell I gonged this morning can’t be un-rung.

Damage. Done.

Chapter 18

Sydnee

Autumn is my favorite.

Mornings are crisp and refreshing, making up for any excess warmth during the daytime.

A gentle breeze shimmies the three shirts I’ve pinned to the wire Sam strung between two posts last summer after Grammy’s dryer finally gave up the ghost. A hum on my lips, I dig a fourth from the basket.

“I had no idea people still used clotheslines.”

I swear I have to snatch my soul back into my body, it jumps so high at the deep voice out of nowhere. The shirt isn’t as lucky, sprawling itself across the green grass.

My hand sails to my chest, lingering even once I identify Grayson as the voice’s owner. He lazes against the corner of the house, arms and ankles crossed, as if he’s been watching for longer than the split second it would have taken to round the corner into my backyard. His gray t-shirt is tight over his muscled chest and around his sleekly muscled biceps. A nondescript cap covers waves of hair.

“What are you doing here?” I spit out. Two days of nothing and now, poof?

His gaze tightens at my tone. Sorry, but I scare easily and he shouldn’t stand there and…watch.

Showing my back, I swipe the fallen pullover and shake it out. The lump in my throat is the fault of Grayson startling me—not the world-rocking glimmer in his eyes when I found him watching.

“I see the roof is fixed.”

“Yep.” Thank you. “Funny. Bill would not leave until he’d patched the hole in the bedroom.”

Footsteps swish the too-long grass. Sam spared the half-hour necessary to keep the city at bay, mowing the front while leaving the backyard to grow unchecked. I’d do it myself if it wasn’t his lawn mower.

“Well, it’s tough for a guy who takes pride in his work to leave a job incomplete.”

“Uh-huh. I got the distinct impression someone put him up to it.” And he was such a gentle, caring man. Older, with kind eyes. I could hardly turn him away. All part of Grayson’s strategy, I imagine.

“No clue what you’re talking about.”

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