Page 36 of Her Pretty Words

Later into the night, right as my guests are beginning to leave, the irksome pelican shows up on my porch railing. Tammy lets out a laugh.

“What?” I ask.

“I’m just surprised that bird still comes here.”

“What do you mean?” Sarah asks.

Tammy shakes her head. “Macy’s grandfather fed him like he was his pet.” She looks at me. “Your grandma reprimanded him for it, but after a while, I think she started liking the bird. I caught her ‘dropping’ food off the porch a few times when it came by.”

“How do you know it’s the same one?” Sarah asks.

“It’s injured,” Tammy says.

I squint my eyes and notice he isn’t putting his weight on his left foot.

“Your grandpa named him Ivin,” Tammy says, grabbing her purse. She walks down the porch steps. “Thank you for a pleasant evening, ladies, but it’s way past this old hag’s bedtime.”

“I think I’m going to call it a night too,” Sarah says.

Once they leave, I grab the bottle of wine, three empty glasses, and my charcuterie board. I balance all the items and manage to open the sliding glass door, but once I’m inside, I have to set the bottle down or everything will slip from my grasp. I place it on the closest thing I can reach, the shelf of my grandparent’s ocean treasures.

I jump from the sound of glass shattering. I slowly look down to find a pile of broken sand dollars, cracked starfish, broken glass, and spilled wine. I can’t do anything besides freeze, as if I can stop time from moving forward.

My grandparent’s favorite thing in this house was the collection, and in one fell swoop, I destroyed it. I bend down to see if anything is salvageable. The only item that didn’t break is a bleached piece of coral. I flip it over and a sob leaves me. It’s stained by the wine. I toss it with a frustrated cry.

I curl into the fetal position and weep, not caring how loud I’m being. I think about that summer before they died. How Walter told me to stay in Idaho and I listened. How my knees met the concrete of our garage four months later when I got the call that a drunk driver went eighty miles an hour into my grandpa’s truck, who was sitting in it at a red light. He was a minute from returning home to bring my grandma flowers like he did every Saturday for over fifty years.

I felt numb when I answered the phone the next day, and the person on the other line told me that my grandma had a heart attack from the news. I remember rushing to the airport, and right as I made it to my terminal, it was too late. She was already gone.

I’m unable to breathe past the splintering pain in my chest. My head throbs and I squeeze my eyes tight.

I startle when I feel a gentle touch on my cheek. My eyes shoot open.

Grayson is crouched in front of me. His eyebrows pull together, and I’ve never seen him look so serious. “Breathe, Mace,” he says tenderly.

I try to take a deep breath, but I can’t stop the sobs that leave me.

He pulls me off the ground beneath my arms and then folds me into the warmth of his embrace. My cheek presses against his chest and the rhythm of his heart beneath my ear soothes me, but I can’t help but notice how fast it beats.

I don’t know how long I’m in his arms, but eventually, once my breathing has slowed and I’m no longer crying, he asks in a voice that promises death, “Did someone hurt you?” He stiffens the longer I take to answer.

“No.” My voice comes out as a broken whisper.

“What happened? I heard you screaming and I—” He chokes on his words. “I wasterrified.”

“I broke my grandparent’s collection,” I whisper, gesturing to the mess. “And then grief sort of took over,” I say, hoping it is explanation enough.

I feel the pad of his finger beneath my chin. His touch is surprisingly gentle as he lifts my face toward his. His breath catches when he looks at me. “You’re bleeding.” He quickly picks me up as if I weigh nothing. He’s careful to avoid stepping on glass.

He sets my butt on the counter and grabs a roll of paper towels. He spreads my legs, steps between them, and never removes his concerned gaze. I’m stuck in a trance as his face gets closer to mine, until I feel the warmth of his breath against my skin. His eyes are on my temple, then they meet mine for amoment before a sharp pain makes me cry out. I gasp, blinking at the small shard of glass he pulled from my skin, that he now holds between his fingers. He presses a bundled up paper towel to the spot.

“How did you get inside?” I ask.

“Your front door was unlocked.”

I take in his appearance. He’s wearing loose sweats and nothing else. He must’ve jumped out of bed. He doesn’t even have shoes on, and I wince at the thought of walking barefoot on the tiny white rocks in our front yards. His naked chest makes a chill lick down my spine. His body is sculpted like he lives at the gym.Beautiful.

He removes the paper towel and inspects the injury. “The cut isn’t deep. A bandage should take care of it.”

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