Chapter Forty-Seven

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Tears stream down my cheeks and drip off my jaw at a pace I can't slow down. I can feel the muscles in my chin trembling, like a child who's been scolded, and I look up to the cloudless sky, as if the brightness of the day will soothe me. My stomach turns – growing more nauseous by the second – as the anguish in me continues to grow. I moan around an unreleased sob that's causing my throat to ache, and my chest feels heavy as I force myself to hold it in until I have some privacy.

Thankfully my parents aren't home, so I put the roast beef in the fridge and run up to my bedroom. I slam the door behind me and press my forehead against the cool wood. As much as I'm trying to convince myself anger and confusion are the reasons I'm crying, I can't fight the intrusive thoughts and crippling sadness that's consuming me at the idea that maybe Greyson isn't keeping anything from me. Maybe he's not going through something. Maybe he really can't ever trust me again, and he's simply changed his mind about me. About us.

Can I really be upset with him though, if that's the way he feels? I'd like to think I'd be able to trust Greyson if he'd kept a huge secret from me for as long as I did from him, but I can't say for sure I would.

I slap the palm of my hand against the door as a scream builds in my throat, but when I open my mouth to release it, guttural, strangled sobs erupt out of me and echo through my quiet bedroom.

What happened? Why is he acting like the last couple of months have meant nothing? Like we mean nothing? His hurtful words today and the sweet and supportive things he's said to me over the last few weeks contradict themselves. Not to mention the ways he's kissed me and held me, looked into my eyes, and touched me in ways no man has, well...ever. He stood up to Will when he demanded I go back to New York with him, telling him there was no way I was leaving with him, or anyone. He risked assault charges by getting in a fist fight on my front yard – where he broke Will's nose, might I add – for Christs Sake! He protected me. He promised he'd never hurt me, but he has.

I flop onto the bed and clutch my pillow against my chest, squeezing my eyes shut as another wave of sadness hits me. Tears fill my eyes and blur my vision, and I try to blink them away, but when I do my thick, mascara coated lashes stick together. My chest feels like it's being crushed by a one-hundred-pound boulder. My lungs are on fire, and I keep trying to take deep breaths, desperate to fill them with air. Snot seeps from my nose and runs over my top lip, and I roughly wipe it away with the back of my hand.

I can't stop crying. Why can't I stop crying? And I'd hate to see myself right now. All swollen-eyed, snotty-nosed, and red in the cheeks. I don't cry pretty like they do in movies and television shows. My skin gets blotchy and the tip of my nose turns bright red. I sob long after the tears have stopped, leaving me with tearless sniffles and violent gasps of air – almost to the point of hyperventilation.

But despite the pain, and the sadness, and the heartbreak I'm feeling right now, I'm grateful, because the tears pouring from my eyes are proof that I'm alive. In the last two months I've been numb. I've been vacant. I've been completely empty. I've been close – too close – to the familiarity of wanting to die, and I never want to go back there. Tears mean I'm feeling, and feeling means I'm living, so perhaps I should thank my tears for reminding me that I'm still here, still fighting, and at the end of the day, I'm lucky, because I have something that hurts to lose.



I'm still in my room long after the sun goes down. Long after I hear my father walk through the front door, home from work, and long after my mother announces dinner is ready from the bottom of the stairs. I thought making some social media posts and working on my first article for my blog would take my mind off everything, but it didn't. It actually made me feel worse, seeing as how Greyson helped me choose the subjects of my next two posts and what outfits I was going to wear.

I've cried most of the day, and even though heartbreak has been in my rearview mirror as of late, I haven't forgotten that crying over a man can completely drain a person. I haven't had the energy to do much more than nap, stare at the ceiling and try to read a book, and when I realize I've been reading the same paragraph for the last half-hour, I toss it aside and turn on the television. Almost as soon as I start to get lost in a true-crime show, there's a soft knock on my bedroom door.

"Come in," I say, my voice raspy from hours of crying.

"Hey, Dellybell," my father says. "You okay?"

"Mmhmm."

"You sure? Are you feeling alright?"

"I'm fine."

He slides my legs toward the wall and sits down on the edge of my bed. "You didn't come down for dinner."

"Not hungry."

"Okay." He sighs and places his hand on my blanket-covered thigh. "I thought you had plans with Greyson."

I turn off the TV and lift myself off the pillow. "I did, but we broke up instead."

My father's head turns toward me and he frowns, but he doesn't necessarily look surprised. "You what?"

"You heard me. Don't make me say it again."

"What happened?"

"Let's see, he'll never trust me again after lying about NYU, he doesn't want to be with me, and he wants me to go back to New York and be with Will because he came to South Grove to get me back, something Greyson never would have done." I drop my eyes and pick at the pale pink cable knit blanket covering my legs. "So...yeah."

"I'm sorry, Del."

I'm sorry? That's all my father has to say? He admittedly wanted to punch Will in the face simply because he's a pansy-assed, mama's boy with a trust fund who physically tried to force me to go back to New York with him, but when the son he never had, Greyson fucking McKinnie, breaks his baby girl's heart all he has to say is I'm sorry?

I was pretty sure, but now I'm convinced there's something Greyson isn't telling me, and I think my father knows what that something is.

"It was so weird, dad. One day we're practically living together and the next he's telling me he doesn't trust me and to go away. It all came completely out of nowhere. I'm just...I'm so sad," I say, batting my eyelashes as I try my best to bait him. "He shattered what's left of my heart after he promised he never would."

"Well, he shouldn't have done that."

"The way he acted earlier...it isn't him. I can't help but think that he's trying to protect me from something. I just can't figure out what it could be."

I know my father inside and out, which means I know his tells, and the minute he looks away and starts scratching the top of his bald head, I know he has something he wants to, but can't say. Not to mention he's growing increasingly more uncomfortable by the second – I can practically feel it emanating off him – and if I'm as good at being 'daddy's little girl' as I think I am, I'll have him letting the cat out of the bag in no time.

I push the blanket off my legs and pull my knees against my chest. "What should I do, Dad? I just want to help him."

"Maybe..." He looks up at the ceiling and scratches his chin. "Maybe you should try and talk to him. Maybe call him."

"Addie always told me not to lose myself trying to hold onto someone who doesn't care about losing me. She read that in one of her romance novels, I think." I tilt my head as I study his face. "So, why would I call him? He dumped me."

"I just...I think you should hear him out. That's all," he says, shrugging. "Maybe he's got something going on that you don't know about."

"I knew it. I freaking knew it!" I rise to my knees and place the palms of my hands on his shoulders. "What's going on, Dad? Just tell me."

"You should ask Greyson. It's not my story to tell."

"He won't even look at me, let alone confide in me. Please, dad," I beg. "Just tell me. Why did he break-up with me?""

"I - I really don't know."

"Jesus Christ! Dad, just be honest with me. Please!"

"Mr. McKinnie's cancer is back," he says. His admission is enough to cause me to fall back against my headboard. "He hasn't been feeling well so he went in for more scans and he lit up like a Christmas tree. It's all throughout his body now, not just his prostate. Mr. and Mrs. McKinnie have known for a week or so, but they told the boys today."

Oh, God. No. No. No.

My eyes fill with tears, and within seconds they're racing, one after the other, down my face. "Is he gonna be okay?"

"No, honey. He's not."

"Well, what about chemo? Radiation? He did that the first time and it worked. Right? I mean..." I grab a tissue from the box on my nightstand and blow my nose loudly. "They have to do something. They're not just gonna let him die, right?"

My father reaches out and takes my hand in his. "There's nothing they can do for him. It's in his organs now. His bones. All they can do is make him as comfortable as possible."

I silently send a prayer up to God, because I refuse to accept there isn't anything the doctors can do for him. Mr. McKinnie can't die. He just can't. Greyson has been through enough the last couple of years, the whole family has. They don't deserve this torment.

I sniffle. "How long?"

"The doctor said three to six months at best, but with cancer this aggressive it's hard to say for sure. He's prepared to take it day-to-day."

Day-to-day. Basically a gentle way of telling someone not to get comfortable with a situation, because things could fall apart at any moment.

Stephen McKinnie, the man who's been a second father to me nearly my entire life is going to die. Greyson lost our relationship when he left South Grove to play baseball, he's lost his career – his dream – and now he's going to lose his best friend – his father.

But knowing all that doesn't answer the one question I still have – if Greyson got bad news about his father, why did he break up with me? Why did he push me away when I should have been the one comforting him?

"What does that have to do with him breaking up with me though? Why wouldn't he tell me and let me be there for him?"

"Del, Greyson has been through a lot, and he's been going through all of it alone for a very long time. Asking, or reaching out for support, isn't in his wheelhouse. He's more of a suffer in silence type now. The last thing he wants to do it burden anyone with his problems."

"But I'm not just anyone, Dad. It's me." I swing my legs over the side of the bed and drop my head into my hands. "Why won't he let me help him? Why is he pushing me away?"

"Sometimes when someone pushes us away it's because they really need us to hold them closer. If you want him to open up to you, you're gonna have to go after him."

I'm upset, and really angry. I'm angry at Greyson for not trusting me – trusting us – enough to tell me what's going on and let me be there for him. I'm angry at God for wreaking havoc on a family that doesn't deserve any more grief. They say He only gives you more than you can handle, but how much does He think one family can endure? But mostly I'm angry with myself, for not only being so damn egotistical that I assumed Greyson's behavior was all about me, but also because I'm mad at him at all, considering what he's going through.

I push myself off the bed and throw on a sweatshirt. "Can I borrow your truck?"

"Keys are on the hook."


Greyson lives on the water, and a few blocks from my parents in a four-bedroom, two-and-a-half bathroom, craftsman style home. His father is a very talented contractor and Greyson has followed in his footsteps after retirement, putting to use all the skills his father has taught him over the years. His house is beautiful. It has a spacious porch with big white rocking chairs, and lanterns full of candles that emit a warm and cozy glow on the exterior of the home when lit at night. There's a gorgeous wheat-colored, farmhouse-style, handcrafted front door, and there's not only a big bay window in the front of the house, but in the master bedroom too, as well as a pair of French doors that lead out to a balcony that's not huge, but big enough to fit a table and chairs, allowing Greyson and I to sit and watch the sun go down.

I wonder if he even realizes he bought the house I described us living in the night we sat on Dawson's Beach and planned our future together.

I park in front of the house and shut off the ignition. The porch light is on, and there's a flicker coming from the living room window, which means the fireplace is lit, but every other room is dark. I don't even hear Hercules barking from the back yard while he plays fetch with Greyson, which is where they usually are this time of night. The only reason I'm sure he's home is because his cars are in the driveway.

I slide out of the truck's cabin, taking a deep breath as I slowly make my way toward his house. This conversation could go one of two ways. One, he could apologize for pushing me away and tell me he needs me now more than ever, or two, he could scream, and yell, and curse at me, and tell me he meant every word he said, and that he never wants to see me again.

Either way, he needs someone right now.

I knock lightly on the door. No answer. I knock again, a little louder this time. Still no answer. I can hear Eminem's "The Way I Am" playing inside the house. It's the song he used to listen to after he pitched a bad game, and I know from experience, nothing good can come out of him listening to this song. 

"Greyson, let me in!" I shout, banging my fist against the door. "Your cars are in the driveway, and I can hear Eminem! I know you're home!"

When I still get no response, I sigh and begin to walk toward the backyard, hoping the sliding glass doors on the porch are unlocked, but stop when I hear the front door open.

"What the hell are you doing here?" he asks, his usually kind voice hoarse and tone curt. "I thought I told you I don't want to see you anymore."

"You did. Can I come in?"

"You sure love being my personal fucking punching bag, don't you?"

Brush it off, Delaney, and be strong. He doesn't mean the things he's about to say.

"Looks like I haven't learned my lesson yet. Guess I'm a little slow." I step toward the door and point into the living room. "Now move so I can come in."

His bloodshot eyes look me up and down, a sneer twisting his mouth, and when he lifts a half empty bottle of Jack Daniels to his lips and closes his eyes as the liquid pours down his throat, I take my chance and slip past him. Hercules is curled up in his dog bed in the corner of the room, and when I squat and snap for him to come to me, Greyson bangs into me from behind and knocks me onto the floor.

"Oops. My bad."

The sway in his step as he moves around me, staggering toward the couch, tells me I'm going to need to handle this delicately, because he's very drunk.

"This is probably a dumb question considering the scene in front of me," I say, as I lift myself up off the floor. "But are you okay?"

"I'm great, baby. Never fucking better!" His knee hits the corner of the sofa and he stumbles to the floor, drops of bourbon flying from the mouth of the bottle and splashing across his tan, micro suede couch cushions. "Would you like a drink? There's not much left, but..." He lifts the almost empty bottle and shakes it side to side. "Help yourself."

I'm putting on a strong front, but in reality, I have no idea what to do. I've never seen him like this. Sure, we've been drunk together before, mostly during senior year of high school, and there was that one Fourth of July when we were fourteen and we stole some of his father's vodka, but none of those times were based around anger and sadness.

I didn't anticipate this, and whether I'm careful or not, I may not be able to get him to open up to me at all.

"No, thank you."

"Oh, come on. Have a drink with me. It'll be fun!"

"I don't want a drink, Greyson."

"Then what the hell do you want?"

I cross my arms against my chest. "I'm worried about you."

"Wow! Delaney James, the girl who broke my heart into a gajillion tiny pieces and then married someone else, is worried about me? Really?" He stares up at me from the shiny, finished floor underneath him and snickers. "How did I get so lucky?"

A part of me wants to hold him as tight as I can and tell him that no matter what happens, everything will be okay, but another part wants to slap the arrogant, cocky smirk off his perfect face.

"I get that you don't want me here, but honestly, I don't care. Whatever it is you're going through, I'm here for you if you."

"I'm fine. I don't need you. I don't need anyone!" he shouts.

"So, you've said once or twice," I say, rolling my eyes. "That should be the title of your autobiography." I stretch my hand toward him to pull him up off the floor, but he looks away, refusing my help. "Greyson, please...talk to me."

"What don't you get? I don't want you. I don't want to be with you. I don't – care..." His lips curl and he swallows hard after the word. "About you. Yet here you are. A glutton for punishment."

"Yup. Here I am. Your personal fucking punching bag. Just like you said."

"You're pathetic. You know that?" he asks. The tone of his voice is biting – vicious. He stands up and backs away from me, pulling the Jack Daniels bottle to his mouth. "Go home. I don't want you here."

"You need someone right now, Grey. You and I both know that."

"No. I don't." He steps toward me and leans forward, his nose almost touching mine. "Leave. Now!"

"No."

"Excuse me?" He snickers malevolently. "What do you mean, no? This is my house. My house! If I tell you to leave, you need to leave."

"I said no." I reach for the bottle, but he's quicker, and he yanks it from my fingertips. "Just talk to me, Grey. I wanna help you."

A sharp laugh erupts out of him. "I don't want your hlelp...help. Can't you jus' see that?" His eyes are becoming more hooded by the second and his words are starting to slur. He takes a long swig from the bottle and golden-brown liquid dribbles down his chin and falls onto his white t-shirt when he pulls it away from his mouth, staining the fabric. "I hate you. You define everything that's ever gone wrong in my life. I wish I'd never met you."

His words sting, but I've heard them before, and honestly, they lose more and more power every time he says them and then promises he didn't mean them. They were just words ten years ago, and they're just words now.

He's angry, and sad, and terrified. I've got to let them roll right off my shoulders.

"Well, I'm sorry you feel that way, but you're just gonna have to suck it up, because I'm here, and I'm not going anywhere." I struggle to keep my voice steady. I've never been one for confrontation, but Greyson is an absolute fool if he thinks he's going to get rid of me that easily. I've been working all summer to regain my backbone, so I guess there's no better time to test it

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