Nothing But This (Broken Pieces 2)

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because you were already hurting, and I didn’t want to add to that. And because it was Grey’s sordid little suspicion, I figured I’d leave the telling to him. If it’s any consolation, he looked like he regretted verbalizing it the moment it was out. And he fucking hates himself for ever thinking it.”

“Do you think we . . .”

“Yes.” The word was out before she had even properly formulated the question in her mind. “We were unfair. He doesn’t know how to be close to people. I don’t know why. That’s just the way he’s wired. He has a natural reticence that we just don’t get. Tina’s the same way. They exclude people until they feel they can trust them enough to let them in. Grey let you in. And we didn’t recognize that. Or respect it.”

“But we’re friends. You’re the brother I never had.”

“And you’re my sister. But we should have been a little more sensitive to the fact that we were ostracizing him. We both love him, and yet we didn’t even understand how badly we were hurting him.”

“It’s no excuse for what he did,” she whispered, blinking rapidly as she tried to keep the tears at bay.

“No, it’s not. But it does kind of help you understand why he leaped to that dumb conclusion. Not forgive . . . but understand.”

She lost the battle against the tears, and they slipped down her cheeks as she struggled to formulate her next words. But she honestly had no idea what else she wanted to say, and she just sat there in silence, her breathing heavy and raspy as she fought to get her emotions back under control.

They had hurt him. Greyson, who had always seemed impervious to emotions like pain and distress and insecurity . . . he had admitted to feeling all of those and more because of the nonchalant manner in which Harris and Libby had continued their friendship without any regard for the considerably changed circumstances of their trio. He had been working long hours, and Libby, between jobs, had sought to fill the void of his absence by spending time with Harris and—to a lesser extent—Tina. Thinking about it now, all she could remember was the many nights Greyson had come home to find Harris and Libby hanging out together. The few times he had come home early, he’d lingered for a few moments and then retreated to his study.

She considered their lunch at Chris’s café a few days ago. How he had once again been hovering on the outside of one of her close friendships. She had never made the effort to include him. Not with Harris and certainly not with Chris. As with Tina and the restaurant, she had once again simply expected him to know how to join in and take his place by her side. Assert himself, be sociable, friendly . . . amenable.

God. What was wrong with her?

“Bug?”

“Yes?” Her voice was embarrassingly hoarse.

“Have you seen Grey take a drink since he’s been in Riversend?”

The question baffled her, and her brow furrowed as she tried to make sense of it. “What do you mean?”

“A beer? Glass of wine, perhaps?”

She shook her head mutely, not understanding why he was asking her this.

“I don’t know,” she said, wiping the heel of her hand across her cheeks. “I’m not sure.”

She thought back to the night he had taken her to that ridiculous restaurant. He had ordered the most expensive bottle of wine on the menu, yet he’d spent the evening sipping from a glass of water. She remembered thinking that it was odd at the time.

“I don’t think so,” she said.

“Ask him why not.”

“Harris . . .”

“I have to go, Bug,” he interrupted her abruptly. “You take care of yourself and give my beautiful niece a hug from me.”

He hung up, leaving her even more confused and confounded than she had been before making the call.

“I was thinking, with the weather getting so much warmer, it would be fun to take Clara to Birds of Eden in Plett tomorrow,” Greyson told Libby one Saturday night about a month later. Charlie had a swim meet, and Greyson had stepped in as weekend babysitter. Their routines were comfortable and established. And what was left of their relationship revolved now around work and Clara. They rarely spoke about anything other than those two topics. Her work, his . . . it was all just small talk. Clara had sprouted her first couple of teeth on her bottom gum and was making delightful mamamama and babababa sounds. Greyson had been diligently trying to teach her to say dada without much success. She was six and a half months old, and Greyson and Libby both agreed that she was streets ahead of most other kids her age.