Page 55 of What Remains of Grace

“You get hungry out here,” he said, offering her a bottle of water.

“Are you . . . mothering me?”

“Maybe.”

She sat beside him, not touching, but close enough that warmth drifted between them in the quiet morning light.

“You didn’t have to fix the roof in that storm,” she said suddenly. “I never thanked you.”

He shook his head. “No need. I was just doing my job.”

“Your job is not to get struck by lightning.”

“Still,” he said with a small shrug.

“I feel bad, like I’m the problem client. You on my roof at two in the morning, soaked through . . . then picking me up off the floor the next day. I’m truly mortified.”

He looked out over the water, a light smile tugging at his mouth. “Neither was a big deal.” Then, quieter, honest, “I kind of liked picking you up off the floor.”

Her breath caught, but she masked it with a teasing snort. “Maybe we can arrange for you to do it again.”

“Not like that, I hope.”

“I just . . .” She exhaled, staring at the wake of her board. “I feel so bad.”

“You said that already,” he murmured, not unkindly. “You don’t have to. You’re human. Nothing about the last few weeks has been easy.”

She nodded, but the guilt didn’t soften in her shoulders.

He hesitated, then said, “When my mom died, I snapped once too. Except, I broke the closest thing I had to your chalkboard.”

He huffed a soft, humorless breath. “One hit. It shattered. I’m not a violent guy, but grief . . . it makes you do things for a split second that don’t feel like you.”

She froze, eyes fixed on him.

“So,” he added gently, “I get it.”

Her voice went thin. “Cole . . . I didn’t know.”

“Most people don’t.” He kept his gaze on the water, letting her absorb it. “And I’m not telling you so you’ll feel sorry for me. I just—” His voice softened. “You’re not alone in this. That’s all.”

Beside him, she swallowed hard before nodding once.

A quiet settled between them, broken only by the soft knock of water against their boards.

Then he spoke again, slower this time, like he was working the thoughts loose as he went. “There aren’t a lot of people left who knew who I was when I was eight years old. When all I wanted was to play baseball,” he said. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Wanted to be the next David Justice. I used to stay outside from sunup to sundown, drenched in sweat, throwing balls at the side of the house until my dad threatened to take the bat away.”

She glanced over at him.

“The funny part is, I wasn’t even that good,” he admitted. “And honestly? I didn’t even like baseball that much. I just liked the idea of being on one of those Post Cereal trading cards.” That earned the smallest breath of laughter from her, and his expression softened. “I ended up better at basketball. That’s what everybody remembers now. ‘Didn’t you play basketball?’ But my mom remembered that little David Justice wannabe.”

His gaze drifted out across the water again.

“That’s the thing about your parents and your siblings,” he said quietly. “They don’t just know one version of you. They know all of them. Every stage. Every embarrassing phase. Every dream you had for five minutes before you became somebody else.”

Beside him, Jenna went very still.

“And when they die,” he continued, “it feels a little like those versions of you die, too.”