G R A C I E

Can you tell me what happened... that night... between you and Lydia?

I wasn't sure what momentary insanity had compelled me to fling such a loaded question at Gray, but, as the startling words tumbled out of my mouth, I was surprised to find that I didn't regret initiating this hard-hitting, heartbreaking conversation.

This morning, I had meant it, 100%, when I silently vowed to support Gray through his innermost struggles. I had meant it when I vowed to work towards forgiveness, whole-hearted, unconditional forgiveness. I figured—I wouldn't be able to truly help Gray, to support him in a way that would stretch beyond surface, shallow niceties and actually matter at a core level until I forgave him for what he did with Lydia.

Only then could we truly become friends again.

Only then could I be—maybe not completely free but—freer from the unresolved hurt and heaviness that continued to fester inside me regarding my sister's death.

I couldn't keep pretending as though I was fine. I couldn't keep avoiding my thoughts and emotions about Gray and Lydia. I needed to face my fears at some point. I felt this deeply in my gut. Yet, my heart felt as though it might shatter from the strain of trying, trying, trying to be the bigger person.

Did I have it in me to forgive Gray?

I suppose a change of heart—real, permanent change—was never supposed to feel easy.

Growth of the mind and a shift of the spirit was supposed to be fucking uncomfortable. Painful even. Perhaps it was meant to feel like a death because I had to let go of something in equal weight and value, however toxic and self-destructive my old thoughts and emotions might be, before I could accept a brand new mindset into my life.

As I waited, on edge, for Gray's response, I forced myself to keep try-try-trying not to shatter, to not break.

Because I wanted this change.

I wanted this growth.

I deserved to feel... at peace.

I realized, then, that I wanted to heal myself as much as I wanted Gray to heal, too. Last night, when I found Gray, screaming and dreaming, in my living room, I finally began to see him with a little more clarity. It seemed that clarity was also extending to myself.

After shrinking in Lydia's shadow for my whole life—

After pining away for a version of Gray that didn't really exist—

After putting my needs and wants on hold for so long—

It was time to look inward and examine my own shortcomings so I might have a chance—someday soon, hopefully—to become the woman I always wanted to be.

G R A Y

Can you tell me what happened... that night... between you and Lydia?

My jaw dropped slightly.

Gracie's question blindsided me.

Yet, at the same time, I wasn't completely shocked. I guess, deep down, subconsciously, I felt like I owed her an explanation. Gracie had every right to ask this question. She deserved to hear the truth from me.

Yet, I couldn't help stalling a little, mumbling, "Are you sure? I mean, this shit... isn't... gonna be pretty."

I was hesitant to answer her for various reasons.

"I wouldn't ask," Gracie whispered with a resolute tone in her voice, "if I didn't want to hear it."

The scared, timid way she was looking at me nearly broke me.

The last thing I wanted was to hurt Gracie with all of the fucked up details from... that night. Not to mention, Gracie and I had been getting along well in terms of co-parenting Stevie, and I couldn't help worrying whether or not this particular discussion might make her hate me all over again.

Gracie's hate would be well deserved, though.

Maybe, in a masochistic way, I almost wanted her to hate me?

With these thoughts in mind, I finally found the courage to man up and address her nightmare of a question.

I kept my voice as steady as possible even though my insides were quaking, "That night... I made the mistake of going to... Finnigan's."

Expectantly, Gracie waited for me to continue.

"I had been, um, drinking, like, a lot. Probably too much."

At this confession of mine, Gracie's brow furrowed with confusion.

She remarked softly, "But... you never drink."

More than anyone, Gracie knew how much I despised alcohol because of my dad.

"Yeah, well," I muttered, "I was feeling kinda down that night."

Alarm flickered across her face. "Why?"

"One of my buddies from the Corps, Matty," I shared quietly, "had just died."

Even though Matty was a stranger to Gracie, sadness and sympathy still glistened from her eyes.

"I'm so sorry, Gray."

I grunted, "Me, too. Matty was a great guy. He left behind a wife and child."

Gracie reached over to squeeze my hand. "Oh, Gray..."

I didn't pull away. Her touch centered me. I never talked about Matty because it hurt like hell.

We sat like that, hand in hand, for a minute before Gracie murmured gently, "You don't have to answer unless you feel up to it, but... what happened to Matty? How did he pass away?"

Suddenly, images of Matty's mangled, lifeless form flashed before me.

I rasped, "IED."

Her eyes went wide. Gracie didn't say another word or ask anything else about Matty, but she gripped my hand tighter.

I swallowed the grief that had tried to creep up my throat. "I hope he's in a better place now, though, watching over his wife and baby girl..."

"Do you believe in heaven, Gray?"

"I want to believe in heaven. I hope it exists for guys like Matty."

With a deeply troubled expression, Gracie sighed, "I can't even imagine how hard that must have been. On you. On his family. Jesus. I don't know what to say... except that... life is really fucking cruel sometimes."

I agreed softly, "I know, right?"

Her voice became small and faint when she asked, "Do you think... my sister... is in a better place now? Like Matty?"

"I don't know," I replied honestly, "what do you think about it?"

"I think," Gracie paused, "heaven might be a state of mind."

"What do you mean?"

Gracie frowned in the way she always did whenever she was trying to make sense of her thoughts.

"Like, maybe," she mumbled in a distracted manner, "if you have a pure heart and show kindness to people, you'll be in heaven. If you have ugly intentions and treat others poorly, you'll be in hell."

As I listened to Gracie's explanation, in a way, I felt like she was trying to answer her own question about Lydia. It was pretty clear to me, at least, that Lydia was the kind of person who had ugly intentions and treated others poorly, which meant, by Gracie's logic, her sister probably wasn't in a 'better place' at the moment.

I decided to remain tactful, however, and didn't comment on the connection I made between Lydia and hell.

I chose, instead, to crack a dumb joke, "Are those the commandments of your own religion? The two pillars of Gracism or something?"

She laughed humorlessly. "Ha, ha. Gracism is really just a rip-off Cliffs Notes version of other major world religions."

I eyed her intently. "Oh, yeah?"

She nodded. "Yeah, really. I hope, though, that it's possible for people, whether they're dead or alive, to change."

I blinked a few times.

Dead—or alive?

Was Gracie talking about Lydia? Or herself?

I prompted, "What do you mean?"

"Maybe sinners can still go to heaven if they try hard enough, if they're willing to change from the inside out."

Another lightbulb clicked on for me.

This sounded like Gracie might be thinking of Lydia again. It sounded like—even after all the shit Lydia pulled on her—Gracie still wanted her sister to change for the better. Even in the afterlife. She still wanted to give Lydia a shot at heaven.

I wanted to support Gracie, to strengthen her hope in her sister's soul, by supplying, "I think you're right. Heaven wouldn't turn away someone who's sincere about change."

"You think so?"

I nodded. "Isn't that the purpose of religion? To help people, even sinners, change for the better?"

"I guess," she muttered, "but I wonder if Lydia would've changed for the better if she was still alive?"

I fell quiet for a moment before answering, "Maybe, maybe not. We'll never know because only Lydia can answer that question."

A few seconds of tension ticked between us.

Gracie let go of my hand then, and I missed her touch right away.

We both knew what was coming next in this strained conversation. It appeared we had gotten the grief-stricken, philosophical parts of our talk out of the way.

Now, it was time to bring up the hardest fucking part: Lydia.

"Anyway," I grumbled in a gruff voice, pivoting, against my will, back to the fucked up topic at hand, "speaking of Lydia, your sister showed up at Finnigan's not long after I finished my beers..."