chapter eleven, truth hurts
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(one week later)
warnings: huge trauma dump and a terrible use of southern accents! :)

The house was unbearably quiet.

Grace swore she couldn't even detect her own breath sometimes, her chest scarcely rising.

She had to check in the mirror occasionally, her gaze tracing harsh lines across her skin as she observed her chest, noting its slow rise.

A week had passed since the night at the cabin, yet the wounds still felt raw, etched into her body. Cole's words echoed in her mind; his face imprinted behind closed lids.

Every night, without fail, he resurfaced, his features vivid: weak blue eyes, hair clinging to his forehead, amidst the empty wilderness.

Time hadn't altered a thing.

Looking upward, her eyes followed her hands as they deftly tied a silk ribbon at the back of her hair. She couldn't help but think it was easier when her mother did it.

A gentle ache swelled deep within her chest, prompting her eyes to narrow shut and her breath to catch.

She suppressed the feeling, her fingers meticulously adjusting the ribbon in her hair, securing it in place.

A gentle hum stirred in her mind, the faint echoes of her mother's voice. It had been weeks, perhaps even months, since she last heard it.

...You look beautiful...

Grace cast a deliberate gaze downward, carefully examining her attire. The jacket, once dark but now faded, draped across most of her form. A faint touch of crimson peeked out from beneath its layers.

...Just like when I left...

Her chest constricted, her mother's words imprinting themselves upon her body.

She drew in a shaky breath, wiping her face and averting her gaze from the mirror. When she dared to look again, she swore she saw her mother's reflection staring back at her.

Her hair gently parted, freckles adorning her face, and a gaze so fragile it seemed to split Grace in two.

She stood still, her mouth slightly agape, fixated on the appearance of her mother.

Her dead mother.

She had always imagined what it would be like to see her one more time; rehearsed a million different things to say.

Why did you give up?

What changed?

Were we not good enough to make you stay?

Yet, all that escaped her were the feeble movements of lips, failing to form words.

Her heart felt heavy, sinking slowly into the pit of her stomach, pulling the walls of her body down with it. Her knees grew weak, and an unbearable dryness spread across her lips.

She struggled to catch her breath.

Her mother was dead, and yet, she couldn't breathe.

And then, as if in response to her unspoken anguish, her mother's presence seemed to smile.

A fucking smile?

What was this?

Her lips curled into a faint smirk, and Grace finally took notice of how frail she appeared. Her lips had thinned, cheeks slightly sunken, and shadows lingered beneath her eyes.

She was dying.

Oh my god.

She was dying right before her eyes.

Every breath seemed to escape Grace's lungs, yet she couldn't tear her gaze away. It was as if an invisible force held her in place, compelling her to watch.

Her mother's smile widened, revealing off-white teeth in a crooked line across her face.

Someone knocked on her door, and Grace longed to cry out to them. To tell them this was all a terrible mistake, and that her mother was dead.

That she had already gone through this once before.

But for the second time, nothing emerged from her lips but the sound of her skin cracking.

Her mother seemed to notice, her eyes softening despite the persistent smile. Grace furrowed her brow, staring at her. Through her.

She wasn't dying, Grace realized.

Oh my god.

Death was consuming her.

And before Grace could utter a word, the door to her bedroom swung open.

"Hey," Grayson greeted, furrowing his brow as he looked at her. She glanced at him briefly before returning her gaze to the mirror. Their mother had vanished.

"Our grandparents are here."

She didn't respond, her heart racing.

He took a few steps forward, his hand gently resting on her shoulder. "Are you okay?" he asked, his expression silently conveying his understanding that she wasn't.

She met his gaze through the mirror. "No," she admitted, shaking her head. "But who is?"

Grayson offered her a soft smile, gesturing with his head towards the hallway. Grace took a shaky breath and started walking, with Grayson following closely behind; the murmur of voices growing louder as they approached.

Grace took another deep breath as they rounded the hallway and entered the kitchen. Their grandmother was the first to notice her, pulling her into a warm embrace.

"Grace, darlin'," she exclaimed, holding her at arm's length to get a better look. "You're beautiful, as always."

"Thank you memaw," Grace said, a faint smile blessing her face.

Her grandmother's eyes radiated warmth, almost to the point of being overwhelming. Grace was grateful she looked away before she could be consumed by it.

"Charles, y'all come take a gander at your granddaughter!" she hollered, casting a glance at her husband who stood in the living room, sorting through bags they had brought.

"Yessir, dear," he drawled, rolling his eyes playfully as he sauntered over. "She looks jest like you now, Florence, don't she?"

"Oh, please," Florence said, lightly hitting him on the arm. "She looks just like her father."

Grace's smile widened, reaching her eyes this time. "Speaking of, where is my father?" she asked, scanning the kitchen.

"Down here!" came his voice, a hand emerging from behind the counters. Grace leaned forward, stretching on her tiptoes. "What are you up to?" she chuckled, watching him dig through cabinets.

"Trying to find those aluminum pans your mother always used," he explained, his voice a bit rough. Grace couldn't help but feel a twinge in her heart at the mention of her mother.

Especially during the holidays.

"They're in the cabinet by the stove," Grace offered, a smile softening her features as her father straightened up, dusting off his coffee-colored sweater.

"Of course they are," he muttered, wiping his brow with the back of his hand.

"Oh, James," Florence interjected, gliding around the island and retrieving the pans for him. "Let me give you a hand, dear."

"Mom-"

"No buts!" She put a hand up, a small smile fighting on her lips. "You'll kill us all if y'all runnin' 'round like this."

He chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "Well, alright," he said, shaking his head with a grin. "It's probably for the best. Lord knows when was the last time I cooked alone."

The kitchen fell silent, and Grace watched her father closely, noticing the slight twitch in his body as the words left his mouth.

None of them could have anticipated the day Spring died.

Or any day thereafter.

But this was different. It was the first time they had all been together since the funeral.

Florence cleared her throat. "Why don't you pass me them green beans, darlin'?"

James nodded hastily, handing over the container. They exchanged a meaningful look before the stove timer beeped, diverting his focus elsewhere.

Grace stood still, leaned against the island. She swore if she moved, something would shatter, the air feeling delicate.

Nobody wanted to admit her mother was gone.

And she couldn't decide if she felt relieved or saddened by that.

A touch on the shoulder snapped her out of her thoughts. Grayson stood beside her, wearing a concerned expression.

"I'm alright," Grace mouthed, drawing in a heavy breath. She disliked how he could see straight through her. But then again, that's what grief does to you.

He squeezed her shoulder gently before redirecting his focus to their grandfather, who was rambling about their farm down south. They had spent their entire lives on that land, and it held fond memories for Grace, especially those summers her family spent visiting.

"I tell ya what, if Mother Nature don't start payin' her visits, our crops gonna be gone," he drawled, shaking his head in disapproval. "I done spent too much dang time for that to happen. Reckon I'll have to go out there and water 'em myself."

Grayson chuckled, shaking his head. "Oh, Pop, what're you gonna do? Head out there with a bale of water?"

"I might have to, son!" He exclaimed, a grin spreading across his face. "Or I'll have to give Mother Nature a call myself." He threw his head back, laughing at his own joke.

Grace offered a light smile in return.

She had always adored the elderly.

"Grace," her dad called, drawing her attention. He stood holding a pan with oven gloves, the turkey resting inside. "Can you give us a hand setting up?"

Nodding, she approached and grabbed a dish of cheesy mashed potatoes and a plate of deviled eggs from the countertop, following her father into the dining room. The table was adorned with velvet-colored placemats and a fall-themed table runner.

Grace smiled at her father as she arranged the dishes in the center of the table. "You decorated?" she asked, adjusting the mashed potatoes to make room for more items.

"Yeah, sure did," he replied, his smile soft. "Gotta keep her magic alive, you know?"

Grace felt a pang in her heart, but she pushed it aside, returning her father's smile. His eyes held a mix of sorrow and pride.

"I love it," she said, and his smile widened.

He shrugged, wiping down his sweater. "I did my best, but your mother had a real knack for it, didn't she?"

Grace smiled softly, taking in the room. Fake leaves adorned the china cabinet, colorful candles and family photos arranged on top. He had even swapped out the curtains for a deep orange, just like Mom always used.

"She would have adored it, Dad," she said softly, and she thought she saw some of the weight lift off his shoulders ever so slightly.

"Thank you, sweetie," he said, his voice gentle. "I've been meaning to ask, how are-"

"Incoming, hot dish!" Florence interjected, squeezing herself between them and placing a casserole on the table. "My famous Cracker Barrel hash brown casserole!"

James chuckled quietly, earning a playful hit on the arm.

"What's so funny, son?" Florence inquired, smiling at her eldest.

He shook his head with a grin. "Why's the name so long?"

Florence clicked her tongue, glancing over at Grace. "Can y'all believe this boy, laughin' at his mama's cookin'?"

Grace shrugged, smiling along with them.

"We're almost ready. Why don't you," she turned to James, who was still smiling, "go grab the Jello and the boys. I'm sure Grayson is gettin' an earful."

James chuckled, nodding before heading out of the room, his voice echoing down the hallway. "Time to eat!"

Grace swayed slightly on her feet, observing her grandmother meticulously rearranging the dishes on the table.

She was a perfectionist at heart.

"Why don't you take a seat, darlin'," Florence suggested, rolling up her sleeves to inspect her handiwork. "Before the rest of 'em come in here and snatch everything."

Grace offered a faint smile and settled into the nearest chair.

She watched as Grayson and their grandfather entered the dining room, still engrossed in conversation about the farm. Grayson had always adored their farm, so the talk didn't bore him nearly as much as it did Grace.

He made his way over and sat beside her, giving her leg a gentle nudge underneath the table.

Grace smiled at him, playfully rolling her eyes.

Their grandparents settled into the seats across from them, with their dad taking his place at the head of the table. It felt strange to see an empty seat, but no one seemed to acknowledge it.

Or perhaps, they simply didn't want to.

"This looks wonderful, James!" Charles exclaimed, his tongue poking out from the corner of his mouth as he surveyed the spread before him.

"Wouldn't be what it is without Mom," James replied, adjusting his position in his chair.

Charles reached across the table, aiming for a dish of crackers arranged in a circle. But before he could grab them, Florence swiftly slapped his hand away.

"Ouch, woman!" he protested, inspecting his hand.

Florence lowered her head, narrowing her eyes at him. "Did you forget something?"

Charles glanced around the table slowly, rubbing his hand. It seemed like a lightbulb went off in his head. "Of course not. Let's pray," he declared, a smile spreading across his face.

Florence shook her head, placing her hands out on either side of her. Charles took one and James the other. Eventually, they all interlocked to create one circle of arms.

Grace closed her eyes.

"Dear Lord," Charles began, his voice husky. "As we gather around this table tonight, we pause to express our gratitude for the food before us."

"And," Florence cleared her throat. "Though we feel the... absence of Spring, we cherish the memories of her love and presence, and carry her with us in our hearts."

Grace felt her stomach twist, tangling into a million little knots.

"Amen," Florence said softly, the prayer hanging heavy in the room.

Grace wasn't sure if she could bring herself to open her eyes. She didn't want to see anything anyway. Not the empty seat, nor her family's expressions.

She knew that once she did, everything would become real. And she wasn't sure if she could handle that right now.

But gently, Grayson squeezed her hand, his touch coaxing her to open her eyes. Slowly, she glanced around the table.

Her father was the only one with his eyes still closed, his chest rising and falling steadily. Grace observed as he tensed his eyelids before finally opening them.

They appeared slightly redder than before.

Florence cleared her throat. "Shall we eat?" she drawled, casting a glance around. "Can't let this food go to waste now, y'hear?"

Reaching across the table, she grabbed a plate and passed it to Charles before serving herself.

Grayson followed suit, passing a plate to their father before offering one to Grace, who hadn't moved. He sampled a bit of everything, generously dousing it all in thick gravy.

Grace waited until everyone finished serving themselves before she finally reached for some food, taking a handful of mashed potatoes and a few pieces of turkey.

She wasn't very hungry, not after everything that had happened today. The memory of her mother still lingered in the back of her mind, making her stomach churn.

Yet, she still picked at her food, taking small bites every now and then.

Charles had launched into talk about the farm once more, discussing their new livestock. Grayson listened attentively, chewing his food silently.

Their grandfather had always been the talkative type.

And Grayson, well, he was an excellent listener.

"We got ourselves a new calf this week," Charles mentioned, pausing to sip his apple cider. "Memaw named her Sunshine in the Rain."

Grayson glanced at Florence, engrossed in conversation with their father. "What an odd name," he remarked, a soft smile playing on his lips.

"That's what I said. No need to make it so long," Charles drawled, taking a bite of turkey.

A touch on her arm drew Grace's attention to her grandmother, who smiled warmly at her.

"Want some Jello, darlin'?" she offered, holding up a green China bowl filled with her annual layered Jello.

Grace had grown fond of that Jello over the years. It was a tradition.

But she just wasn't hungry.

The mere thought of it made her stomach feel queasy.

"No thanks, Memaw," she declined with a soft smile, returning her focus to Grayson and Charles's conversation, which had unexpectedly delved further into cattle farming.

"Darlin'," Florence repeated, and Grace glanced over at her. "I feel like we haven't talked in ages. What's goin' on in the pretty little life of yours?"

Grace shifted a few pieces of turkey on her plate, unsure how to respond to such a question.

Because honestly, what was going on?

Before Grace could muster a reply, her grandmother continued.

"I heard there's a young man," she said, taking a sip of her drink, her gaze fixed on Grace. "Cole Walter, was it?"

Grace's heart sank.

If she hadn't lost her appetite before, she certainly had now.

She felt like she could throw up any minute.

"How is he?" Florence added, smiling softly with those warm eyes of hers.

Grace hesitated, her fork pausing mid-air above her plate.

How was she supposed to answer that?

She hadn't heard from him in a week, and the last conversation they had ended badly.

"He's..." She trailed off, searching for the right words. "He's good."

"Good?" Florence questioned, her brows furrowing.

"What does-"

"Hey, Memaw, can you explain to me how you come up with your livestock names?" Grayson interrupted, giving Grace a light kick under the table.

She silently thanked him, leaning back in her chair.

"Well," she began, but Grace's attention shifted to her father, who excused himself from the dining room, his phone in hand.

His voice was barely audible, but Grace could discern that he was on a call with someone.

But who would be calling on Thanksgiving?

"Your grandfather never appreciates the names I choose," was the last snippet of their conversation that Grace caught. "If I had a choice, he'd name 'em all 'cow'."

Grayson burst into laughter, throwing his head back against his chair. Grace couldn't help but admire him for a moment, realizing how much she missed his laughter.

"That's hilarious," he chuckled, his gaze following James as he returned to the room, resuming his seat at the head of the table.

He remained silent about his phone call, seamlessly rejoining the conversation as if nothing had happened. No one pressed him for answers. Nobody minded.

But Grace observed him closely, hoping to discern something that would unveil everything. She could read him like a book, after all. That's another thing grief does to you.

It makes you acutely aware of others' pain because you're avoiding dealing with your own.

"Well," Florence announced, rising from her chair. She pressed her hands against her lower back, stretching forward. "Shall we start cleaning up?"

James stood up, placing a hand in front of her as she reached for a dish on the table. "Guests don't clean up," he insisted, nodding for her to go.

She was about to retort when Charles jumped in. "You don't have to tell me twice," he chuckled, standing and urging Florence to follow suit.

She hesitated for a moment, locking eyes with her eldest.

"Come on, darlin', before he changes his mind," Charles joked, leading her out of the dining room.

Grayson began stacking dirty dishes on the table, separating them from the leftover food.

"You mind getting the casserole and mashed potatoes for me, Grace?" her father requested, holding the turkey dish. She nodded, taking them and following him into the kitchen, where she set them down on the counter.

She watched as her father retrieved a few containers from a cabinet, placing them beside her. Without a word, she began dividing the food between the containers, setting aside a little extra for their family.

It was something she did every year, so familiar that it had become second nature.

Just as Grayson entered the kitchen, the doorbell rang, echoing throughout the house. Grace furrowed her brows, glancing between Grayson and their father.

Who could that be?

Grayson shrugged, placing the dishes in the sink and turning on the water.

"Who is it?" she asked, and she swore she saw her father give her a faint smile, nodding toward the door.

"Go see," he urged.

She narrowed her eyes at him but complied. Slowly, she made her way down the hallway, straightening her jacket as she approached.

With gentle hands, she opened the front door.

"Cole?"

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━ Authors note!

First of all, please don't kill me!!
I know I haven't posted in, like, two months, but I'm back now, I promise.

Second of all, writing southern accents is so fucking entertaining, you have no idea.

Anyways,
Vote and comment if you enjoyed!
It means the absolute world to me.
See you next time ;)