Page 91 of In Every Chapter

And as our little group clinked glasses and went back to good-natured ribbing, a warm sensation settled in my gut, making my sternum ache. To love and friends. Thank God for both.

Chapter forty

Paisley

I’d never considered myself a snoop or even the nosy kind. So I had no excuse for why I felt the need to examine Greyson’s room while he was away on Saturday afternoon.

Or I guess it was our room now. After Greyson’s nightmare last week, I’d been sleeping in here. Not on purpose at first. We’d get to talking and then I’d fall asleep. But also . . . my mind was quieter with Greyson around. His nightmares were still present, but I knew what to do now.

The room was bright and cheery. Buttery yellow walls littered with frames—photos, art work, and hand-lettered Lord of the Rings quotes. French blue accents in the quilt covering the bed and velvet suede armchair in the corner. Matching white nightstands framed the queen bed, each with a matching cream lamp with a blown-glass base.

It was welcoming and calming.

I tumbled through the stack of books on the left nightstand—Greyson’s. A biography on a World War Two survivor, a well-worn Bible, and a Sherlock Holmes novel. I reached deep in my mind, trying to recall the plot but came up empty. Must be outside my current memory parameters. Might be the perfect time for a reread then. Think of the opportunities I had to read books again for the first time.

A framed photograph of the two of us perched beside the books. Warmth pooled in my eyes, and I traced a finger over our faces. It was a simple selfie. Greyson was hugging me from behind as we grinned at the camera. We looked so happy.

A wardrobe sat in the corner, and I inched it open. My fingers brushed the back’s smooth wood, and my heart twinged. I’d been looking for Narnia in closets and dressers for nearly twenty years. Like a magical land could ferry me away from my present horrors. But this time . . . I was glad to stay where I was. Closing the door firmly, I moved on.

One door led to a surprisingly large ensuite with both a shower and a freestanding tub. Honestly, a bubble bath didn’t sound like the worst thing in the world right now. But this wasn’t my bathroom, so . . . no. And I wasn’t going to fold myself into the tiny tub down the hall. I was petite, but not that petite.

I dug through the drawers of the vanity. Everything felt so . . . normal. Ordered. The deodorant—sandalwood and orange—smelled like Greyson. But the bottom drawer made me pause. I tugged out an unopened pregnancy test.

From what Juliet and Greyson had said, seeing this should hurt me. But with those memories gone, I couldn’t feel that ache. And yet . . . There were other aches in its place. Maybe one day I’d feel my own child kick. Maybe one day all these hazy wisps of memory would cement themselves into my reality. Maybe . . .

Maybe.

The Lord’s not finished with your story yet, honey.

Mama D’s words rolled over me, and I sighed, shutting the drawer with firm decision before leaving the bathroom.

I trusted the Lord’s plan, but I wouldn’t mind a few spoilers for how it all worked out.

The only other door in the room opened into a small walk-in closet. I inhaled deeply. The mixed fragrance of wildflower and leather filled my nose. Two halves of a closet. Two distinct smells married into one. Was that what marriage was?

Two intertwined lives, two hearts, one journey.

I ran my fingers over the army of flannel shirts and, leaning in, I sniffed. Yeah, definitely woodsy and leather. I ignored the urge to steal a shirt and wrap myself up in it. A girl had her standards when it came to snooping. No touching the merchandise. Fingerprints and all that. Wait, never mind, that was crime scene behaviour.

I tugged the box labeled Journals off the shelf and rummaged through the collection of notebooks. They ranged from every colour and size—coil bound to imitation leather. Grabbing a faux-leather burgundy edition, I sat down crossed-legged on the closet floor and flipped open to the first page. According to the date, it was from six years ago. This would be interesting.

I read the first entry. Then the second. Most of it was mundane. Anecdotes about daily life. Comedic library patrons and Flo’s sarcastic one-liners. Jerry the feline terror. Books I was reading. Satterfield family barbecues. Hanging out with the girls.

Moving on to a thick strawberry-patterned hardcover journal dated five and a half years ago, there was a decided tone shift. Greyson became a star player in nearly every entry. Snippets of love letters, transcripts of video calls, a collection of dried petals from flowers he’d had delivered despite being across the country.

A thousand I love yous spilling out on ink and paper from the girl who’d never really known what love meant.

I flipped to the last entry dated four years ago.

September 30

Was there ever such a fine specimen of a man as Greyson Satterfield? I think not.

Poets spend all the time in the world rhapsodizing about gorgeous women draped in moss and bedsheets, but how have they missed an attractive man in flannel chopping wood?

Well, I’m no poet, but I’ll have to do my best. Talk about a sight to behold out the laundry-room window.

The way Grey’s arm muscles rippled while he swung that axe? Very impressive.