Where the Waves Whisper

Chapter Twenty-Four

I wake up to rain pelting against my bedroom window. The sky is dark with storm clouds, and the dogwood trees in the front yard are swaying back and forth so vigorously I'm afraid their trunks might snap in half. This is the kind of weather that makes me want to stay in bed. If I were in New York, and it was raining like this, I'd pour myself a cup of coffee and cuddle up under my favorite throw blanket while I rewatch Sex and the City from the beginning. I can't do that today though, because today I need to sit down and figure out what my next step is. Am I staying in South Grove or am I going home to Manhattan?

The real question is, Is Manhattan still home?

When I think about my first day back in South Grove, I can't help but remember how terrified I was. I didn't want anyone to know I was here. No neighbors – especially the McKinnie's. Not Greyson. Not Jo. Not even Mr. Mike, the mailman we've had since I was a kid. I imagined a scene of protestors, or even an angry mob wielding pitchforks and fiery torches on my front lawn, demanding my head for breaking the heart of their beloved Greyson McKinnie. Maybe put my head and arms in a pillory and display me in the town square for everyone to laugh and throw tomatoes at before they decapitate me.

Even though Greyson and I had plans to live most of the year where he'd be drafted and the remainder in South Grove, living in New York has always been a dream of mine, and now that I've experienced it, I'm not sure I'm ready to give up my life there. But I'm not sure I'm ready to walk away from my life here either. There are so many factors to consider. There are my parents, who I've enjoyed spending time with immensely. There's Adelaide and Jameson. Neither of their jobs take them to New York very often, and if I go back, how long will it be before I see them again? There is Jo and Hannah. I've just gotten Jo back and I barely know the incredible little girl she brought into the world – the little girl who already calls me 'Aunt Waney.'

What about Mr. McKinnie? If he's sick again he could die sooner than later. The man was a second father to me for twelve years, and any day could be the last day I spend with him, so who would I be if I just up and left? And there's Greyson. I've lived the last ten years of my life convinced he hated me, and carrying a black cloud around because of it, but he doesn't. We've gotten a second chance at being in each other's lives – no matter what that looks like – and if I leave now, we'll lose that chance. And we may never get another one.

Can I really walk away from all of this again? From him?

For the first time since I've been back, I didn't feel like a stranger. I felt like I was home.

I roll over in bed and grab my phone, unplugging it from the charger, and when the screen lights up, I see I have a video message from Nico. The timestamp is 2:45 a.m. I was long asleep by then.

"Delaney!" he shouts into the camera. It's a video of him and Sloan in their apartment, fireworks bursting into the sky through the floor-to-ceiling window behind them and echoing through the phone. His face is too close to the screen and his voice is slurred, and from the chorus of cheers I hear, it's safe to assume they threw their annual Fourth of July party and I've missed it – again. "Girl, you should be here! Why aren't you here? Oh, right, because you fucking ditched us for boring, honky-tonk North Carolina. Do your cowboy boots still fit? Have you visited the rodeo yet? Oh, do you own a pair of assless chaps? If so, can I borrow them? I met this guy, and I really think...wait...your clothes won't fit me. You're the size of Polly fucking Pocket and I'm like Dwayne Johnson, minus the baldness, of course, but –"