Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 121296 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 606(@200wpm)___ 485(@250wpm)___ 404(@300wpm)
Representing the wholeness of people in a flat sketch is always a challenge, and Grace doesn’t suit black and white. She needs color—something vibrant and textured to bring her to life.
I grab my phone, which is resting on the arm of the chair, and type her name into a search engine. Grace Murphy.
There’s a pause, then a flood of professional headshots, magazine banners, red carpet snapshots at industry events where she’s clutching engraved glass trophies with glittering eyes and scarlet lips, and dresses that hug her form like they’re there only to worship her.
Her smile in those shots is polished and practiced, but there’s something bright behind it, too, something undimmed. And a forced undertone like she doesn’t know what she’s doing there.
I scroll past bios and accolades until I find a link to one of her old articles.
The headline reads: Which vibrator should you invest in this season?
I click.
It starts with a joke. Smart. Dry. Something about ROI and orgasms. I snort into my sleeve, startling Matty, who’s still quietly coloring his unicorn. The piece isn’t smutty. It’s sharp and witty. Grace wasn’t writing to shock anyone. She was writing because she could hold attention. At least, it seems that way. She’s playful with structure and brilliant with rhythm, like the words themselves are aware of how clever they sound but still wear the joke lightly.
I read another: The Unspoken Politics of Office Cake Culture. It’s surprisingly touching. She manages to make humor out of isolation and insecurity without making anyone the punchline. It’s personal without being confessional, and woven through it all is that voice, that rhythm, that warmth and confidence she carries even when she’s writing about things that should be cold.
Another article pulls me in: How office romances can catapult your career. And there it is again. The grit. The weight beneath the wit.
I shift forward in the chair, and it groans like it wants to eject me for giving it indigestion, elbows on knees now, phone gripped a little tighter. Grace is funny, for sure, but she’s also angry in the right places. Thoughtful. She sees life the way I try to draw people: whole, complicated, flawed, and broken, but beautiful. Worth the ink.
Her photo is beside the byline. That same face I sketched. I glance at my pad again.
I captured her shape.
But not her voice.
Not yet.
7
GRACE
The kitchen in this ranch house is a beast.
It’s long and wide and worn in the best way. All scuffed floors, shelves stacked high with mismatched crockery, two refrigerators humming like distant bees, and a stove big enough to host its own county fair. The air smells like onions softening in butter, garlic, and something herby like thyme maybe, or rosemary. It reminds me of home, only on a much larger scale.
Corbin’s already at the stove, sleeves rolled to the elbow, a kid perched on his hip while he stirs a pot with the other hand like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“You always cook like this?” I ask, setting my notebook aside and washing my hands at the sink.
“Only when I want people to eat,” he replies with a crooked grin, his kind eyes settling on the kid, who he gently nudges down with a kiss to her temple. “Otherwise it’s sandwiches and judgment.”
“Who’s this?” I bend to study the little girl with dark brown eyes and a shirt that reads Sweetie Pie. She must be around four, I think. She looks at me sullenly and puts her hand back up to Corbin, whispering, “Daddy.”
At that moment, Levi breezes through, scoops Sweetie Pie up, and shoots me a panty-melting grin as he presses a kiss to her disgruntled cheek. “There you are, Hannah. Come play in the den and let Daddy cook.”
“I don’t want to play,” she barks, wriggling in his ridiculously strong arms, her feet flailing on either side, but he laughs and keeps going, disappearing into the hallway.
“Yeah, but you want to eat,” Levi says breezily.
“She’s yours?” I ask.
“Yeah. Three of them are. Hannah and Caleb are twins, and Matty’s a year older.”
“Wow, Daddy! Three?”
He shrugs. “We wanted more…”
The trailing away at the end of the sentence tells me a whole lot that Corbin doesn’t want to voice. I try to remember Rianna notes. One wife died suddenly of an aneurysm. Was that Corbin’s?
It’s a question I’m steering clear of, wary of hitting a landmine too early.
“So, you’re the one who does most of the cooking?”
“Most of it,” he nods, shifting to pull a tray of cornbread muffins from the oven with practiced ease. “Dylan sometimes handles breakfast. Conway thinks seasoning is pepper and a prayer. McCartney cooks like an artist. It’s beautiful, but there’s a forty percent chance it’s raw in the middle. Brody steps in when all other options have been exhausted, and we all brace ourselves.”