by A. S. Teague
My stomach churns, bile creeping up the back of my throat as I stand here, helplessly listening to my only living relative, the woman that raised me, spew pure hatred about my beloved daddy. I want to yell at her to stop, to shut up, but I all I can do is stand before her frozen, my fingers squeezing Bronn’s painfully hard, and hope that she’ll finish her rant soon.
“God punished her for him, you know. That’s why the cancer took her. Spent her whole life paying for that man. And now, you!” she snaps, her cloudy gaze jerking toward Bronn.
“Getting involved with a man that’s no better than your daddy was.”
Her gaze roams over him once more, and I want to move to stand in front of him, to be a shield against her words. But my body in front of his wouldn’t stop his ears from hearing the hatred, so I don’t move, just grasp his hand even tighter and hope that his skin is thicker than mine.
“Look at him, Grace. He’s never going to amount to anything. He’s scum. And he’s going to turn you into scum right along with him.”
Bronn’s face is a mask that I’ve never seen before, his eyes void of emotion, but he clears his throat, and when he speaks his voice is strong and steady. “It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Monroe. Grace has told me so much about you.”
Nana clucks and then rolls her eyes. “Don’t you dare speak to me, boy.”
“Nana!” I scold, horrified and having had enough of her bullshit for one day. “You don’t know anything about him. You’re making assumptions. Incorrect assumptions, Nana!”
I take a step forward, wanting to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. Make her shut up and listen to me for once in her life. If I could just talk to her, tell her about Bronn, maybe I could make her see that she is wrong about him. And that even if she is right, it doesn’t fucking matter, because I don’t need a man from a wealthy family. I don’t need someone that she deemed acceptable.
I just need a man that cares about me.
I just need Bronn.
“Get out!” she screeches, her eyes wild. “Get out and don’t you ever bring that trash back to my house, do you understand me, Grace!”
Unable to stop them, the tears that I had been fighting roll down my cheeks as I stand, rooted in place, feeling like the child that could never please her grandmother all over again.
It is a familiar scene, me crying while she ranted and raved.
“And dry those tears, girl. You’re just as weak as your mother. I wasted my entire life raising you two worthless women.”
Unable to stand listening for one more second, a sob escapes my lips as I turn and sprint for the door. Bronn follows me down the hall, not speaking as I run out of the mansion that I grew up in.
I don’t slow down despite being in heels and a dress, only stopping when I reach my car. Breathing heavily, more from the horrible visit than from the sprint, I bend at the waist, my hands on my knees.
Bronn finally reaches me, his footsteps heavy, and when I feel him behind me I whirl, throwing myself into his arms. Arms that don’t hesitate to wrap around me and pull me in close, even though my grandmother just berated him.
Holding me tightly, he doesn’t offer any words of comfort, just lets me cry, knowing that nothing he could say would make me feel better.
While I know I should ask him if he’s okay, that I should apologize for her, for bringing him here, for being stupid enough to think that this would go any other way than it did, I can’t stop the sobs long enough to speak.
As I continue to selfishly let him comfort me, the words that Nana left me with play on a loop in my head.
We don’t speak on the drive home, the tension between us thick. I don’t bother to turn on the radio, even though listening to the quiet sniffles coming from Grace causes an ache in my chest.
I don’t say anything to comfort her, because what the hell can I say?
Sorry your grandmother’s a crazy bitch?
Don’t listen to her?
She doesn’t know what she’s saying?
Or better yet, she doesn’t even know me, so what she’s saying is all lies?
Because that would be the lie.
That’s the irony of the whole fucking thing, the shit that crazy old lady said was all true. At least, the stuff she said about me. But she was wrong about Grace.
Grace wasn’t weak. She wasn’t trash. She wasn’t going to be scum.
She was the ocean, wild and free, with a depth that I couldn’t fathom, full of mysteries that may never be solved.
It had been a miracle that I was able to keep my cool as I stood there, listening to the vile things she said about her granddaughter. But I knew that any reaction I had would have only perpetuated the assumptions she made about me.
My blood had boiled and my jaw was now sore from keeping my teeth clenched tight so that I wouldn’t say something and make matters worse.
I had no idea how many times over her life she had heard those very words, but judging from her reaction—or lack thereof—Grace was no stranger to the abuse.
And there was no way around it, that woman was abusive, and had probably made Grace’s entire life miserable. I couldn’t understand how Grace would continue to go back for more, week in and week out.
But that was the difference between she and I.
She had more class than I ever would. And while I couldn’t understand it, I certainly admired her for it.
The moment I turned eighteen, I walked out of my mother’s ratty apartment and never looked back. I slept in my truck for more nights than I cared to remember, but even that was better than spending any more time in the presence of the woman that had given me life.
Maybe I was wrong for turning my back on her, but I just couldn’t do it another second.
Over the course of the last month, I’d almost convinced myself that I was worthy of a woman like Grace. Every time she had smiled at me, her bright blue eyes lighting as if I was the only man she had ever seen. Or when she would laugh, her whole body swaying toward me as though she had been magnetized. And when I touched her, there was no way to deny the current that ran between us.
All it had taken was ten minutes to once again plant the seed of self-doubt in my head.
It was okay. Self-doubt and I were old friends. He’d been dependable for most of my life. Always there, lingering in the back of my head. But for one month, with her at my side, I’d been able to see past it.
But now it was back with a vengeance I feared would devour me.
And in turn, devour her.
I couldn’t drive fast enough to get us home. While Grace seemed heartbroken, I was just plain fucking angry. My body was nearly vibrating. She didn’t deserve my fury, I was well aware of that, but I feared if I didn’t get her home, and soon, our entire relationship might fall casualty to the explosion brewing inside me.
It was a good thing that Grace didn’t say anything, try to hold my hand, or worse yet, apologize for something that she held no responsibility in.
When I pull up in front of Grace’s house, I turn the engine off, push the door open, and climb out. Even though I’m eager to get away from her, I still come around to her side and open her door.
While wiping her nose with a tissue, she manages to slide out of the car, one dainty leg at a time, pure class and, well, grace. Christ—this woman.
“Thank you,” she says, peering up at me through wet lashes.
My breath leaves me in a whoosh, as though she’s just punched me in the gut.
Her cheeks are pink and streaked with tears, but it’s her baby-blue irises that pack the hardest blow. The vast sadness in her eyes, the same look that she’d had on the first day we met is back, and my heart twists seeing it.
I want to say something to make her smile, something that will allow me to hear that musical laugh that somehow soothes the constant ache inside me, but there’s nothing that I could possibly say, so I don’t even try.
Clearing my throat, I catch her arm and pull her into me. “I’ve got
to go,” I murmur into her hair.
Her shoulders tense and a pang of guilt hits me. I should man the fuck up and stay with her, putting my own needs aside.
But I can’t. In true Bronnson Williams form, I need to escape.
From her.
From reality.
From the entire fucking world that seems so determined to suffocate me.
“I’ll call you later.” I press a kiss to the top of her head and then set her away from me, turning and stalking to my truck without looking back.
Only, with my mind screaming for me to go back to her, to take her in my arms and prove that her grandmother had been wrong, and for her to assure me that she already knew that, it didn’t feel like an escape at all.
I drive around aimlessly for over an hour, alternating between ranting, raging, and losing myself in the dark recesses of my mind. Eventually, I find myself back at home. It should have been my safe haven, but my anger finally bubbles out the moment I step foot on the deck of my boat. I slam the door so hard the boat tilts damn near forty-five degrees. I waste no time grabbing a beer from the fridge and downing it in three swallows before turning and launching it across the tiny room.
Lucky for me, it lands on the bed and doesn’t shatter, only bouncing across the comforter before coming to a rest on my pillow. I laugh out loud at that, the irony of not even being able to break something when I wanted to.
I know I’m acting like a little bitch. But, fuck, it was as if Grace’s grandmother had the superpower to search through my soul, find my little red self-destruct button, and then tap dance all over it.
I hate that I’d allowed her to get to me as much as she had. Any kind of decent man would be off taking care of his woman after a shit show like that. But, nope, I’m at home lying in bed staring up that the ceiling and licking my wounds.
Hell, maybe it’s better this way. Maybe now Grace will finally see who I truly am and give up on me once and for all.
A knock on the door startles me out of my pity party, and I turn just in time to see Grace’s perfect face peek around the door.
“Anyone home?” she calls timidly, her fingers wrapped around the wood.
With a heavy sigh, I motion for her to come in. Tipping up my second bottle, I drain the last of my beer before dropping it into the overflowing trashcan by my bed.
Grace slips inside, shutting the door gently behind her, and I swear I hear it breathe a sigh of thanks after the beating I put on it earlier.
“Hey,” she says quietly.
“Hey,” I rumble, scratching the back of my head and allowing my eyes to sweep over her.
Her tan legs draw my gaze up to a tiny pair of white shorts, and her flat stomach peeks out at me from under the bottom of her light-blue crop top. Her face is scrubbed clean of makeup, although her nose is still pink from the hours she’d spent crying on the ride home. With her hair piled on top of her head, she looks more like a girl than the woman I’d left at her house a few hours ago.
This is the Grace I love.
And fuck me if that realization didn’t hit me right in the gut.
“What are you doing here?” I groan, not bothering to stand from my position on the bed.
She takes a tentative step into the room, shoving her hands in her pockets. “I came to apologize.”
“For what?” I ask gruffly.
She hesitates, freezing in place.
I know how it sounded, but I don’t bother apologizing for it.
“For everything. For asking you to go with me. For just standing there and letting her say that stuff to you. For not being stronger and crying all the way home.”
My chin jerks to the side. Of all the things she could have said, this wasn’t what I was expecting.
“You’re shitting me, right?”
“What?” Her brows drawn together, she drops her eyes to where her foot slides in and out of her flip-flop.
“You’re apologizing for what that old bat said, like you put those words in her mouth?” I push off the bed and stalk over to her.
“I shouldn’t—“
“Apologize. You shouldn’t apologize.”
Her gaze lifts to meet mine and her lips part. Before she can say another word that will just cause the anger from earlier to return, I continue, “Today wasn’t your fault. None of it. You have nothing to apologize for, so don’t.”
Her body leans toward mine, but I take a step back, not wanting the contact. If she touches me, I know I’ll cave and won’t be able to do what needs to be done.
“Bronn…” She breathes and I shake my head.
“What are you doing with me?” I ask honestly. Throwing my arms wide, my voice rises. “Look around you.”
I take a moment to follow my own advice, taking in my surroundings. My sink is overflowing with dirty dishes, the trashcan full of empty beer bottles, the furnishings nothing more than secondhand rejects. The bachelor excuse was a tired one, and no real explanation for the state of my “home,” if this boat could even be called that.
I should be ashamed of myself, of the way I’ve been living. Self-loathing had become an intricate part of my personality, but since meeting Grace it had taken a back seat and I’d been happy to see it go. But after meeting her grandmother today, and having everything I’d ever been told about myself confirmed in the matter of minutes, it was back in full force.
“You deserve more than this.”
She takes another step toward me. “This? Maybe. But that doesn’t mean I deserve more than you.”
I clench my jaw. “Don’t act like this is more than a summer romp with the local bad boy before you run back to your rich boyfriend.”
Her face darkens and she gestures back and forth between us. “Is that what this is to you? What I am to you? A fucking fling?”
I scoff. “Come on, baby, don’t pretend that this is anything more than what it really is.”
Her fists go to her hips and she scowls, “Oh, and what exactly is this then?”
The attitude she throws at me is actually kind of cute, and if I were doing anything other than ending things with her I may have smiled. But my lips remain firmly set in a thin line as dread pools in my stomach. Every word slashes through me like a rusty blade, but that’s going to be nothing compared to the way it would feel when she finally walks away.
“A good time. A really fucking good time. That’s what this was. But what happens six months from now when you get sick of your stroll on the wild side and head back to all the stuffy suits in Columbia?”
Her eyes squeeze shut and her chest rises and falls rapidly for a moment before her lids pop open and she presses her lips together. “Maybe you’re right. Because all those stuffy suits in Columbia never once made me feel cheap like you just did.”
With a curt nod, she turns on her heel and marches out of my house and out of my life.
I ignore the ache in my chest and the burning in my lungs. This is a good thing, despite the way my body is screaming for me to stop her.
I didn’t lie to her. Grace is a good time. The kind any man—and especially me—would wage wars to hold on to.
Grace Monroe is a good time, but she isn’t meant to be my lifetime.
I stand on the dock, hands on my knees, chest heaving as I swallow hard, forcing back the nausea that threatens to overwhelm me.
Did Bronn just break up with me?
My eyes begin to water and I let out a frustrated laugh. I’ve cried enough for one day, I don’t want to do it again.
Standing upright, I suck in a deep breath and count to ten before slowly releasing it. A technique I started using as a child when Nana would get mad at me for something stupid and then punish me for crying about it.
I rush to the parking lot, intent on getting away from Bronn as quickly as possible. Naively, I hope that the distance between us will ease the ache that’s bloomed in my chest.
My hands shake and it takes two tries to get the car door open, but the effort is wasted, because I
don’t climb inside. After a moment’s deliberation, I slam it and turn on my heel, stomping back to the boat.
I don’t even knock as I sling the door open.
“Bullshit!” I shout, kicking the door shut behind me.
Scanning the room, I see that Bronn is still standing in the same place he was when I walked out. His jaw is slack, his face pale, and I know that I’ve caught him by surprise. Using that to my advantage, I stomp over to stand directly in front of him and continue to shout.
“You think you know me?” I wave my arms wildly, nearly hitting him. “You think that because I drive a nice car, wear expensive shoes, and have a rich grandmother that lives in a fancy house that it means that’s all I care about? And because you don’t have any of that I’m just sampling the other side before going back to my real life?”
He closes his mouth, only to open it again, but I continue my rant before he can speak.
“No, don’t say anything.” I take another step closer and grab his hand, placing it between my breasts, directly over my pounding heart. “Do you feel that? That’s what my breaking heart feels like.”
His eyes squeeze shut, his lips press together tightly, but I refuse to let him off the hook easily.
“Open your eyes and look at me.” When he does, I continue. “I was five years old when I watched my hero die.”
“Grace––“
“Shut up and listen to me, Bronn.” He nods, the movement slight, but I see it and I keep telling him my story, revealing the most painful part of my life to a man that’s just hurt me almost as badly. “We were poor. There were some days that my mama and daddy didn’t even eat, not that they ever let me know that.” I’d never known the depth of our poverty until I overheard my mother arguing with Papa one night a few years later. “My clothes were ratty thrift store finds. I owned one pair of shoes that didn’t have holes in them.” Those shoes had been a lucky find, and Mama had been obsessive about me keeping them in good shape. “I remember our last Christmas as a family. You know what was under the tree for me? A second-hand princess nightgown and a shell necklace my mother had made for me.” My heart squeezes when I remember their faces as I opened my gifts. My dad looked so defeated, like he had failed me. My mother held her breath, her eyes full of hope that I wouldn’t realize how pitiful the gifts were. My vision begins to swim and I blink hard, forcing the tears back. “I still have that necklace,” I whisper.
