“Completely. He’s dedicated. A hard worker,” I say, proud.
“And he had a false start down the aisle.”
I probably shouldn’t have shared that with her. I’ve had a few bouts of weakness where Davis is concerned.
“Does he truly care about you? Or are you his next challenge?”
I stop blowing on my hot beverage and face my mother, whose expression is stony and serious.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means that Davis may not want you; he may simply be conquering his next challenge. He failed to take a woman down the aisle. Maybe he wants to see how far he can go with you.”
“That’s a horrible thing to say.” My heart clutches. I don’t believe Davis is using me as an experiment. Then I think of the women he used to date. Were they experiments?
I close my eyes. I will not let my mother burrow into my psyche.
“I’d rather you know now than find out in your own divorce proceedings.” Dawn Buchanan sets her mug down and stands from the couch.
“That’s…pessimistic.”
“It’s realistic, Grace.”
“Divorce isn’t inevitable, Mom.” I’m on my feet and pulling on my coat before I can talk myself out of it. “I’m more to Davis than a goal to check off his bucket list.”
“And what is he to you?”
I frown.
“Because if he’s serious about you and you’re not serious about him, that’s not fair either. Do you know what love is, Grace? Do you know how to love him the way he loves you?”
I wonder if I’m visibly deflating. I am on the inside.
I told Davis I loved him. I meant it.
Didn’t I?
“Don’t toy with him,” my mother warns. “Especially if he’s serious. You know firsthand how bad a marriage can look when two people aren’t on the same page.”
“Thanks to you.” I grab my purse and start for the door.
“Remember what I said!” she calls as I leave her house.
I drive home, thinking that my mother is both certifiable and possibly right.
Davis has been good to me. I’ve been cagey. Squirrelly. Everything he does—every thoughtful, selfless thing—causes me to twitch with alarm.
In the shower I scrub my hair and push my visit with my mother to the back of my mind. I remember the bet I made with Davis and the way he leaped at the idea of taking me out. The way he offered me his “packages” and how I didn’t accept.
The champagne night.
Meeting his grandmother.
The hotel where he said he loved me.
I rinse my hair and stand under the spray, hot water cocooning me.
My mother is right.
Davis is being honest. It’s time for me to be honest.
I climb out of the shower, wrap myself in a towel, and, dripping, go to my cellphone where it sits on my bed.
Hands shaking, I draw a deep breath. I punch a button and make the outgoing call I should’ve made a long time ago.
“Gracie Lou,” Davis answers.
“What are you doing?” My voice shakes, but I clear my throat and try again. “Are you busy?”
“I’m coming to your place,” he says, his voice sexy and suggestive.
I manage a curt “I’m waiting.”
“See you in ten.”
Ten.
I have ten minutes to think of what to say.
Davis
Grace inviting me over goes a long way toward soothing my ragged nerves. The other day I overthought myself into a tizzy.
Tizzies are not manly.
I park at the curb and walk to her door. I notice I’m whistling—how about that? I’m not sure “chipper” is manly either, but I’m going with it.
Grace answers with wet hair, wearing jeans, a sweatshirt, and fluffy blue socks.
I hand over the fall bouquet in my hand. “For you.”
Her eyes go to the blooms and then lift to my face. “We need to talk, Davis.”
A jolt shocks my system. My brain scrambles to remember what Vince said the other night. Something about cutting her off to tell her I was wrong. Was that it? Something about how I was the one who jumped the gun?
“We do need to talk,” I say. On the cusp of eating the I love you that I said a long time ago and meant ever since, I hesitate. I could tell her the offer of my house key was premature, but that too feels like the wrong move.
I’m not going to lie to Grace. I’m not going to say I didn’t mean any of it when I meant all of it.
“Come in.”
I step into her house and close the door behind me. I follow her to the kitchen, where she’s pulling a glass vase down from an overhead cabinet. She rinses it and fills it with water, and I hand over the flowers.
We stand in silence while she unwraps them and takes the extra step of trimming the ends with shears. I keep my mouth shut. No good can come of my speaking first. She’s the one with something to say. I’m going to let her say it.
“They’re beautiful.” She looks sad. A bizarre spark of hope comes when I wonder if she’s upset about her father, not me.
“Is this about your dad?” My heart thuds hard, then harder when she shakes her head no. That means it’s about me. Well, shit.
I take her hand and lead her to the sofa, shrugging out of my coat. She sits, looks at her lap, and fidgets with the pocket on the front of her sweatshirt.
“Tell me, Gracie.”
She inhales. I steel my spine. I’d rather know what’s going on in her head than not know. Not knowing sucks.
“You said you wanted more,” she starts. “With me.”
“Yes.” I did say that.
“Why?”
“Why?” I repeat. She needs clarity on that? “I thought the why was clear.”
“The thing is, Davis…”
Hell. This is going from bad to worse.
“More could mean a lot of things,” I interrupt. “More could mean you have my key or stay the whole weekend. More could mean trips together. More could mean…” Marriage, kids, a future. “Whatever we want it to mean,” I finish lamely. I don’t want to spook her. Given the dark circles under her eyes, I might be too late.
“I’ve seen the more. I’ve witnessed firsthand when love leads to destruction, then to compromise, and then to ambivalence. Every stage is uglier than the last.”
She’s talking about her parents.
“You’ve seen one version of it, Gracie.”
“You’ve seen another,” she fires back.
“And I’m willing to try again.”
Her eyes widen in alarm. “You can’t mean…marriage?”
“Breathe.” I grip her arm. I can’t not touch her. She leans into me despite her uncertainty. “I don’t want to get married. Not yet. But in the future, who knows? I’m willing to see what happens. We haven’t exactly been sticking to the script here.”
Everything about Grace and me is different.
“You love me; I love you. We’ve got this.” I wrap my arm around her but she twists away.
“I don’t—” Her fists are curled in the sleeves of her sweatshirt. She shakes them at me. “I shouldn’t have said it back.”
“Grace.” The word is a warning. I’m not playing around with this and neither should she. Years ago my heart was destroyed, and it took a lot for me to get to this point. “Be very certain that you mean what you say next.”
She swallows, then meets my eyes. “What if we back off? What if I choose a package and we start from there?”
Her voice is infused with hope. Hope, while devastation wreaks havoc in my chest cavity.
“You’re serious.”
“It’s a good compromise.” She lifts her eyebrows.
Like I’m going to agree to this bullshit?
“I don’t want to offer you a package. I’m done with the way I used to date. I’m done taking out random women. I’m over being lonely.”
“You’re lonely an
d I’m convenient, is that it? The girl without a career or hobbies? The one woman who can seamlessly fuse into your life while leaving hers behind?”
Wait. What?
“What the fuck, Grace? I never said any of that.”
“You didn’t have to, Davis!” She bursts off the sofa. “You’re not in love with me, admit it. I’m another challenge for you to overcome.”
“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone,” I all but shout as I stand with her. She shrinks back.
“No. You like having a sex partner and a person to watch TV with.”
When I confront her next, my voice shakes with anger. “This is bullshit. You know it. You’re scared and you’re nervous and you’re looking for a way to sabotage what we have.”
“It’s doomed anyway!”
I lock my jaw and lean in. “You don’t believe that.”
She’s silent.
“You dared me to date you, Grace. You. You decided to stay with me past the agreed-upon package. And when your dad showed up out of the blue with news he wasn’t going to be around much longer, who did you run to? Me.”
“I shouldn’t have put that on you.”
I grip her shoulders. “Yes. You should have. That’s the goddamn point! It’s okay to lean on the person you love. It’s okay to be vulnerable. It’s okay to take my house key. It’s okay to fight and have uncomfortable conversations about our future.”
I lower my face to hers.
“Gracie,” I say softly. She’s still in there. The woman I’ve fallen for—I can see her beyond the fear. “Don’t do this. We’re okay. We’re better than okay now that this is out in the open.”
Just when I think I’m reaching her, she shakes her head solemnly.
“Ending it now is better than ending it later. I don’t want to be a bitter divorcée whose only bright spot in life is eating lunch with a bunch of other bitter divorcées.”
I have no idea what she’s talking about. She steps away from me, her eyes damp, but no tears fall.
“Your solution is to never try again. Is that it?” I ask.
“You and I, Davis…We’re not Rox and Mark.”
“What the hell does this have to do with Rox and Mark?” I practically shout.
“He’s perfect for her. A harmless guy with a bland past and a normal family. Our dynamics…We’ll never survive.”
Fury roars within me, though I suspect beneath it is pain—a truckload of it. The deep, dark hurt I once buried and swore never to unearth.
“I can’t help who I am, Gracie. I can’t change my mother leaving or my father dying. I can’t change your parents either.”
She juts her chin stubbornly.
“You’re right, though. If you kill what we have before it starts, we won’t survive.”
“I couldn’t lie to you any longer.”
“Lying to me should be the least of your concerns.” I snatch my coat off the couch and march for the door. “Lying to yourself, on the other hand—that shit leaves a scar.”
I open the door, a cold breeze slapping me in the face and slicing through my thin shirt. I should walk out without looking back. I should, but I don’t. I turn and look over my shoulder, half in, half out.
“Last chance, Grace. Do you love me or not?” I brace myself for her answer, remind myself of my new motto: I’d rather know than not know.
“I…can’t.” Tears spill down her cheeks. She covers her mouth like she’s trying to keep from taking it back.
“All right, then.” I feel the wall going up—the stones stacking from my gut to my neck and enclosing my heart along the way. “I guess we’re done.”
I shut the door firmly, the silence feeling final.
I feel fucking horrible.
But. I was eviscerated once before and lived to tell the tale.
I can do it again.
I don’t bother pulling on my coat. I climb into my car and start driving aimlessly until, two hours later, I arrive in Mysticburg, Ohio, knocking on my grandmother’s bedroom door.
She takes one look at me and her eyes brim with concern. “What happened?”
“Grace” is all my shaky voice manages.
“I told her not to fuck it up.” My grandmother grabs my arm and I allow her to drag me inside.
“It’s not her fault. Hell, maybe it’s no one’s fault. Maybe we were doomed from the start because of our checkered pasts.”
“Don’t be an idiot. It’s unflattering.”
I sink into an armchair and cover my eyes with my hand. “I loved her.”
“I know.” My grandmother pulls my hand away from my eyes and quirks one white eyebrow. “Want a shot of whiskey?”
I laugh but choke on it a moment later as the severity of what I’ve lost sinks in. “I lost her.”
“Davis, no.”
It’s no use. My eyes blur and my gut hollows out. “I lost her, Rose. For good.”
Chapter 23
Davis
TEN DAYS LATER.
I tilt my head and wince as a sickening crunch comes from the top of my spinal cord.
That can’t be good.
I rub my eyes and that’s worse. My vision is grainy from staring at a computer screen for—I check the clock on my phone—twelve hours plus. My throat is dry, the empty water bottle at my left elbow one I never bothered refilling. My heart…
You know what? Let’s not talk about that.
Since Grace dumped me on my ass and I drove to cry on my grandmother’s shoulder, I’m doing better. I’m handling it. I navigated out of the shit pile that was my life six years ago—this is no different.
No.
It’s better.
Better in the sense that I found out early. That I wasn’t standing at the end of an aisle like a complete schmuck while Grace sneaked out of the church, or out of the courtroom, or off the beach.
I saved myself another six years of pain by taking the brunt of her breakup square on the chin.
That’s my lucid argument of late.
I’m not going to climb into a bottle of rum. I’m not drinking more than one or two beers. I’m not suffering from insomnia.
My coping mechanism this time? Work.
I normally never work past five. Lately I’m hunched over my keyboard until nine or ten. Last night I didn’t stop until after midnight.
The television blares in the background. I let the drone of bad news wash over me as I analyze and overanalyze and reanalyze data.
I have no more control over stocks than I have in the real world, but the act of striking keys and placing calls makes me feel in control. Downtime is the worst. Staying busy is the only way I’ll make it through.
The stock market is volatile. Its tectonic plates shift drastically, whether we’re talking about an act of war or a Kardashian getting her feelings hurt. That kind of unpredictability means it’s safe to play the middle.
I haven’t been safe.
My boss called earlier this afternoon. He’s seen my numbers. My percentage has tanked. Customer satisfaction is down. What happened? he wanted to know. Do you need a break? he asked.
I explained that I hit a bump in the road. I told him I plan on being back to top ten, back down to my lean, mean fighting weight, in no time.
He seemed to believe me.
He invited me to his house, and I told him I’d think about it. Being a country’s width away from Grace is tempting.
Standing isn’t easy, but I do it anyway. My knee wobbles and I straighten it, grab my empty water bottle, and tuck my phone into my pocket.
Over the sink I fill the bottle, my mind wandering.
Other than the voice of a miserable CNN reporter (are they ever happy about anything?), my house is quiet. It’s been quiet for too long.
I remember Grace’s tear-streaked face in the diminishing crack of her front door as I closed it for the last time. I wonder if she’s lonely. If she’s thought of me.
I shut off the sink when the water overflows, a frown
pulling my mouth.
It doesn’t matter how she is. It only matters how I am.
Since my visit with my grandmother, I’ve avoided bars. All of them, especially my favorite bar in town. How shortsighted is that? Just because Grace decided to squash my heart like wine grapes, I no longer go to a place I enjoy? I was there first. If anyone should leave McGreevy’s, it should be her. Not me.
Righteous indignation is the worst kind, but that’s what I cling to as I suck a deep breath in through my nostrils.
I have to get over this before I lose my job or take off for California and turn into a tofu-eating hippie like my boss. I don’t thrive on mellow vibes. I live for action.
I pull my phone out and text Vince one word: Beer.
An almost immediate text back reads Where?
Where do you think?
After a lengthy pause, Vince responds: Dude. Seriously?
I’ll be there in fifteen, I text back.
Decision made.
Outside my former favorite bar, I survey the crowd through the windows. McGreevy’s is busy, especially for a weekday. Grace is behind the bar, her hair curled the way I like it.
The way I used to like it.
Standing there, watching her fluid movements, I remember how soft and giving she felt against me….When we danced. When we made love. When she leaned on me and I wrapped her in my arms.
My shoes may as well be cemented to the sidewalk. I set my jaw and will my feet to move forward, but they don’t. Grace glances up and my heart lodges in my throat. She can’t see me through the glass. It’s dark out here and light in there.
I watch her for a few more seconds, indecision immobilizing me. A shadow lengthens on the sidewalk and I turn my head to see Vince, his hands in his black leather jacket’s pockets.
“You don’t have to go in there,” he says.
“Where’s Jackie?” I’m going in and he’s not talking me out of it. It’s just taking me a minute to find my nerve. That’s all.
“She’s at home. She thought it’d be best if she doesn’t interrupt our guy time.”
“Guy time.” I make a face.
“Her words.”
“Let’s do this.” Finally I’m able to take one step forward. Then another.
Vince’s hand lands on my shoulder as I reach for the handle.
Arm Candy Page 19
