All of my teenage years I felt like a pawn. My father used my mother and I as pieces in his life until he didn’t need us anymore, making us disposable; and my mother emotionally used me because she couldn’t handle how her life had turned out. I became the parent and she became the child. She became weaker than she already was, and I vowed never to turn out like her. I would never let someone else define who I was. So what she didn’t have a lying, cheating man anymore. So what she had to get a job and work like the rest of the world. So what she lost her fake, stepford identity and never found it in herself to get a new one. A genuine one.
It was pathetic. She was pathetic. And I refuse to be her.
Sitting down under the spray, I shiver, hoping to end up numb, but instead the pain staining my skin doesn’t wash away and is replaced with anger as the water warms. I’m not even sure what I’m angry at, it could be him, me, or both, all I know is that this assignment is done.
Done.
There’s a loud knock on the front door, startling me, and my heart hammers in my chest. I know it’s him, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to answer it. Still, I turn the water off with more force than necessary, grab a towel, and head into the bedroom.
More knocking, which causes me to pause, and then I hear the creak of the front door as it is being opened and closed.
Of course, he can’t just leave like a normal guy would when being ignored, he had to dig out his keys and let himself in where he isn’t welcome! I’m fuming over his audacity when he pushes my bedroom door open.
Very cautiously, he steps into the room, and my body jolts with an unwanted natural reaction to him. His hair is sticking up from running his hands through it, and his eyes are wild with worry. His cheeks are flushed from the trip down here, and there’s stubble across his chin that I didn’t notice earlier. I’m bombarded by the outdoor smell of him, and my breath catches at how it had become something I craved.
“What are you doing here?” I ask sharply. He needs to go.
The sound of my voice has his eyes, which had been doing a slow trek down my body, shooting back to mine. I almost wish they hadn’t, because he watches as water drips from my hair over my face and reads every emotion I’m trying to hide. His hands slowly fist at his sides, and his chest moves faster with each breath he takes.
I hate that I’m overly exposed to him right now, physically and emotionally. He shouldn’t be here. He doesn’t get to see me like this. No one should see me like this.
“Shelby.” He takes a step toward me and pauses as I take one back, gripping the towel tighter. His presence is warming my chilled skin. It’s quite possible if he comes any closer, I will either strip him or punch him. I don’t know which urge would win.
“Get out, Zach.” My tone is calm but annoyance is evident.
His eyes narrow as the thoughts in his mind go to war with each other. I spot the shadows under his eyes letting me know one of his migraines is setting in, and I hate that I care. He needs to go, but his steely determination tells me he won’t, he can’t. For his sake, I hope he took that medicine before he came down here.
“No,” he replies with a small shake of his head. “I’ll wait for you in the kitchen.” Then he walks out of the room.
Why did he come after me? Why can’t he just let me be? The assignment is over, we are over, not that there ever truly was a ‘we’.
Resigned, I take my time getting dressed, but I can only stall for so long. With a heavy sigh, I put on my big girl panties and make my way to the kitchen to talk to the one person I really don’t want to talk to.
Zack is sitting with his elbows on the kitchen island, his head lowered, and he’s rubbing the back of his neck. As much as I don’t want to feel bad for him, I do. Even if he did bring this upon himself.
“What’s that?” I spot a pecan pie next to him.
His head lifts, and he follows my gaze to the pie. He lets out a sigh and then turns to look at me, blue eyes darker than normal. “I called Lexi and had her ship it for you. You said it was your favorite, and I thought you might like it.”
“You thought I might like it . . . or was this part of your plan?”
He flinches. Good.
“I honestly don’t know what to think,” I say walking to the opposite side of the island so I’m not standing so close to him. “I’m sure you meant well, nice gesture and all . . .” My eyes narrow. “Or maybe you didn’t, maybe it was all part of your win-her-over plan by calling my friend to have her help you with this little duplicitous charade of yours. Kind of pathetic, don’t you think?” I cross my arms over my chest and briefly look away from him. He doesn’t need to see how much this thought hurts me.
He lets out another sigh, runs his hand across his face, and again through his hair before pinning me with an unreadable look. Maybe he doesn’t have anything to say for himself, so I save him the trouble of asking and tell him what he wants to hear.
“If you’re here to make sure I don’t take down your coveted blog post, I won’t. It’s already out there, so what would be the point?”
“I’m not here for that.” He shakes his head, imploring me to understand. Understand what?
“Then why are you here?” I yell at him, and he flinches again.
“I needed to see you. I need you to let me explain.” His hands slide across the island palm down, as if he’s reaching for me.
“There’s nothing to explain.” I take a step back and lean against the oven. “You said it yourself, winning is everything to you. I should have known . . . I should have seen it coming from a mile away, and I definitely should have seen straight through your, ‘let’s start over’ bullshit. The hatred you had for me at the event and when I first arrived was too strong to be swept under the rug. Why I thought you’d suddenly changed your mind about me, I don’t know. God, I feel so stupid.” I turn away from him and walk toward the French doors.
“Stop. Right there.” His voice is firm, and I slowly spin to face him, anger flaring.
He’s only a few paces away, but before he can open his mouth to say anything, I lay into him. “Even though I still have no idea what I did for you to dislike me so much, the truth is, someone like you was never going to like someone like me, and that’s fine with me, I get it. But I know who I am. I’m smart, I think I’m beautiful, I’m successful, and I hate that until I met you, no one’s opinion of me mattered but my own.”
I saw the pictures of him and his ex-girlfriend on line. Hell, I saw all the photos of him with other girls, and none of them look like me.
“Shelby, you are beautiful and you are smart.” He gets up and moves around the island taking a few steps toward me, his hands flexing like he wants to touch me. “And you’re right, no one’s opinion should matter but your own.”
So, why did I allow yours to?
The sincerity of his words resonates deep within me, and my heart aches for the moments we had and will never have again. I liked him. I really liked him.
How did we get here?
How did I get here?
He hears the questions with each breath I take and sees the hurt as it trembles on my lips. With my eyes again burning, I spin around and put my back to him. Wrapping my arms around my middle, I look out the window and wish that I were anywhere but here with him. This assignment was supposed to be fun, and I had hoped it would be a two-week getaway on a vineyard where I got to cook and drink great wine. Instead, I broke my number one rule: never get involved with someone in my industry. I should have stayed clear of him, and none of this would be happening.
In front of the window the crow flies by. I turn to again find it again sitting on the back table, staring at me with its tiny black mocking eyes. The bird told me, I should have listened.
“I hate critics,” he spits out with an edge to his tone that slices my heart. Whereas I had hoped he was going to apologize, I was wrong, he’s only made me feel worse. My lips dip into a frown as he again hits me with another direct insult.
“So, you’ve said,” I say dryly, not wanting to allow him insight to anymore of my thoughts. He doesn’t need to know that sadness cloaks over me and pools at my feet.
As a critic, I’ve become immune to people’s assessment of my work, but I let him in, and all it took was two weeks for him to tear me down. Not even two weeks.
“This all started because of one.”
I know he’s talking about the review from last fall, and I whirl around, bringing us face to face. “Not this one”—I point to myself, voice raised—“someone else!”
Brushing past him, I head back toward the bedroom. I can’t stand here and talk to him. I need to get ready to leave. I need him to leave. The sooner the better.
Pulling open the first drawer, I yank all of my clothes out of it, and toss them into the suitcase that’s open on the floor.
Zach, who didn’t take the hint to leave, leans on the doorframe and watches me.
“Shelby, I told you about the review and the four wilted grapes. You have no idea the negative impact it had on our winery, and we didn’t do anything wrong. It’s critics and bloggers, people like you, who for whatever reason feel entitled to put their words out into the world as if they’re gold. You don’t suffer the repercussions of those words, we do, the owners.”
“People like me!” My mouth drops, and I feel slapped. “That’s really rich coming from you, I mean do you even hear yourself? You’re such a hypocrite! You spent the last two weeks manipulating me with your words so I would write a good review for your winery, and now you want to slander my profession? It’s funny how when the reviews are all shiny and perfect, like mine was this morning, you love them and what they do for your business. You encourage others to write more of them and flash them as often as possible. But when one comes your way you don’t like, you pass judgment, hold a grudge, and holler for a penalty.”
His eyes narrow, and his back straightens as he comes to his full height. His shirt stretches across his chest, through his shoulders. He looks pissed, but I don’t care. He’s a big boy and should be able to handle being shown his own hypocrisy.
“Oh, we’re trading football analogies now, are we?” The tips of his ears redden. “Well, at least in football when a coach thinks something is called incorrectly he’s allowed to dispute it! The play is reviewed and then the final call is made. I should have been allowed a review that night. He should have given me a second chance to correct the mistake and these last few months never should have happened.” He turns around, walks out of the doorway, and then walks straight back in. “And for the record,” he says, towering over me, “I heard you in Atlanta. I was standing behind you and Lexi, excited to meet you actually, even though I knew that review was coming. I heard you laughing about a bad review you had just posted. As I stood there being slammed with disappointment, I couldn’t help but wonder if the guy who wrote our review stood around and laughed about us, too.”
Somewhere in the middle of his tirade, I’d stopped packing and was acutely listening to him. He overheard my conversation with Lexi in Atlanta? Is that what this is all about? That’s the real reason he never liked me?
Oh my God!
“I don’t feel entitled when it comes to my reviews. They are my thoughts on my own blog. They are not published anywhere else. I told you in Asheville what writing those reviews meant to me. And, what you heard in Atlanta at the event was a completely different situation than yours. I gave them a chance to correct the error! I was served burnt food, and when I asked to have it recooked, the chef came out and served me raw food. He purposely went out of his way to be an asshole to a customer because I sent his food back. He caused a scene in the restaurant, was unapologetic about it, and then made me pay for inedible food. How would you have written that up?”
“I wouldn’t have written anything at all,” he says so matter-of-factly it makes me want to scream.
“That is not the point!” We stare at each other. “So, basically you’re saying if the other team shows unnecessary roughness while you have the ball, it should be overlooked and you don’t get the fifteen yards and first down?”
He pauses and licks his lips before lowering his head and pinching the bridge of his nose. I wait as he takes a few deep breaths and then drops his hand.
“Look, you don’t have to agree with me, it doesn’t matter anymore. The reviews I write aren’t like the one you received with the four wilted grapes. That isn’t what Starving for Southern is about, at least not for me. The people I write about, they followed their dreams and opened a restaurant. How can I criticize that? Just because the food wasn’t for me, doesn’t mean it isn’t perfect for someone else. I’ve always tried to stay true to two things: writing the facts and keeping my opinions subjective.”
“Still, a critic is a critic.” He huffs.
“No, it isn’t! No two critics are the same, just like no two reviews are the same. Zach, the critic and the review, they are one person’s opinion and like anything in life, they vary. Take a look at your walls and the binder behind your bar. So many wonderful things said, but you’re so focused on the one negative as if none of the others matter. What a shame to all those people who wrote something nice.”
He pauses and his nostrils flare as his body goes completely stiff. “I saw you hug him.”
“What? Who?”
“That night. In Atlanta. He was at the event,” he all but snarls at me.
“So, what does that have to do with anything?”
“People surround themselves with like minded people, and if you’re like him, then I have zero interest in knowing you. Also, the level of friendliness you shared with someone I perceive as an enemy is another red flag and where I draw the line.”
Feeling completely dumbfounded, my jaw drops open as I replay the words he just said. How is this rational?
“So, what you’re saying is, in order for us to be friends I have to share all of your same ideals and like all the same people you do and no one else?”
“No, I’m not saying that at all. Be friends with whoever you want, but know this, if someone had treated you badly, I wouldn’t have stood for it, not for one second, nor would I want to be associated with them.” He walks backward and leans against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest.
“First off, I’ve never read any of his reviews because they’re about wine, so I don’t know anything about him professionally. I only know him through mutual friends and events. Secondly, I didn’t even know about yours because it wasn’t out yet! And third, what makes you think I wouldn’t have stood up for you had I known? This all goes back to your misconstrued perception of my character. It’s funny how I worried about not trusting you, but did anyway, when all this time, you were never going to trust me.”
I leave him to mull over my words and move to the closet to start pulling my clothes off hangers. A lump forms in my throat as I’m overcome with inadequacy and sadness. I don’t know how to deal with him or this situation anymore. What I thought I knew about him and us is wrong, and that hurts more than I thought it would.
With my arms full of clothes, I storm back to my bedroom—where he’s still standing—and stop in front of him. He sees unshed tears, and the anger etched on his face dissipates while wrinkles of concern form on his forehead.
“You could have asked me about him and I would have told you that he’s no one to me, just an industry acquaintance I see in passing here and there. You should have read over my blog, if not only to read that review for yourself to see why I wrote it, but also to learn more about me. But you never even took the time. Instead, you chose to judge me for months while I was unsuspecting. Who does that? You have no idea what I do every day, but because of this fortunate situation we’ve found ourselves in, you saw a large following and an opportunity. All the while, you assumed the worst based on one experience that has nothing to do with me, a conversation you partially overheard, and a two minute greeting with someone I barely know. Whatever, Zach. Walk aro
und and talk all you want about how you hate critics, but I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t do anything to you,”—I pause and pin him with a glare that I hope withers his balls—“except fall for you and sleep with you. All this is on you . . . not me. This is about your character, not mine.”
A clock chimes in the hallway and the sound echoes through the cottage. Moving away from Zach, I continue packing, and this time I let the hated tears fall.
He crushed me, I’m pissed off, and my resolve is shattered.
“I should have looked more closely at your blog,” he says, voice deep with dejection.
“Shoulda, coulda, woulda.” I sniffle and hope he doesn’t hear it. “I’m thinking you should have done a lot of things.”
“Shelby,” he whispers, moving to wrap one hand around my elbow and pulling me to him. I let him, but I don’t relax as his other hand moves to hold the back of my head and he rests his forehead against mine.
“I’m sorry.”
I take his apology for what it is, because I do think he means it, but too little too late.
“Zach, any relationship I go into, be it a short or long one, I go into honestly.” I find the strength to pull away from his hold and put some space between us. “Honesty is the most important trait that I value in a person. There is no such thing as too honest. Does it hurt sometimes to hear the truth, yes, but it is always for the best, and it’s that truth that allows loyalty. Honesty, truth, loyalty, and kindness are all qualities that I hope to find in someone. Do you want to know why?” I pause just long enough to take a breath before answering the question for him. “Because, that is who I am. This is what I give, and this is what I deserve.”
He runs his hand across his face, looking anxious. “How do I fix this? How do I fix us?”
“You don’t. There is no us.” Although we never discussed anything beyond the two weeks, prior to this morning I was open to the idea, now, I just can’t. “This was supposed to be fun . . . fleeting. It was never going to move past the two weeks. I am sorry it’s ending the way it is, though.”
The Sweetness of Life (Starving for Southern Book 1) Page 24
