Southern Player

by Jessica Peterson

  I’m determined to make a last ditch effort anyway. Give myself the benefit of the doubt. I got no idea what this guy is really like. No clue what they’re talking about. Like I told Gracie, assuming makes an ass out of you and me.

  So I roll back my shoulders. Tilt my head. Same song and dance I’d do before going up to bat.

  “You sure you don’t need a minute?” Eli says.

  I need a lot of things. A minute isn’t one of them.

  Beer and champagne in hand, I head back into the fray. At the same moment, Lilly—the woman who hosted that alumni party thing—appears at Gracie’s elbow.

  Fuck.

  I take a breath through my nose. Let it out. Try to get a grip on my nerves here. I remember what Gracie said. That I was the most accomplished man at that party. That I deserved to be among people like Greyson and Lilly.

  I’m going to prove her right.

  “From my cellar,” Greyson is saying, nodding at the bottle he gave Gracie. “I don’t typically buy champagne—I’m more of a Cab guy—but this vintage was too stellar to pass up.”

  Lilly nods. “George and I were just in Champagne last summer. I think we sent home eight cases. Eight! Everyone said the winery tours weren’t as good as the ones you get in Napa, but I liked how authentic they felt.”

  My heart blares painfully inside my chest. Like it’s breaking through sinew and bone. Bleeding everywhere.

  I got nothing to say here. Nothing to add. But I still gotta try.

  I elbow my way into the small circle, handing Gracie her champagne.

  “Thanks,” she says.

  I greet Lilly, who gives me a kiss on the cheek. A cloud of her perfume trailing in her wake.

  Then I turn to Greyson and hold out my hand. “Luke Rodgers. I’m Gracie’s boyfriend.”

  The word sounds ridiculous. Like I’m a fifteen year old kid, sheepishly telling the adults that Gracie and I held hands at the movies or some shit.

  I can tell by the way his lips twitch that Greyson agrees with me.

  “Greyson Montgomery. I’m Gracie’s…money, I guess?” He turns to her. “What would you call me?”

  What would I call you after I tear off that stupid belt and use it to beat you silly?

  A bloody pulp, that’s what.

  “I’d call you an investor,” Gracie says, sipping her champagne. Totally unaware that I am a tenth of a second from putting this guy in a half nelson. “You know, I’d eventually like to serve wine at the shop. I’ve had a lot of requests from the evening crowd for it.”

  “I think that’d be a great idea,” Greyson replies, sliding his hands into the pockets of his perfectly pressed slacks. “You’ll have to come down to my cellar sometime. We can do a tasting. Decide on the menu. I know a guy who imports some of the best old world reds I’ve ever had—I’d be happy to put y’all in touch.”

  My heart is caught in a fist.

  I am trying.

  I am losing.

  This is a losing fucking battle.

  The reality of my situation hits me. I am never, ever gonna win against guys like Greyson. And these are the kind of guys who inhabit Gracie’s world. A world she knows and loves and thrives in.

  I do not belong in this world. Never did. Never will.

  How many times do I gotta be taught that lesson? First the French with the pastry chef lady. Then the alumni party. Now this.

  Third time’s a charm.

  Gracie and Lilly and Greyson politely ignore me as they talk wine. Trips to France.

  I got nothing to contribute. And I never will.

  My pulse roars as I race through the line of reasoning. I can’t be part of Gracie’s world. And I can’t take her out of it to come live in mine.

  Bottom line: the circles of our Venn diagram will never overlap enough to make it work.

  I’m not gonna be the guy who holds her back or forces her to choose.

  I’ll choose for us.

  Finishing my beer, I get lightheaded. Grief anger sadness hurt.

  I gotta let Gracie go.

  Hurt.

  Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m in the wrong. The past week has been hugely intense. Lots of changes. Upheavals. Emotions. I’m being a dramatic fuckhead.

  A desperate, dramatic, stupid son of a bitch.

  I know I should take a step back. Take a deep breath.

  Gracie’s been with guys like Greyson. They didn’t make her happy.

  I did.

  We were so happy when we were together.

  But.

  But that happiness only existed within the little naked bubble we created. We could make our relationship work when it was just the two of us. When we were holed up in her condo or my bedroom, checking shit off her list. A real relationship, though—a lasting one—that has to work out in the real world, too. Amongst friends and families. At events like this one.

  And that is not happening right now.

  It’s never going to.

  I mean. Look at me. I’m standing on the outside of this conversation like a goddamn mute. Nothing to contribute. Awkwardly sipping my beer.

  Gracie needs someone who is going to strengthen connections like these. Someone who can chime in. Who could bring in connections of his own.

  I am not that fucking guy. Never will be. Even if all my plans for Rodgers’ Farms come true, I’ll still be a farmer. A man who prefers Reba to old world reds. Whatever the fuck those are.

  My throat closes in. I blink, hard. This is gonna hurt. Gracie’s gonna cry.

  God, I don’t wanna make her cry.

  But I’d be saving us a world of hurt down the road. When she inevitably realizes I ain’t no good for her. That I’m keeping her from reaching her full potential.

  I want more for her.

  I hope you’ll forgive me, I silently pray as I look at her.

  ’Cause I’m never gonna forgive myself if I hold her back.

  Chapter Thirty

  Gracie

  The night flies by.

  My friends always talk about how their weddings go by in the blink of an eye. I get what they mean. When you’re in a room filled with your favorite people, four hours seems like forty minutes.

  It’s past eleven when Elijah and his sous chefs kindly but firmly usher everyone toward the exits. They dismantle the bar and buffet table in record time while I clear off cocktail tables and Luke sweeps the floor.

  Speaking of Luke—I lost track of him halfway through the night. Right after I talked to Greyson, as a matter of fact. I meant to look for him. But then Lilly was tugging at my elbow, begging to have a chat with a mutual friend, and then—well.

  Then I talked to another friend, and another. Another and another and another. I announced the raffle winners. Also announced we raised close to ten thousand dollars for the women’s shelter.

  And then the party was over.

  I am still buzzing with excitement and happiness and adrenaline. Although my exhaustion is starting to peek through. Achy knees. Eyes that burn.

  “Y’all need anything else?” Eli says, tucking his knife roll underneath his arm. “We got everything wrapped up. Kitchen’s clean.”

  I pull him in for a hug and kiss his cheek. “You’ve already done too much. Thank you. Sincerely. For everything.”

  He cuts me a glance. “You have fun?”

  “Best night ever.”

  “Good. You worked hard for this. I’m proud of you, Gracie.”

  I smile. “I learned a lot of what I know about businesses and dreams from you, you know.”

  “I know,” he says, returning my smile. Then he glances over my head. “Hey! Luke! Get over here—I’m leavin’.”

  I glance over my shoulder. Heart skipping like it always does when I look at Luke.

  I expect him to give me a big, face-eating smile. I expect my heart to skip again. I at least expect some kind of silly, self-aware acknowledgement that there is more than two feet of space between our bodies, which is far, far t
oo many.

  But instead, Luke doesn’t even look up from his sweeping.

  “See ya,” he says, holding up a hand.

  I furrow my brow. So does Eli.

  That’s not like Luke.

  “Well all right then,” Eli says, blinking. Gaze back on me. “Go get some sleep. I’ll be makin’ some breakfast tomorrow if y’all wanna stop by.”

  “Sounds good.”

  Eli steps back. Glances over my head. “See ya, Cinderella.”

  We both wait a beat for Luke to respond.

  Nothing.

  My heart does skip. Not with excitement, though.

  Apprehension.

  Something is wrong.

  The door closes behind Eli with a small whoosh. I turn to Luke. He’s emptying the dustpan into a black trash bag. He looks—

  Not like himself. Face a little red. Mouth tight.

  Probably just tired, right? He’s been here all night. And neither of us has gotten much sleep over the past week.

  “Hey,” I say, walking over to where he’s standing. “We can finish up in the morning. Let’s get out of here. Get naked.”

  My body warms at the idea of falling into bed with Luke. A quick, sweet fuck before a good, deep sleep.

  What a time to be alive.

  Luke goes still. Trash bag in one hand. Broom and dustpan in the other.

  Only his eyes move to meet mine.

  My stomach flips. They’re glassy. Pained.

  Oh my god oh my God what happened? Did someone say something? Do something?

  I will fucking kill them.

  “I can’t do this,” he says quietly.

  I blink. Feeling sick. “Put the broom down. You’ve already done too much.”

  “It’s not the sweeping I’m talking about.”

  “Put the goddamn broom down,” I say. My voice has started to shake.

  I don’t know why. This is fine. We are fine.

  Don’t get ahead of yourself. There is a perfectly reasonable, non-scary reason why Luke is acting the way he is.

  Has to be. Nothing’s changed since we talked last.

  Luke sets the broom and dustpan against the wall. Ties off the trash bag and sets it in the bin beside the kitchen door.

  I step closer. Go to put my hands on his waist. But he stops me, grabbing my wrists.

  That’s when I know something is really wrong.

  The look in his eyes is pure anguish as he holds me there. An inch away from him.

  “Gracie, listen to me.”

  “No.” The word pops out of my mouth. Like my body knows what’s about to go down before my mind does. “No, Luke.”

  He looks at me. Eyebrows drawn together. Muscle in his jaw ticking.

  “This is never going to work. We’re too different. We don’t—Grace, you said it yourself. We are from different worlds. We’ll never be able to make this work.” His eyes cut between mine. “I gotta let you go, baby.”

  The inside of my head explodes.

  Too much.

  Doesn’t compute.

  Don’t understand how why who what are you doing we have something so good we are fine we are fine we are fucking fine.

  My eyes flood with tears. Blurring my vision. I use all my strength to push my arms forward. But Luke is stronger—fuck him—his fingers gripping my wrists in a vise.

  “You’re hurting me.”

  “Listen.”

  “Not if you’re gonna walk out on me.”

  Like Nick. And the guy who came before him. And the guy who came before him, too.

  “I have to.” His gaze is imploring. “Don’t you see? I’m holding you back. You and I—we don’t make sense, Grace. C’mon. You gotta see that. I got nothing real to offer you. You deserve better than me. You’ll be glad—”

  “Don’t you dare patronize me.” A sob. My head spins. “Don’t you dare make this decision for both of us. That is not fucking fair, Luke.”

  His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “It’s not fair to hold you back. You’ll only end up resenting me if we stay together. Want more than me, Grace. Ask for more. You’ll get it. Easy.”

  Is he serious?

  Is this seriously happening right now?

  “I want you,” I say.

  He lets out a breath.

  The room swims around me. My brand new shop. All my dreams in one place.

  Dreams coming true.

  Dreams unraveling.

  I push my hands again. Giving it everything I’ve got. Luke’s jaw hardens as he keeps me back. His grip on my wrist is bruising.

  How far can I push him, I wonder? Will he really hurt me? What if I keep pushing? If I push hard enough, and fight fiercely enough, he’ll change his mind, right?

  He’ll see what an idiot he’s being and he’ll let me touch him. Have him.

  But I shout in frustration when he still holds me back. My fingertips reach for his shirt, but he won’t even let me go that far.

  “Jesus Christ, Gracie, stop,” he says, taking both my wrists in one of his enormous hands and pressing them back against my chest. Breathing hard. Using the bulk of his body to keep me still.

  “You promised you were different,” I gasp.

  “I am different. But not in a good way.”

  “Please. Stop. Stay.” I’m getting wound up. Woozy with grief. “Let’s talk—”

  “Be honest.” His eyes lock on mine. “Did you see yourself ending up on a farm? Did you see yourself ending up with someone more redneck than refined? Someone like me?”

  I just stare at him. Too stunned to reply.

  Does he really think that I don’t love everything he is? Everything he has? The farm and his crops and his home?

  Does he really believe that I don’t love him?

  “Exactly,” he says, mistaking my hesitation as confirmation. “I need to go.”

  I push against his grip with everything I’ve got. Not fair.

  “Stop!” he shouts, pushing back. “For fuck’s sake. You’re gonna hurt yourself, baby.”

  Don’t call me baby.

  But I can’t get the words out of my mouth.

  With his free hand, he pulls his phone out of his back pocket.

  “I’m going to put you in an Uber. He’ll take you right to your front door. Go get your stuff, all right?”

  I blink. Tears streaming down my face.

  He loosens his grip on my wrists. Takes that hand and wipes away my tears with his thumb.

  “I need you to know I’m doin’ the right thing.” He sniffles. “I am so sorry to hurt you, Gracie. But I’d be hurtin’ you more by sticking around. Please understand.”

  I spear him with a look. “I’ll never understand why you walked out on me when you promised you wouldn’t.”

  I watch as a single tear slips from his left eye.

  He sniffs again. Looks away. Runs a hand down his face.

  “Get your stuff,” he says, looking down at his phone.

  “I’ll walk home.”

  “No you won’t. Go get what you need.”

  “If you don’t care—”

  “Gracie.” Now his voice is shaking, too. “Please. I wanna make sure you get home all right.”

  I look at him. He looks at me.

  That’s when I know it’s truly over. Because beneath his hurt, I see the dull spark of belief.

  He really does believe he’s doing the right thing.

  It’s over.

  I was the star for one bright, shining moment.

  Figures I’d be the kind of star to crash and burn.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Gracie

  I show up to Elijah’s the next morning in dark sunglasses and the shirt I wore the night before. The usual smells of bacon and something starchy cooking are heavy in the air.

  Billy whimpers when he comes over to say hello. His nose lingering at my crotch for a heartbeat longer than usual.

  Olivia, who’s sitting at the island in her usual perch, looks up from her
coffee. Her bright smile immediately fades when she sees me.

  “Grace,” she says.

  And then she’s across the room and pulling me into a hug.

  I can’t help it.

  I start to cry.

  The whole nine yards—snotty nose, shoulders shaking, animal noises.

  I hear a bang by the stove.

  “What the fuck did he do?” Elijah growls. “I will fuckin’—”

  “Eli!” Olivia hisses. She turns back to me, stroking my hair. “C’mon in, Grace. What can we get you? Some water? Coffee?”

  “Bleach for the body?” Eli offers. “Bourbon?”

  I half-sob, half-laugh. “Bourbon sounds good.”

  Olivia settles me on the sofa, placing a box of tissues on the coffee table in front of me, while Eli presses an old fashioned glass into my hand.

  “Wow,” I say, looking down at it. The astringent smell of brown liquor filling my head. “I was joking.”

  Eli taps his glass to mine. Two fingers in each. “I wasn’t.”

  Welp. Guess this is my life now—trolling around town in last night’s clothes, drinking liquor before noon.

  I’ll try anything to make the ache in my chest hurt less.

  I swallow a good pull of bourbon. Swallow the memory of the way Luke’s face looked when he said we’re just too damn different.

  A rush of heat to my eyes. Matches the heat of the bourbon as it slides down my throat.

  I don’t understand it. One minute, Luke was walking into the party. Handing me flowers. Speechless in the cutest, sweetest way possible when I showed him the grits bar.

  He was still mine then. Still convinced we could make it work.

  But then something happened. Something that made him change his mind. I’ve retraced my steps in my head a thousand times. Was it Greyson? Charlie and Elle? The crowd?

  Luke is not a jealous guy. He’s not insecure or small-minded. What could’ve possibly set him off?

  What made him genuinely believe I’d be better off without him?

  Eli sits on the sofa next to me. Olivia takes the armchair to my left. Surrounding me in a little circle of sympathetic glances and silent comfort.

  “Bourbon’s good,” I say, taking another sip.

  “It’s Pappy,” Eli replies, referring to his favorite—and most expensive—bourbon, Pappy Van Winkle. “Desperate times call for good booze. Whatever happened, I’m real sorry, Gracie.”