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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 ThirtyGracieThe 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 too many.
