He turned to me, genuine confusion in his eyes. It only made me angrier.
“You can’t even stand up to your parents. Not for anyone—not for you, and not for me.”
For one, blistering second, I wanted to take it all back. To apologize, say that I didn’t mean it, and ask him to come inside and help me with dinner.
Then that pesky word rolled back to the front of my mind:distraction.
“That’s different,” he replied, frowning. “My parents hold my future in their hands.”
I laughed, a hollow sound that made him flinch. “Because youletthem, Rhett. And it’s a future you don’t even want—not really.”
His shoulders drew back until he was sitting straight as a rod. “What would you know about what I want?” The words were calm yet acerbic, his eyes cold as he studied me with a level of cynicism I’d never seen before.
“I know that when you talk about architecture, it doesn’t sound like someone who loves it,” I responded quietly, refusing to back down.
“There you go again with that.” He stood, tugging a hand through his hair as he did. “I don’t need tolovemy career, Georgie.” When he said my name, he sounded weary, like he’d already run out of hot air.
I rose to my feet and joined him on the pavement. A chilly gust swept through the rose bushes and made me tug my cardigan tighter.
“Maybe not, but you shouldn’thateit.”
“You’re one to talk,” he quipped, tipping his chin to the night sky with a dry laugh.
“And what’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means I’m not blind,” Rhett retorted, looking back at me with fresh drive sparkling in his eyes. “Marigold’s is sucking you dry. You don’t love it, either—and yet you seem to be hellbent on going down with the ship.”
I was momentarily struck by the fact that I’d never told him my plan. Amidst the festival, the surprise dinner, and the kiss at the beach—it hadn’t even crossed my mind to talk about the pottery shop. But now that I had the opportunity, I didn’t want to. He was leaving. What was the point of telling him?
“Okay. Fine,” I mumbled at first, then my head grew steadily clearer. “So go,” I said quietly. “Go to the gala. Make your parents happy. Go back to California with the life you tolerate—and forget I ever existed.”
Finally out in the open, the words weren’t as scary as I expected. I’d gotten twisted up over a guy that I always knew was leaving, and it was no one’s fault but my own. The fear I harbored for years was finally realized. And it was because of me.
“Georgie, please—”
Rhett reached for my hands, and for a few seconds, I allowed myself to relish that firm, calloused warmth. The kind that made me want to lean in and forget all my rationality.
When I loosened my fingers, the air was colder than before. Simply knowing what it felt like to be underneath one of his wide, goofy smiles, or tucked into his solid arms, was enough to make the world without Rhett feel particularly bleak. I had to be strong, though. The Georgie I’d be when he left would thank me.
“That’s what you want,” I whispered. I stepped back, ignoring the sting in my eyes.
Rhett didn’t argue, either. He stared at me, lips parted, arm half-extended as if frozen mid-reach. I allowed myself to admire the way moonlight cut shadows across his sharp jaw, and his near-black hair that seemed permanently undone in recent days. All of it was perfect to me.
The silence was more than I could bear.
“Goodbye, Rhett,” I murmured, pavers scraping as I turned on my heel and ran up the porch stairs.
Whistling to Easton, who came running from a nearby bush with his tongue dangling, I fumbled with my key and nearly broke down the door trying to get in. Tears were already racing down my cheeks when I slipped inside and crumpled against the wood. Even as a jagged sob tore through my chest, I refused to look out the window.
If Rhett wasn’t going to look back, then neither was I.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Thursday morning came, and my muscles still ached from hauling Marigold’s floral coolers the night before. Rhett’s tool bag sat by the door. I caught myself glaring at them more than once, as if they were personally responsible for my restless nights.
Not that the tools cared.
Leaving the backroom, I passed the tiny bag I’d tucked onto the storage shelf—still wrapped in tissue paper from the antique store. I hadn’t found the right time to give it to him before the kiss, and after the argument, I wasn’t sure there’d ever be a right time. Still, somehow, it felt right leaving it here. Among his handiwork.
