Eyes and nose burning as tears force their way past my control, I can only nod. She’s only saying what I’ve known to be true all along. She deserves the full truth, and I can’t give it to her. Not without betraying a confidence I’ve protected my whole life.
“You’re right,” I croak. “I’m sorry I ever let it go this far. You were right about my greed. My selfishness.” The word slices out of me, sharp and bitter as a lemon rind. “I let myself have you, knowing it would hurt you, and everyone else I care about.”
I wipe impatiently at my eyes, but it only brings her devastated expression into clearer focus. I take a strangled breath, trying to pull myself together. To say goodbye. “I’ll hire an intermediary to handle the cottage sale. You won’t need to communicate with me at all. I hope…” I swallow hard. “I hope you find someone worthy of loving you, Gracie.”
She doesn’t stop me as I walk to her front door. Doesn’t say my name as I shove my feet into my untied shoes. Says nothing at all as I pull open her door and leave. And it’s better this way.
Because I don’t deserve a single word.
39GRACIE
There’s nothing that says “rock bottom” quite like moving into your mom’s basement. In the last few days since I threw some essentials into a duffel bag and left the cottage, I’ve grown slightly more accustomed to my new life as a squatter. To her credit, my mom didn’t bat a lash when I showed up and asked to stay, not even after how our last conversation went. Maybe it was the fog of shame and despair rolling off me or the tear tracks on my face, but she wordlessly took my bag, sat me down in the kitchen, and promptly made me a grilled cheese sandwich with a glass of coffee milk. I didn’t realize how emotional I could get over my childhood comfort foods, but the simple kindness of it felt like a cushion to break my fall.
And after what happened between me and Jude, a soft place to land was exactly what I needed.
I know I could have called Sofia. Sharing a bed with her definitely would have been more comfortable than the rusted torture rack masquerading as a pullout couch that I’m currently sleeping on. But after our fight, coming to her withanotherlife crisis didn’t feel right. She’ll always be my person to confide in, but right now, she’s the one who needs my support.
On a more shameful level, I can admit that I’m not quite ready to face up to the fact that she’s been right all along. Right about what a coward I’ve been, and right about the futility of changing Jude’s mind about Larkwood.
At the mere thought of him, the fist-size knot of pain I used to call a heart clenches tight. With effort, I cram the hurt down, just like I have every other time it’s tried to surface since watching him walk out of my cottage.Can’t you give me a minute to worry about my best friend, please?I think at it viciously.
Compartmentalization complete, I sigh. If Sofia’s impendingI-Told-You-Sowasn’t enough to make me want to crawl into a body-size bag of potato chips and eat myself into a shame coma, I also know what she would suggest I do with my career now, especially since my financial circumstances have changed.
Yesterday, I received an email from Jude’s real estate agent with a cash offer for the cottage that made me refresh the page just to be sure it had loaded correctly. The sum would not only clear my debt but also provide a decent nest egg for savings.Or(extremely) hypothetically, let me invest in a new business venture.
Either way, it was seeing that number in black and white that finally allowed me to grasp what Jude and Sofia have been trying to show me all along: taking his offer from the start would have been the smarter move. But even after failing to save Larkwood, I still can’t bring myself to regret fighting for my friends’ jobs, or Agatha’s legacy. It was the right thing to do, even if it cost me more than I ever expected. Now that it’s all over, I just need to figure out what I’m going to do to escape the fate of becoming a permanent basement dweller.
Cheek in my palm at the kitchen table, I halfheartedly click on a job posting titled “Assistant Banquet Manager” at a discount hotel chain. It’s one of many similar search results on the job site I’ve been scouring for event planner listings. It pays next to nothing but comes with benefits, which is something I’ve never had before. I mentally weigh this against “Night shift event cleanup,” which is listed as one of the job’s “key responsibilities.” Was there ever a clearer euphemism for puke patrol?
And just like that, I’m thinking of Jude at the wedding, valiantly marching off to manage the toddler vomit situation for me. Maybe some women imagine their heroes on galloping white steeds or walking onto front lawns with boom boxes. But for me, there might benothing more romantic than seeing a man sling a bag of cleaning spray and stain-removal wipes over his shoulder. I’m replaying the moment in slow motion, embellishing it with a nonexistent indoor breeze that ruffles his dark hair when I catch myself.
Dammit.Over the last few days, my mind keeps producing these memories like it hasn’t gotten the memo: fantasizing about Jude isn’t something we do anymore, and thatincludesfantasies of pouring spoiled milk on his perfectly vacuumed Mercedes floorboards and kidnapping Taco.
“How’s the job hunt going?”
I look up as my mom breezes through the kitchen entryway, dropping her keys, purse, and lunchbox onto the counter. She’s dressed in her signature tracksuit, her no-fuss short black hair damp from a shower.
I sit up from a slouch that could be classified as a wilt. “I learned that a few of the bigger grocery stores offer benefitsandemployee discounts on food. Could be worth applying for.”
She nods, starting to gather ingredients for her after-school protein shake. “Not a bad option. Nothing in events, though?”
I shrug. “A few hotel positions. But they all want a hospitality degree.”
She makes apshhsound, scooping peanut butter into her single-serving blender. “With all your experience at Larkwood? You’d be a shoo-in.”
After years of showing little to no interest in what I do for a living, her newfound encouragement has been as surprising as it’s been touching. “Thanks, Mom,” I say quietly.
She throws me a quick, slightly forced smile as she continues to bustle around the kitchen. It’s been like this ever since coming home. We’ve never had an easy time connecting, but after cutting off my party planning services, she’s been making an effort to try. It seems obvious in hindsight, but by making myself unavailable in the ways she’d come to expect and rely on, all that’s left isme. For as long as I can remember, that’s never felt like enough—but with every tentative new question she asks and supportive smile she gives me, I’m starting to question those old insecurities.
“Loud noise,” she warns, before switching on the blender.
The familiar wail fills the kitchen, and I turn my attention back to my screen. Staring at the Upload Résumé button for the assistant banquet manager position, I try to imagine the next year or two of my life in this job. Setting up armies of folding chairs for accounting seminars and cleaning up wedding after-parties isn’t my dream job, but it also isn’t something to stick my nose up at. It would offer a modest income and health insurance, and after the sale of the cottage and the elimination of my debt, that’s all I really need.
The blender stops, and my mom comes over with two glasses. “Here, I made you some, too.”
She sits down with me at the table, and I close my laptop as she slides a glass of thick, grayish-brown protein smoothie toward me.
“Thanks,” I say, even though the drink has the same visual appeal as liquified cardboard. I take a small sip to be polite and am surprised to taste bananas, peanut butter, and chocolate.
