Page 81 of The Sweetness of Life

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 my 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 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. You never even took the time, though. 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 around 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 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 him, 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 it’s too little too late.

“Zach, any relationship I go into, be it a short or long one, I go into it honestly.” I find the strength to pull away from his hold and put some space between us. “Honesty is the most important trait 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 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, though, I just can’t. “This was supposed to be fun . . . fleeting. It was never going to go past the two weeks. I am sorry it’s ending the way it is, though.”

“I don’t want this to end.” He shakes his head.

I didn’t want it to end, either, but I never lied and he did. I also didn’t use him, but he had no problem positioning me for his own gain. I am the exact person he saw, but turns out he’s someone else.

“And I don’t want to be associated with someone like you. What was it you said about like-minded people?”

He sucks air into his lungs. “You don’t mean that.”

“Yeah, I do. Zach, you used me.” I let those words sink in because he knows they’re true. Of all the things he could have done, this is completely unforgivable. “You lied to me, you tricked me, you’ve humiliated me, and you belittled what I do. This is my life, I work hard for it, and I get to decide who is in it and who isn’t. You and me, we’re done.”

“Shelby—”

“Please leave.”

Pecan Pie

IT’S DAY FOURTEEN.

Her last day here.

Ominous clouds have settled in over northern Georgia, and bleakness across the hills and the vineyard perfectly match how I feel inside. We’re meeting with Kelly for the final interview, and after this, the assignment is over. She’s going to leave. Hell, if it weren’t for this, she would have left already.

Behind me, people are moving about the library, staging it for the photos and video coverage, but I don’t have it in me to oversee anything. Kyle took one look at me this morning and winced. I didn’t sleep last night; combine that with a tenacious migraine and a bruised heart, and I know I’ve looked better. He patted me on the back and said he’d take care of everything, so I let him. For the last half hour, I haven’t moved from this window.

I think it’s safe to say that yesterday Shelby handed me my ass on a silver platter before she kicked me out the door. Then again, if you talked to her, she would probably say silver is too nice for me and I belong in a cast iron skillet—one where she’s frying something.