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Sebastian blinks, looking taken aback by the sharpness in my tone.
“You were his source,” I say. “You were the one who told him how to find me.”
“Yes, I went to school with his brother. He’s a friend. I thought—”
“Oh my God.” I dig my fingers into my hair and tug. “I’m one of your projects.”
“My what?”
“Another Jesse. Another Avis. You all but told me that this is what you do—push people out of business and then fix them up with some other venture so you don’t have to feel guilty. The new restaurant with Jesse. Setting Avis up in Florida. With me, it’s buying me lamb gyros, sucking up to my cat, and calling in a favor with a friend to get my art displayed. It’s pity.”
His eyes flash in anger. “That’s not what’s going on here.”
I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumbs against my eyelids as it all clicks into place. Every kind gesture, every moment, was merely him trying to assuage his conscience for his role in the failure of Bubbles.
I nod toward the kitchen table. “Did you bring Jesse and Avis their checks in person too?”
He says nothing.
“Did you?” I’m shouting now.
“Yes.”
He says it calmly, and all of my shock and hurt fade into the background, replaced by aching disappointment. No, something a lot worse than disappointment.
Hurt. A hurt so deep it feels awfully close to heartbreak.
I let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I actually thought…” I shake my head.
He steps closer. “You thought what?” His voice is rough, his eyes seeming to plead with mine, and for an insane moment, I want to tell him.
I want to tell him to choose me, to feel about me the way I feel about him.
“Gracie—”
His use of my first name sends something warm curling through me, but I shove it aside.
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to stand here and become another one of your projects, another example you can rattle off to the next person you put out of business as proof that you’re some sort of corporate savior who somehow improves people’s lives when actually you ruin them—”
His eyes flash in anger. “What exactly have I ruined? I didn’t put you out of business. I didn’t sabotage your store. In fact, I supported your efforts. I showed up at your tasting and bought a case of sparkling wine. I showed up at your cooking class, paid full price. I’m being scorned, for what, exactly? For making a sound financial offer that you chose to accept? For mentioning your art to a friend? What’s my crime here, Ms. Cooper?”
“I didn’t need any of that! I didn’t want it. I was fine before that day I ran into you on the sidewalk, before you showed up in my shop, before you stalked me at my house.”
“Stalked you,” he repeats. “Stalked you?” He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”
Sebastian heads toward my front door, jerking it open, then turns back. “Don’t worry, Ms. Cooper. This is the last you’ll see or hear from me. Have a nice life.”
The door slams shut as he walks out of my apartment. Out of my life.
I should feel relieved. Instead, I sit on my couch and cry.
To Sir, with a touch of melancholy,
I have a bit of a confession. I miss my dad every day—both my parents. Of course I do. But lately I’m a tiny bit glad that they passed on before seeing what a mess I’ve made of my life. Have you ever felt that with your dad? Relieved that he can’t see you at your less than fine moments? Not that you have those, of course…
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Oh, I most definitely have those “less than fine” moments. More, I think, than I even realized until they’ve been recently pointed out to me. And while I wasn’t close enough to my father to feel that same pang you’re feeling, I do know there’s no worse feeling than realizing you’ve hurt the last person on earth you would have wanted to.
Yours in shared regrets,
Sir
* * *
Oh man, I so hear that. I’ve been reflecting on some of my childlike behavior in recent days. I’ve treated someone unkindly who, in hindsight, I’m not confident deserved it.
* * *
There is plenty I don’t know about you, to be sure. But I do know that you’re kind.
Twenty-One
Two days after my fight with Sebastian, Caleb’s gone back to New Hampshire, and I find myself wanting the closest thing I have to a mother.
I don’t call first. I should have, but… I didn’t think.
It doesn’t matter. May opens the door to me, takes one look at my limp ponytail, shadowed eyes, and mismatched clothes and brings me in for a long, tight hug that smells like rose perfume and comfort.
