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It had been three days since Charlotte left. Tripp stood by the pear trees, hating the hollow feeling in his gut that wouldn’t go away.
“Hey,” Bo said, coming to stand by him. “Slow day? Or are you pouting again?”
“I’m not pouting.”
“Like hell you aren’t.”
Tripp yanked off his Stetson and raked his hand through his hair. “What do you want, Bo?”
“I want you to wake the hell up and stop being so damn predictable.”
Tripp turned to face him, anger rising in his blood. “I’m getting tired of you telling me what you think you know.”
“I know you, and you did exactly what I said. You fell too hard for a woman you couldn’t have, but the shit of it is, you had her. She didn’t break your heart—you let her walk away.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. She gave Gracie pralines, and she was telling me about her cushy new job in L.A.”
“And you didn’t chase. God forbid you actually tell her you wanted her. And don’t give me that shit about the pralines. Did you tell her Gracie had allergies? No. Despite that lapse in judgment on your part, Gracie was fine. She is fine.”
Tripp clenched his jaw. He’d been thinking the same thing over the past few days. It didn’t change the fact that she’d gotten that job.
“She’s gone,” Tripp said.
“Yeah, I know. And I think you owe it to Gracie at least to have some kind of understanding about Charlotte. Maybe go check on Mrs. Gram herself and see if she’s okay instead of wallowing in the self-pity you brought on yourself.”
“Tell me how you really feel, Bo.”
“Hey, when the last guy on earth who should be handing out relationship advice is sounding smarter than you, I’d say you have a big fuckin’ problem, my friend.”
That was the truth, and Tripp knew it. He couldn’t kick that god-awful pain in his chest. He needed to fix this.
“I’ll be back in an hour,” he said to Bo, and got in his truck.
Within minutes, he was knocking down Mrs. Gram’s door. The sweet woman limped her way over to open it.
“I was wondering when you were going to show up,” she said.
Tripp removed his hat and followed her to sit at the kitchen table. The chair, upholstered in cream fabric with an image of wild horses running across the seat, squeaked when he sat.
“How are you?” he asked.
“Don’t you really want to ask how Charlie is?” Mrs. Gram said. The woman was sweet but smart, and had a mean streak in her when it came to her family. Tripp could appreciate that.
“Is Charlotte doing well?” he tried.
“You mean since she ran out of my house crying her e
yes out a few days ago? I really couldn’t say.”
The thought of Charlotte crying was a sucker punch to his gut.
“It was a big misunderstanding,” Tripp said.
“Oh, I know. Gracie is fine. I went through that little praline scare with you before.”
Yes, he remembered. But it didn’t change the fact that Charlotte had come to tell him she was leaving anyway.
“She got that job. Was heading out no matter what,” he said.
