Southern Charmer Page 23

  Luke drops his crate of produce on the counter next to me, making me jump, and hits the power button on my portable speaker.

  “Hey!” I snap, looking up from the tilefish I’m fileting. “Put that back on.”

  My stomach dips at the look in his blue eyes. He’s trying to hide his surprise, but failing miserably at it.

  I must look pretty close to death to scare Luke. He’s seen me at my worst.

  Shit, maybe this is my worst.

  “No more Post Malone,” Luke says firmly. “You look like hell, and you smell even worse. Go home, E.”

  I’d rather chew off my own arm than go home. The silence—the emptiness—it just makes me think of all the ways I’ve fucked up. Losing The Jam. Losing Olivia.

  Work is the only thing keeping me sane.

  “I’m fine,” I growl, turning back to the fish. “We got a full house tonight. Kitchen needs me.”

  Luke takes a step forward so that he’s in my vision. There’s no getting away from him now.

  “That’s a fuckin’ lie, and you know it. C’mon—I wanna talk to you outside.”

  Without waiting for a reply, he grabs my arm and drags me through the kitchen and out the back door. I blink at the onslaught of natural light, even though it’s pretty gloomy for two in the afternoon. My head throbs.

  Luke grabs a couple crates from beside the dumpster and sets them against the building. He pulls two cigars from his pocket.

  Cohibas. My favorite.

  He holds one out to me, along with a cutter and a stainless steel lighter.

  Fuck this guy. He knows exactly how to get me to listen.

  “Sit,” he says, nodding at one of the crates.

  I take the stuff he’s holding out and, with a grunt, do as I’m told.

  He sits beside me. We hang out in silence for a couple minutes while we light our cigars.

  I take giant puffs. My mouth tingles, then becomes pleasantly numb.

  If only all my other shit—heart, head, dick—would do the same.

  “Was I right?” Luke says at last, plucking the cigar from his mouth.

  I clear my throat. “Right about what?”

  “What we talked about that night at The Spotted Wolf. That why you and Olivia broke up? Because you’re feelin’ like shit and you were using her to feel better?”

  Shrugging, I intentionally release a cloud of smoke between us so Luke can’t see my face.

  “One of the reasons, yeah. But it’s not like—it’s not like I don’t love her, Luke. Because I do. I am so fucking in love with her. Things were great between us. But then I found this engagement ring her ex had given her. This gorgeous ring that could’ve belonged to the fuckin’ Queen of England for how big the damn thing was.”

  Luke’s eyebrows jump.

  “Yup,” I say. “Point is, she said she was done with this guy—she turned down his proposal. But I didn’t believe her. Why wouldn’t she go back to a guy who gave her a ring like that? So I asked her to move in with me. You know, I made this grand, romantic gesture because that’s what you do when you’re in love.”

  Luke’s eyebrows jump even higher. They’re practically on the back of his head now.

  “I know what you’re thinking. And you wouldn’t be wrong. Seein’ that ring—it just made me feel so shitty about myself. If Olivia wants a ring like that, then I wanna be able to buy it for her. But I can’t right now. I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to buy somethin’ like that again. Her ex, though? He can. And that—it really kills me, Luke.”

  He claps me on the back. “Did you ask her if she even wanted a Queen-sized ring? She did turn the guy down.”

  “No,” I say. “But I can’t imagine she hated the thing.”

  “So you asked her to move in with you because if you couldn’t give her a ring like that, you still wanted to give her something. You wanted to know if she’d really choose you—a crazy talented, honest, hardworking man who treated her so well she told you she loved you after knowing you for all of three weeks—over the small dicked douchecanoe who needed to propose with a gaudy ring to get her to say yes. And even then she said no.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Damn. When you say it, it sounds kinda dumb.”

  “That’s because it is dumb. I think anyone lookin’ in from the outside would see what I do. That y’all had this intense, crazy month together where you hid from the world and—er—hung out a lot. I don’t doubt the things you shared and felt together were real. I don’t doubt they were earth shattering.”

  “I hate euphemisms,” I say glumly, tapping ash onto the blacktop.

  “I hate you,” Luke shoots back. “At least I do when you’re bein’ an idiot like you are right now. Listen. Y’all had this amazing month, but it was still just a month. Thirty one days. Asking someone to commit to you after such a short time is fuckin’ wild, man. Even for you. You gotta give this girl time. You gotta make sure you want her for the right reasons, E. Honestly? I think we both know you’re clearly still grappling with the fallout from The Jam closing.” When I open my mouth to protest, he holds up a hand. “Don’t bullshit me. We been friends forever. I know you’re hurting. You just won’t admit it.”

  I feel a rush of emotion. It rises through my throat and lands in my eyes.

  I close them, pulling at them with my thumb and finger. I’m starting to feel dizzy from the cigar. When was the last time I ate? I can’t remember.

  “What should I do?” I say quietly.

  Luke puts a hand on my shoulder. “I want you to face this thing. It’s time, E. We’re all here to help you through it. And when you’re ready—when you’ve learned to get back up on your own, without using other people as a crutch—that’s when you go after your girl. Not a damn second before, you hear me? Because then you won’t need her to move in with you to feel good about yourself. You’ll be feelin’ good all on your own. And that right there is the basis of a healthy relationship.”

  Tears are spilling out of my eyes now. I’m too tired to care. I let Luke see them, wiping them on my rumpled white chef’s jacket.

  Luke is right. Usually is. You wouldn’t think a manwhore baseball player-slash-gardener would have much self-awareness. But my boy has it in spades.

  I think about what he’s saying. I asked—practically begged—Olivia to allow herself to be vulnerable with me. But I didn’t allow myself to return the favor. To be vulnerable with her. And that, more than anything else, is what hurt our relationship.

  I hate myself for letting it go so far.

  “I’ll try,” I say. Then I scoff. “’Cause I’m not hurtin’ enough as it is.”

  He gives my shoulder a squeeze. “You are stronger than you think, chef. It’ll be worth it in the end. I promise. Think about it this way: you’re gonna become the man Olivia deserves.”

  I nod, blinking. I want to ask him how I do this thing. How I begin the process of facing my failure and learning to accept it. But I know Luke. He’ll tell me I need to figure it out on my own.

  Which I do. I know that.

  But I’m terrified.

  I look up at the sound of tires crackling on the flinty pavement. A familiar, bright red Jetta zooms into view, coming to a stop a few feet in front of us.

  “Is that Gracie?” I say, peering through the gloom.

  Luke jumps to his feet, almost making me jump. For the first time, I notice that he’s kinda dressed up.

  Well. Dressed up for Luke, anyway. He’s usually in beat up jeans and a dirt stained t-shirt. Unless we’re at a bar, and then he’s in a clean t-shirt. Today he’s wearing nice jeans—dark denim, fitted—and a pristine white button down. A tag sticks out of the collar.

  He shifts nervously on his feet as he tamps out his cigar on the side of the building.

  I glance from Luke to Grace. Grace to Luke.

  “It is Grace,” Luke replies, smoothing his shirt tails. “We’re, uh, meetin’ for some coffee.”

  I pin him with a glare. “For fuck’s s
ake, please tell me that’s not another euphemism.”

  “No, not at all. I’m serious, E.” He holds up his hands. “She asked me to try a new Colombian blend she’s been working on.”

  “But you don’t drink coffee.”

  Luke looks up at Grace and smiles. I look up to see her waving back.

  “I do now.”

  Lord have mercy.

  Luke is a good man. But he’s definitely the love ’em and leave ’em type. The idea of him doing that to my baby sister—

  Well. I don’t like it. Not one fucking bit. If Grace is into that kind of thing, then fine. Well, not fine. I don’t want her getting hurt. But she makes the rules. She’s an independent, grown ass woman. She’s smart. Way smarter than I ever was. She can do what she wants.

  Only the Grace I know is a serial monogamist. Last I checked, she was still dating Nicholas.

  So what the hell is she doing asking Luke out for coffee?

  Grace rolls down her window, brow creasing with concern.

  “How ya doing, E?”

  “Been better,” I reply, giving my cigar a solid pull.

  I hear her car gears clank as she puts it in park. “Need me to take you home?”

  “Nah.” I wave her away. “Y’all go. I’ll be okay.”

  “You sure?” Luke asks.

  “I’m sure.”

  I meet Luke’s eyes. Tell him, as best as I can without saying a word, to keep it in his fucking pants.

  I’ve seen the thing. It’s become something of an Urban Legend. I hear girls whispering about it in bars as we pass. The Luke Lady Dagger, they call it.

  A lady dagger that leaves behind a trail of destruction and heartbreak wherever it goes.

  Luke shoves his hands in his pockets. “Of course. Think about what I said, yeah? And call me if you need me, E. We’re gonna get through this.”

  Easier said than done, I think to myself as I watch my sister and my best friend drive away. Together. To “get coffee.”

  Seriously. Has the world turned upside down over the past week? Or is it just me?

  I go home. I skip my usual four fingers of bourbon and take a long, scalding hot shower instead.

  And I try to stop.

  Stop fighting my feelings. Stop lying to myself.

  Stop holding it all in.

  Giving in doesn’t come easy. I’ve built up my walls nice and high. I feel the flood coming, pressing against my defenses. Rising up, filling my lungs.

  Until finally, as I stand underneath the shower head, the giant tidal wave of all the things I’ve bottled up for so long comes crashing over my walls. The impact is immediate and devastating. I feel everything.

  Disappointment.

  Frustration.

  Regret.

  Panic.

  Loneliness.

  Fuck this sucks. It hurts so bad that I can’t stay still.

  I beat the outsides of my fists against the tile until I feel a crack in my left pinkie finger. I’ve suffered enough hand injuries over my career—burns, cuts, accidental amputations of fingertips—to know it’s broken.

  Fuck fuck fuck.

  My first impulse is to dull the pain with a bottle of Jack Daniels. But by the time I get out of the shower, I feel wrung out. Too exhausted to get drunk, or even go downstairs.

  I’ve hit a new low.

  All I can do is collapse into bed. I fall into a drowsy half-sleep, waking with a start whenever my brain conjures a fresh round of panicked thoughts to torture me with. It happens over and over. All night.

  I worry The Pearl is going to fail next. I worry about the cooks and wait staff and bartenders I had to let go. I worry about their futures, and I worry about mine.

  I hadn’t realized how tied up my self-worth is in being successful. Here I was, preaching the importance of fulfillment and passion to Olivia, telling her I valued my convictions over money and fame, when part of me obviously does value those things.

  The next morning, I call my sister, and then I call a therapist. I throw out all my bourbon. Go to yoga.

  I don’t know if I’ll ever be the kind of man Olivia deserves. But if I need to, I’m gonna die trying.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Olivia

  The drive back to Ithaca goes by too quickly.

  I don’t want it to end. Because when it does, I have to burn my old life down so I can start a new one.

  I am scared out of my mind. Mostly because I know I am going to hurt people I care about. All my life, I’ve tried very hard to please everyone. That was who I was—the people pleaser. I got so much praise for being easy going. For not rocking the boat or causing trouble or being difficult.

  I am about to be very difficult. And while I feel confident that, in the end, I’ll be glad I chose to prioritize my happiness, it’s still going to suck crushing other people’s.

  I call Ted to let him know I’m on my way—I plan to swing by and grab some things before I go stay at my parents’ house. Just hearing his voice on the phone was enough to send me into a tailspin of doubt and guilt.

  I drive and I cry and I don’t eat a thing because my insides are in knots. I feel like I’m going to be sick the whole way. A voice inside me asks if you’re making the right choice, why does it hurt so much?

  Doesn’t help that I can’t stop thinking about Eli. The argument we had was horrible. I replay it over and over inside my head. I regret not telling him about the fucking ring. I begin to think that I was a coward, too, for hiding that piece of my story from him.

  I’m not sure if I’ll ever come to terms with the mistakes I’ve made. It’s such a hard thing, forgiving myself for not wanting the beautiful life I had in New York.

  Forgiving myself for wanting more.

  I want Eli, too. I miss him. Badly. But he wants commitment. He wants the end. And I’m only at the beginning of my story.

  I forgot how quiet it is in small town New York. I feel like I’m a million miles from the energy and bustle of Charleston.

  Ted is waiting for me at the door when I arrive.

  He’s smiling. Like I’ve come here to beg him to take me back. Not to return his ring.

  Clearly something weird is going on.

  He lopes down the front steps of our house—it’s prettier than I remember, very New England with cedar shake siding and a gabled roof—and opens my car door, holding it while I climb out.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, kissing my cheek. The citrusy smell of his cologne fills my head. So different from the potent, smoky scent of Eli’s skin. “C’mon inside. I just decanted a nice bottle of Bordeaux.”

  I blink. “Ted. I told you I’m just swinging by to grab my stuff. I’m not staying.”

  He meets my eyes. Slides his hands into his pockets.

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure,” I reply. When he doesn’t move, I ask, “What’s going on?”

  Ted shifts uncomfortably on his feet. “I thought you were coming back because you changed your mind. Clearly you’re not staying in Charleston, so…”

  I just stare at him, too angry—too bewildered—to speak for several beats.

  “Ted,” I begin slowly. “I came back to get my things. Like I told you. I have plans to return to Charleston at the end of the semester. I’m not staying.”

  “I know you said that,” he says, a red flush creeping up his neck onto his face. “But I didn’t think you were serious. C’mon, Olivia. You ran away to write a romance novel, for God’s sake. What kind of future does that afford you? It doesn’t even compare to the future we have here. The future we have together. I still want to marry you. And I think you want to marry me, too. Please say yes. One word. It’s easy.”

  For several beats I just stare at him, the realization hitting me like a ton of bricks. So this is why Ted was okay with me seeing other people during our break. This is why he was so cool when I broke up with him for good.

  He thought I wasn’t being serious.

  He assumed I’d
be too scared, that I’d miss him too much, to ever be with someone else, or to stay in Charleston for good.

  He didn’t think I’d have the balls to do it.

  I’m gripped by a sudden rush of anger. How incredibly condescending of him to assume such a thing about me. Ted has always been confident in himself. But I never thought he’d be so arrogant about me.

  Maybe I was scared before. But I’m not scared now. I didn’t come all this way for easy.

  I didn’t come back all this way just to end up where I started.

  Looking away, I duck back into the car and dig the ring box out of my purse. I hold it out to him and meet his gaze.

  “My answer is no,” I say firmly. “And trust me when I say I am dead serious about not staying. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go grab some things from inside.”

  I spend the night at my parents’ house. They’re stricken when they hear the news.

  “You gave it back?” my mother gasps. “That flawless, gorgeous four-carat diamond ring? Are you crazy?”

  My dad shakes his head, grabbing another beer from the fridge. “You’re going to regret this, Olivia. You’re making a mess of your life. I don’t understand it.”

  Just wait until they hear that I’m quitting my job and moving to South Carolina to teach and write steamy romance. They’ll be horrified by the ridiculousness of it. And I’ll smile at the awesomeness.

  After I went to see Ted, I stopped by my office to hand in my resignation. Like my parents, my boss was flabbergasted I’d give up the tenure I’d worked nearly a decade to get to possibly teach creative writing halfway across the country.

  “How about you finish out the semester here?” she said. “If you’re still sure you want to quit in December, then I’ll accept this resignation. Deal?”

  I agreed, but I already know I’ll be handing in the same resignation letter the day my students finish their final exams. I may not have Eli to go back to in Charleston. But I do have a whole new life waiting for me there whenever I decide to return. A life I am very excited to begin.