Chapter 16
RHETT
A soft sound cuts through the storm, shredding the inside of my skull. The hushed slide of slippers across wood. The quiet click of a door opening.
Grandma Jo’s bedroom is right off the living area, a relic of old farmhouse design that never made sense to me until now, when her presence feels as natural as the creak of the floor under her steps.
She appears in the doorway, a wash of lamplight catching the soft folds of her faded dressing gown.
The once-pink robe, now somewhere between blush and beige, tied unevenly at her waist. Her hair’s piled up in a messy knot that’s probably been slept on already tonight.
She squints past the television’s glow, taking in the shattered glass glinting on the floor, the streak of bourbon dripping slowly down the wall, and finally me.
“Well …” Her voice is scratchy with sleep but full of that familiar, unimpressed affection. “That’s one way to redecorate.”
I huff out something that wants to be a laugh and isn’t.
“Sorry, Grandma,” I mumble, dragging my hands down my face, leaving the skin there hot and tight.
She shuffles further into the room and lowers herself onto the couch beside me with a little grunt, joints protesting. She smooths her robe over her knees, then tips her head, studying me like she’s reading a book she’s already memorized but still loves.
“Tell you what.” Her eyes drift to the broken bottle, “that wall’s seen more drama than a daytime soap.
Your daddy once threw a horseshoe clean through it durin’ lambing season.
Didn’t like what the vet had to say about one of the ewes.
Men do get real creative with their temper when they’re tired and hurt and too proud to admit it. ”
I shake my head, lips tugging up despite everything.
“Did I wake you?” The guilt leaks into my voice before I can stop it.
“Baby, at my age, I sleep like a cat.” She pats my knee. “Little bits here and there. Besides, I heard the crash and figured either you killed a raccoon in the kitchen or you were havin’ feelings again.”
That earns a real, if small, huff from my chest. “Guess it’s the latter.” My eyes drag back to the TV where an image of Noah and Bradley appears in the corner of the screen, some announcer calling them country’s golden couple.
Grandma follows my gaze, her eyes narrowing just a touch.
“You been watchin’ her show.” It’s not really a question.
“Accidentally,” I lie.
Her lips twitch. “Mm-hmm. Thought so.”
For a while, we just sit there, the sound of the awards show buzzing in the background, neither of us saying anything. My head throbs. My heart still pounds. The shards on the floor glitter like they’re mocking me.
“You’re unravelin’, Rhett,” Grandma Jo states, not unkindly. “It’s startin’ to show ’round the edges.”
I swallow, throat rough. “Feels like it,” I admit, my voice low, the words made of splinters.
She leans back, fingers laced loosely over her stomach, eyes fixed on the television. Noah flashes across the screen again in a replay of her performance, eyes bright, cheeks damp.
“Your grandpap used to get a similar look.” After a long moment, she sighs. “Right before everything in his life changed.”
I glance at her, brow furrowing. “What look?”
She turns her head, studies me with those sharp, clear eyes of hers. “Like a man who’s standin’ on the edge of a choice he’s been puttin’ off for too long.” Her hand rests on my thigh. “Like he finally realized nobody was comin’ to make it for him.”
Something unsettles deep inside my chest, like loose gravel shifting under a boot. “What happened?” I quiz, even though part of me isn’t sure I want to know.
Her mouth crooks at one corner, a sad sort of smile. “You ever hear the real story of how I met your pap?”
I blink at her. “You told me you met at church.”
She snorts, the sound rough and fond. “Oh, honey. I said there was a church.”
That pulls my attention all the way from the screen. I turn toward her, curiosity cutting through the fog in my head.
“I was eighteen,” she begins, eyes drifting somewhere beyond the room, beyond the television, beyond the present.
“Too naive to know better and too stubborn to admit I was scared. My daddy—God rest his miserable soul—was a weak man. Weak men make dangerous choices when bills pile up and liquor runs low.” She draws in a breath, shoulders rising and falling under the thin robe.
“He owed money to the wrong people.” She wets her lips with a swipe of her tongue.
“Cards, dice, bottles … you name it. And when the debt came due, he didn’t have the guts to pay it himself.
So he offered somethin’ he still had.” Her eyes flick briefly to mine.
“He offered you?”
She nods, no hesitation, no flinch. “Sold his only daughter to a man twice her age with a pocket full of cash and a temper that soured milk.” Her brow raises with a matter-of-fact arch. “Said marryin’ me off would wipe his slate clean. Called it my duty. Said I was ‘savin’ the family.’”
My hands curl into fists against my knees.
“On the mornin’ of that wedding,” she continues, “I stood in front of a mirror in a little church bathroom, veil crooked, dress scratchy, my hands shakin’ so hard I could barely fix the zipper.
And it hit me clear as a slap: If I went through with it, I wasn’t just gettin’ married.
I was marchin’ straight into a life I might not survive. ”
Her gaze drops to her lap, fingers worrying a loose thread on her robe. “So I did the only thing that made sense to me. I climbed out the damn window.”
Despite the knot in my chest, my lips twitch. “You’re serious?”
“Dead serious.” She chuckles softly. “Church was surrounded by trees out back, big oaks and pines. I hauled that dress up to my knees, kicked off my heels, and ran like hell. Branches tore at the lace, mud splashed up my legs, my veil got snagged on a low limb and tried to strangle me, but I didn’t stop.
Not once. ’Cause every step away from that church felt like a step back toward bein’ alive. ”
I can picture it too well. Jo—younger, wilder—tearing through the woods in a ruined wedding dress with fear and fire both pushing her forward.
“How far did you go?”
“Far enough that by the time the trees thinned, and I smelled gasoline, my lungs were burnin’, and my hair was half down my back.
” Her eyes crinkle at the memory. “Came out near this little old gas station off the highway. The place looked like it’d been there since before God invented pavement.
I ducked behind a stack of tires and just watched.
” She gestures absently, painting the scene in the air.
“Folks pulled in, bought their gas, cigarettes, coffee. And I sat there tryin’ to figure out what in God’s name a girl in a filthy wedding dress was supposed to do next.
” Silence settles for a beat, her words hanging between us.
“And then he showed up.” Her voice softens in a way I swear shifts the air in the room.
“Grandpap?”
She confirms with a nod. “Rolled in drivin’ his beat-up Chevy that was runnin’ on hope and duct tape.
He was tall, all broad shoulders and long legs, lookin’ like he’d been put together by somebody who knew how to build a man right.
He got out, filled the tank, hummed some old tune under his breath, wiped his hands on his jeans.
” Her smile is small and secretive. “Somethin’ about him felt safe.
Not soft. Just … solid. Like if a storm rolled in, he’d stand there and let it break over him before he let it touch me.
So when he went inside to pay, I made a decision.
” She lifts her brows at me, daring me to judge her.
“I opened the back door of that truck, and climbed right in.”
This time, my laugh comes out startled, genuine. “You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.” She laughs, too, shaking her head.
“Sat myself down on that cracked vinyl bench seat, heart poundin’ so hard I thought it might rattle the windows.
He came back out, climbed in, and didn’t even look behind him at first. Just cranked the engine and pulled onto the road.
” She pauses, eyes sparkling now. “We got maybe a mile down before he glanced up at the rearview. And there I was—wild hair, mud on my face, veil crooked, dress torn to kingdom come, pantin’ like I’d outrun the devil. ”
“What’d he do?” I can’t help it. I’m hooked now.
“He damn near drove into a ditch.” A chuckle escapes her.
“Hit the brakes, turned ’round in his seat, and just stared at me.
Then he tipped his hat and drawled, ‘Well now, sweetheart, I don’t know if you’re real or just somethin’ my tired mind cooked up, but you sure are the prettiest trouble I’ve ever found sittin’ in my truck. ’”
I bark out a laugh that feels like it slices a little of the tension from my chest.
“That sounds like him.” I shake my head.
“It was,” she confirms, fondness thick in her tone. “Didn’t ask me what I’d done wrong. Didn’t haul me back to that church. Just asked me where I wanted to go. And for the first time in my life, somebody handed that answer to me.”
Her gaze turns distant again. “When my past came huntin’, your pap and I handled it.
” Her eyes gleam with something ancient.
“Men like that don’t leave room for mercy, so we didn’t leave room for escape.
Whatever was decided out there in the dark stayed out there.
And we buried the rest where only the land remembers.
” She pats the couch cushion. I swallow, the story settling into me like a stone in a pond, sending ripples out in all directions.
“You once said this ranch wasn’t a graveyard.” She pauses, turning to look at me fully now. “But boy, there are secrets buried all over this land. Secrets, and stories, and second chances that grew roots so deep they keep us all standin’, even when we felt like fallin’ apart.”
My eyes sting. I blink hard, jaw clenching.
She watches me for a long moment, then sighs, a small sound full of age and love.
“I wasn’t gonna show you this.” She reaches into the pocket of her dressing gown.
When her hand comes back out, it’s holding a cream envelope with fancy gold lettering, edges crisp, weight too heavy for what it is.
My heart stops, then lurches.
She lays it gently on my knee, her fingers warm over the paper.
“It came this mornin’.” Her eyes home in on me.
“Addressed to you. I stuck it in my pocket and told myself I’d hold onto it.
Thought after everything this week—after discovering your connection to Sage, after Noah left again, after watchin’ you walk ’round here like a ghost—I’d spare you this particular brand of pain.
” The envelope in her hand might as well be a bomb about to detonate.
“But here’s the thing about tryin’ to protect the people we love,” she goes on, voice even but gentle.
“Sometimes we make choices for them when it ain’t our place to make them. I know a thing or two about that.”
Her eyes soften in warning and understanding all at once.
“And I also know runnin’ from the truth never did a soul any good.
Not mine. Not your parents. And not yours, either.
” She squeezes my knee once, then withdraws her hand, leaving the invitation sitting there like a dare.
“Or other times life gives you one chance.” She pushes herself up from the couch slowly, joints popping.
“If you’re stubborn or lucky or both, it gives you another.
And then there’s the times”—she steadies herself, gaze on me like she’s trying to send the words into the marrow of my bones—“where life hands you nothin’ at all.
Just puts you in front of a choice and watches what kind of man you decide to be. ”
My throat works. The question comes out raw, quieter than I intend. “What if I don’t know what I’m supposed to do?”
She looks at the television, where Noah’s face appears again in a promo shot—smile bright, eyes not quite matching.
“Then you sit with it ’til you do.” She offers me a sad smile.
“But don’t fool yourself into thinkin’ that doing nothin’ ain’t a choice, too.
” Adjusting the tie of her robe, she smoothes a hand over the tired fabric.
“Second chances are funny things, baby.” Her voice is soft as she turns back toward the hallway.
“They don’t always look the way we think they will.
Sometimes they show up in the back of a stranger’s truck.
Sometimes they come in an envelope you’d rather burn.
Either way, if there’s somethin’ in this world that makes your soul stand up and take notice, you don’t just let it get marched down an aisle to its own funeral without at least askin’ yourself if you’re gonna fight for it. ”
Lingering for one heartbeat more, her eyes on mine, face lined with years and wisdom and a love that has never once wavered. “Night, Rhett.” She shuffles back down the short hall, bedroom door pulling softly closed behind her, the echo of her words hanging in the quiet.
The TV flickers on, a new performance starting, audience screaming for someone who doesn’t matter to me at all. My sole focus is the envelope on my knee and the way my heart is pounding, slow, brutal and relentless.
My fingers curl around the edge of the invitation, the paper stiff beneath my fingertips. I could tear it in half. I could throw it in the trash. I could pretend I never saw it.
Or I could open it. See the date. See the confirmation of everything I already know and everything I’m not sure I can live with.
I don’t move. I just sit there, the smell of bourbon thick in the room, Noah’s last notes still echoing in the back of my mind, Bradley’s hand on her wrist burned into my vision.
I don’t have answers tonight. Don’t have some sudden clarity, or plan, or promise.
All I have is the heavy weight of that envelope, the echo of my grandmother’s story, and the quiet, growing awareness that, whether I like it or not, a line’s been drawn somewhere in front of me.
One day soon, I’m gonna have to decide which side of it I’m standin’ on.
But not tonight.
Tonight, I just stare at her name on the front of that envelope and feel my world tilt mercilessly, around the possibility that maybe—just maybe—this isn’t over yet.