Chapter 18
GRACE
The machines hum softly around my mother’s hospital bed, a steady rhythm that feels louder than it should. Every beep is a reminder that time is moving forward whether either of us is ready for it or not.
Mom turns her head slightly, her oxygen cannula hissing as she breathes in. Her eyes soften when she finds mine. “You look tired, Graceland,” she says gently. “You’ve been working too much. You need to rest.”
I smile and nod, because that’s easier than telling her the truth. That I no longer have a job to return to. Because my royal witch of a boss fired me over the phone this morning with all the warmth of a snake in winter.
I’d called to explain, my voice trembling, heart in my throat after seeing how weak my mother looked as they loaded her onto the ambulance stretcher.
I told Tiffani that I hated I needed to miss work, but that the ambulance was here to take Mom back to the hospital.
That I might need a day or two, only to make sure she was out of the woods.
That I was so sorry, but managing the best I could.
There was the briefest of pauses on the line before her tone had sharpened, sounding almost triumphant.
“Well, Grace, we need people who are committed to making our business a priority. Not continued excuses.” I could practically hear the sneer curling her lips.
She didn’t even pretend to be sorry. It was like she’d just won some twisted little contest. As if being crowned resting-bitch-face and reigning mean girl of the county wasn’t enough, she had to level up into top shrill, abusive shrew.
I’d hung up, sat in my car, and cried so hard I nearly threw up. I knew I needed to get my emotions under control before my mother saw me again. So I called Tuesday.
“Oh, I want to drive up there and teach that girl some manners,” she’d snapped.
“That vicious kind of attitude will rot your insides.” She huffed.
“Eventually all that meanness shows up on your face. You mark my words, acting like that is how you end up alone with twelve cats and a porch no one ever visits.”
Even through my sniffles, I’d choked out a laugh.
In true Tuesday fashion, she’d followed it up with, “She reminds me of this chick who lives here with mean girl energy. Always complaining about this town and everyone in it. I’m just saying, if Sycamore Mountain is so awful, why does she move back here every time she gets dumped?”
I’m well aware the analogy has little to do with Tiffani beyond the fact they’re apparently both negative Nellies, but I knew what she was trying to do. Cheer me up the only way she knew how from so far away.
Having returned to her bedside, I squeeze Mom’s hand, careful of the IV, and tuck her blanket higher around her chest.
Once she’s home, I’ll focus on her. On us. Even if that means watching old Elvis movie reruns every day until I can quote them in my sleep. Okay, so I can already do that. If nothing else, I can always zone out and replay that one glorious night with Ben.
That one improbable, magical night that wasn’t supposed to mean anything. A favor for a favor that got a little out of hand. Besides. I’m staying clear of men. Especially smoking-hot, charismatic, construction-working playboy types. Been there, done that. Hard pass.
Besides he’s too old for me.
Eventually, I step outside to return Tuesday’s call. She’d messaged checking in on Mom and I hadn’t wanted to leave her side until she was resting, and her vitals were stable. Hopefully, a few days of intravenous steroids and heavy-duty breathing treatments, and she’ll be back home.
I try not to feel guilt over the fact that there are medications her pulmonologist has recommended we haven’t begun. But they simply aren’t in the budget. Don’t they have samples or anything to hold us over?
The late afternoon sun warms my skin as I lean against the brick wall and scan the parking lot. A figure lingers near the edge of it, half in shadow. For a second, my heart stutters.
Is that… Brad?
No. That’s ridiculous. Why would he be here? His family lives out of state, and in the time I knew him I can’t recall him having enough empathy to visit anyone in a hospital.
Unless… I snort softly. What if he knocked someone up, and she’s in labor?
Ha, I wouldn’t put it past the asshole. Pausing for a moment, it hits me so hard I nearly need to borrow mom’s oxygen.
There isn’t an ounce of hurt or jealousy at the thought of him in a relationship with someone else.
I mean, there shouldn’t be. But for years when someone I dated walked away and moved on to someone else, I immediately reverted back to the thoughts of my seven-year-old self.
Why wasn’t I enough?
Now, I’m more certain than ever. I deserve better. I’m never settling again.
My gaze returns to the shadowy figure. Maybe he’s just lost. Or casing cars. Or haunting hospital parking lots like some emotionally unavailable ghost. I shake my head. I don’t know when I became so dang para—
“Graceland Montgomery,” Tuesday’s voice suddenly booms through my phone, pulling me back. Heck, I hadn’t realized I’d even dialed her number before zoning out. I really do need some sleep.
“Do I need to drop what I’m doing and come there right now? I’m getting worried about you, babe. You mean a hell of a lot more to me than money, and this town will survive without a florist for a few days. You say the word, and I’m there.”
My eyes burn. “Thank you,” I whisper. “Just hearing that means everything. Tuesday, you have no idea how much you mean to me.” I sniffle.
“I can live without men, but not without you.” Every time I speak with her, she heals something she didn’t know was broken.
Simply by being her. “But I’m okay. There’s nothing you could do right now.
If I need a break, I promise I’ll call.”
“So long as you keep your word,” she says. “Honestly, I haven’t been good about leaving here anyway. It’s not just the business. There’s something about a small town that grows on you. No one waves when I go back home. No one smiles. And I paid twenty dollars for a salad the last time I was there.”
I snicker. She’s right. And by all intents and purposes, Hanover isn’t a thriving metropolis. It’s still considered a small town. But obviously nothing like Sycamore Mountain, where she’s living now.
“After my accident, busy roads make me anxious. Here, the worst traffic jam is two tractors at a four-way stop. Cheese and rice, the last time I was taking flowers to the town over from us, someone honked before the light turned green. I nearly had a come-apart.”
I chuckle. This girl. “I get it. I just wish I could visit more. It’s hard with Mom so sick.”
“I know. But I mean it. I’ll make Alex drive me back there if I have to.”
“I love you, Tues. You’re getting the biggest hug the next time I see you. I better go.”
“Okay, Gracie. Give all my love to your little Momma.”
When I finally make it home, my apartment feels too quiet. Too empty. And suddenly, unbearably temporary. There’s no sense delaying the inevitable. I can’t afford this place anymore.
Not without a job. Not with Mom’s medical bills climbing. Heck, independence is overrated anyway, I quip.
Nearly everything is packed and ready to go. The bulk of what I owned I’d moved into the storage room in the back of Mom’s house. I guess I was trying to hold onto some sense of autonomy for as long as I could.
My phone buzzes. A glittery, flowery GIF from Tuesday pops up with the caption:
Stay positive. Something good is coming.
A social media notification also pops up onto the screen. That’s odd. It’s a message from a photographer I don’t recognize.
Hi Grace. I’ve seen your photos online, and you would be a great fit for the companies we work with. Would love to talk about a potential shoot.
My heart kicks hard in my chest. Wow. Who knew Tuesday’s positivity stuff worked that quick?
I exhale slowly, a smile creeping across my face. If Brad had stuck around a little longer, maybe he would’ve tried to ride this gravy train too. But now? This is all for me and my mother. And maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of something that finally turns everything around for us.
Ben
If there is a seventh circle of hell designed specifically to make men question their life choices, I’m fairly certain it looks exactly like the Devil’s Playground.
Located just outside of Washington, the opulence of the interior of the building is masked by its obscure manufacturing facade.
There are a few other nightclubs and restaurants in the area, but this location blends into the background if you aren’t sure what to look for.
And anonymity is essential with clubs of this nature.
The building’s main floor houses multiple bars, group seating, a dancefloor, and a stage for entertaining.
It’s open to a viewing area along the second floor.
This floor offers a place for patrons who want to be able to have an actual conversation.
I can’t begin to imagine the many shrewd business deals that have been completed up there.
The opulent club is well-appointed with plush leather furnishings, decadent lighting, and jaw-dropping artwork. But none of the decor compares to the women.
The sultry, seductive sirens of the Devil’s Playground are like no other gentlemen’s club I’ve attended.
Girls from different nationalities, tall, short, curvy, thin, blonde, brunette, or redhead.
You name it, and you’ll find someone who meets your fancy.
While some are strictly here as eye candy, others will gladly entertain in the more private areas of the club.
While it’s not uncommon for an attractive server to sit on your knee and flirt a bit, this isn’t the type of place where you get a fifty-dollar lap dance while your friends spur them on.