Chapter 28 Gracie
Two Weeks Before the Wedding
The best way to completely ignore the feelings you accidentally caught during the best sex of your life? A bone-crushing workload.
Is it fun? No. There’s nothing fun about trying to organize the final details of a two-hundred-person black-tie wedding while your stepsisters keep sending you hostile texts about buying discount shrimp in bulk and storing it in your freezer until their party.
But the silver lining is that I’ve barely had time to shower in the last week, much less ruminate on the fact that Jude Larkwood stole the heart right out of my chest.
It’s a highly inconvenient revelation. So much so that given the choice between actually processing it and playing freezer Tetris with seven trays of shrimp cocktail, I choose the shrimp. But thankfully, I have something far more important to focus on today: Sofia.
In the almost week since I had dinner at her parents’ house, I’ve only called once (reasonable) but texted five times (admittedly less reasonable) before finally getting a message that read: “I love you, but I need some space.”
Seeing those words crushed the air out of my lungs, even if I understood why she sent them. So, in an effort not to be an asshole again, I told her to take her time.
It’s why I was so relieved and anxious when she texted yesterday, asking to come do a last run-through of the photo spots Calvin and Brooke requested. It’s a chance to support her the way I should have after dinner, and this time, I don’t plan on squandering it.
Leaving the cottage, I spot her almost at once. The sight of her slight figure coming toward me with her big camera fills me with so many feelings, I wish I had an overflow bucket for them.
“Hi,” I say when we stop in front of each other. I offer a tentative smile, but she doesn’t return it. She looks exhausted.
“Hey.”
At her lifeless tone, the impassioned speech I had planned shrivels up until all that’s left is the through line. “I’m sorry,” I say, my voice wobbling under the weight of my regret.
She stares at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry, too.”
I shake my head. “You have nothing to be sorry for. I shouldn’t have expected you to tell me about your parents sooner, or any time before you were ready.
I should have been grateful to be told at all.
” My breath catches. “I should have supported you the way you’ve always supported me. Without question.”
“Friends confide in each other,” she argues.
“When you told me I was being overprotective, you were right. I think my whole family has done that with you since you were little, and it’s not fair.
I should have trusted you to be able to handle it, and I didn’t think about how it would make you feel to be left out. ”
My throat tightens. “You never owe me information that you’re not ready to share.
And even if you were ready to tell me sooner, it’s not exactly easy to confide in someone who keeps running away from their own problems. I know I haven’t exactly been a pillar of strength lately. For myself, or for our friendship.”
She frowns, looking offended on my behalf. “You’re a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for, Gracie.”
I think about the last week—the way I’ve buried myself in wedding tasks to avoid facing what happened with Sofia and my feelings for Jude. I think of the megaton of frozen shrimp cocktail I bought just to avoid my family’s discontent.
“I don’t know about that,” I say. “But I do know you had every right to tell me about your parents’ separation on your terms. Not mine.
” I swallow down the jagged lump of guilt that’s been stuck in my throat all week.
“I said I wanted you to share the big things with me, but lately, I haven’t been the kind of friend who’s earned that kind of trust. Even when you gave me the chance to support you after dinner with your family, I blew it.
I made it about myself.” I shake my head, nose stinging.
“I’m so sorry I let my own insecurities get in the way of seeing the bigger picture, and for not being there when you needed me most.”
Sofia’s eyes are brimming as her chin crumples up. “It’s been a really hard week without you,” she says shakily.
“You’re telling me,” I respond, my own eyes blurring.
I don’t know who makes the first move, but then we’re in each other’s arms, hugging like we haven’t seen each other in a year. She smells like cinnamon and home, and I realize Jude was right: some loves can survive any tear if you’re brave enough to stitch them together again. You just have to try.
When we release each other, she has the same relieved smile I know I’m wearing, too. “How’s your mom?” I ask.
We begin walking the grounds, vaguely heading in the direction of the ceremony site that Calvin and Brooke chose, and she tells me about Mrs. Morales’s new pottery class and the way she pretends to be scandalized by the romance novels Sofia keeps dropping off.
When I ask about her father, she’s less sure about her feelings but tells me her new therapist is helping her sort them out.
“And what about you?” she asks me as I unlock the front door of Larkwood and we head to where the cocktail hour will be. “You never got to tell me about your date with Henry. What else happened during our Frism?”
“Frism?” I repeat over the sound of our shoes on the polished marble.
“Friend schism.”
I smile faintly but hardly know how to begin explaining that the date with Henry seemed tailor-made for a lost version of myself. Or how the discovery of her parents’ separation sent me into an emotional tailspin that led directly to his best friend’s bedroom.
With an uncomfortable twist in my chest, the rejection I sent to Henry this week comes back with painful clarity.
A few days ago, he asked me out to dinner again, and (after hyperventilating on the edge of my bed for a while) I responded that while I’d really loved getting to know him, I couldn’t date him anymore.
His two-word response (“I understand.”) has haunted me ever since—and not just because of how guilty I’ve felt.
Saying no to Henry felt like closing the back cover on a story I’ve been telling myself my whole life: that I would find my Happily Ever After with someone exactly like him.
But now, I’m not sure those kinds of endings really exist. Not when every man I’ve ever put my faith in has now officially broken it.
Except for one, who I’m desperately trying not to put my faith in at all.
We’re walking into the billiard room when low voices coming from a far corner stop my steps.
It’s Jude and a tall woman my mother’s age with dark skin, a close-cropped haircut, and bold red lipstick.
They’re standing by the large green marble fireplace, both in suits sharp enough to slice through the tightest alibi.
It’s a shock to the system to see him back in his armor after the last time I saw him, half-dressed and sex-rumpled, but somehow, he looks just as good.
Better than good—essential. All week, I’ve kept our communication to a minimum, afraid he’ll realize that my insistence on staying cool and unattached was nothing but wishful thinking.
But then his eyes meet mine across the room, and my heart starts flapping in my chest like a homing pigeon that just spotted its nest.
“Shiiit,” Sofia whispers. “That’s Jude?”
I swallow hard. “Yeah,” I manage, before he and his guest begin walking toward us, looking like the intro sequence of Law & Order.
“Why do I feel like I’m about to be sentenced to twenty years of incurable horniness?” Sofia whispers out of the corner of her mouth as we watch them.
I elbow her as discreetly as I can as they get close enough to greet us.
“Gracie,” Jude says, his eyes locking with mine before Sofia delicately clears her throat. Blinking, he turns his focus on her. “And I’m assuming Sofia?”
He holds out a hand, and she takes it. “Live and in person. And you must be the infamous Jude Larkwood I’ve heard so much about,” she says, just asking me to step on her foot.
“My doctor keeps telling me to cut back on the infamy, but it’s a work in progress,” he says, earning a reluctant smile from Sofia. “Ladies, this is my friend and estate planning attorney, Dr. Samara Kincaid. She’s been helping me sort out some loose ends here at Larkwood.”
Estate planning? Planning for what exactly?
“Just Samara,” she says with a smile, shaking our hands in turn. “Sofia, it’s lovely to meet you. And, Gracie, I’ve rarely heard Jude speak so highly of anyone.”
Jude looks down at his polished Oxfords while I swallow my surprise. “I didn’t realize he knew another Gracie,” I say, trying to make it sound like a joke instead of a peek into my bottomless well of self-doubt.
Samara looks at me with slight confusion. “You’re the estate’s wedding coordinator, right? The one giving him grief for cutting off an income source for local vendors?”
“Damn right she is,” Sofia says, radiating pride.
I should respond, but a question is snapping at me like a rubber band against my throat—is she helping him plan the sale of the estate?
Samara smiles. “Then yes, you’re the Gracie he’s mentioned. Keep up the good work. I’ve known Jude since he was just a baby law student, and I know how stubborn he can be. But it’s always important to consider both sides of the coin.”
“So does that mean the possibility of keeping Larkwood is still on the table?” I blurt.
Unease flickers through Samara’s eyes before she looks at Jude. He clears his throat.
“Uh, yes. It’s still on the table,” he says, but there’s an unspoken charge in the air. Something has shifted, and I can’t tell if “still on the table” means it’s a lovely centerpiece or on the very edge, about to crash to the floor. Either way, I can’t help my relief at his words.
There’s a soft ping, and Samara looks down at her watch. “Unfortunately, that’s my signal to get going. I’ll see myself out, Larkwood. Don’t get too distracted and forget to send me that paperwork over the weekend,” she says with a small smirk.
“Of course,” he says with a guilty glance my way. “Thanks for coming all this way, Samara.”
“I’m sure it won’t be my last visit,” she says warmly, before bidding us farewell.
Tentative relief is still working its way through me, except now that Samara is gone, there’s no buffer between Jude and my very outspoken best friend, who has no idea what’s developed between us.
“Nice place you’ve got here,” Sofia says casually, looking around the opulent room. “Very broligarchy chic.”
Jude smiles pleasantly. “Only the finest accommodations for the Mouth of Hell.”
A surprised laugh jets out of Sofia, before he says, “Gracie tells me you run a community arts space in downtown Providence. Is it KILN?”
Sofia’s eyes light up. “Yup, that’s my baby.”
“My office isn’t far from there. I keep wanting to go to one of the open studio nights you put on, but I’m always afraid I’ll stick out like a sore thumb,” he says, gesturing down at his impeccable suit.
“You should come with Gracie!” Sofia exclaims, before turning to give me a frozen smile and unblinking stare that clearly says I THOUGHT YOU SAID HE WAS AN ASSHOLE.
“Or you could just grow an ironic mullet,” I suggest, trying to divert attention away from myself. “Then you’d fit in perfectly.”
“Hey now, there are only two—fine, three—mullets in the building,” she says. “But hopefully when a space opens up, you’ll join us and improve the ratio.”
“You want Gracie to rent a studio?” Jude asks, looking from me to Sofia. “For her bridal wear designs?”
“Desperately. But only if that’s what she wants to do, of course. Right now she’s still holding on to the hope that you’ll change your mind about selling.” She gives him a harassed look. “Please. Just put my friend out of her misery and tell her you’re not keeping Larkwood, so she can move on.”
Jude looks at me with a faint smile of exasperation. “I’ve tried, but if you think she’ll listen to me, then you’re giving me way too much credit.”
Emotion clogs my throat, making it difficult to breathe. “Then you’re saying there isn’t a chance of saving Larkwood?”
He stares at me, his expression unreadable as my stomach pulls taut. “I thought there wasn’t a chance of keeping it. But now…” He shakes his head slightly. “I don’t know. I’m considering every side of the coin like Samara suggested. Even its edges.”
If hope has been a tightly furled bud in my chest all this time, it explodes into full bloom now, petals crushed against my rib cage in their expansiveness. I nod, unable to break eye contact with this beautiful man who has his own wounds but is slowly unfurling for me, too.
“Wellll, I hate to rain on this lovely little pheromone swap,” Sofia says, reminding us that she’s had a front-row seat to this exchange, “but as romantic as a vague maybe is, we should finish up this photo run-through, Gracie.”
Flustered, I look at Sofia, who is staring at me so pointedly, she may as well be holding a harpoon.
Jude nods and checks his watch. “I’m sorry for keeping you. I need to get back to Providence anyway.”
“But you’re coming back, right?” I ask before I can stop myself. It’s Friday—the night he and Taco usually arrive for their stay, and it would be pointless to deny that I haven’t been secretly hoping for a repeat of last weekend.
The regret in his gaze tells me his answer before he says it. “I have to stay in the city this weekend. But if you need anything—”
“No,” I say, suddenly embarrassed. No matter how unruly my feelings have become, I told him I’d keep this casual. “I don’t need anything.”
Disappointment flickers in his eyes before he schools his expression into something impassive. “You have my number just in case. Sofia, I’m so glad I met you at last.”
She gives him a long, assessing look. “Ditto.”
When he leaves, my friend turns to me slowly, and there’s nothing that can prepare me for what she says next.
“Gracie, when were you going to tell me he’s in love with you?”