Chapter 39 Gracie #2
She raises her brows and exhales. “And then, of course, Joel, Bri, and Josie came into my life, and I could understand them. They were just like me. They made it a little too easy to tell myself that you weren’t interested in us anyway.
That you were happier being left alone to do your own thing.
” She looks down at her hands as years of neglect get pulled to the surface like a splinter. “I’m sorry, Gracie. I was wrong.”
For long moments, I don’t know how to respond.
My first instinct is to brush it off and tell her it’s okay, but it’s not okay.
It was never okay. I spent my whole life internalizing her dismissiveness, believing it was the result of my own deficiencies.
If I’d never met Sofia, her family, or Jude, I might never have seen any shortcomings besides my own.
But because I did meet them, I know it’s well within my rights not to accept her apology.
I could tell her it’s too late for any kind of reconciliation.
And maybe it is. But there’s something to be said for a genuine apology, no matter how late-coming or insufficient it is.
An apology can be a bridge to a new place.
Or, at the very least, a rickety rope swing.
“I think I really needed to hear that,” I say eventually.
My mom’s eyes are glistening when she says, “And I think I really needed to have my ass handed to me. The other weekend when you and your boyfriend came over and told me you weren’t going to finish planning the party, you could have knocked me over with a feather.
It woke me up. Shook me up, really, and you better believe I’ve had a talk with your sisters about the way they treat you.
” She ducks her head, brows swooping downward. “The way we’ve treated you.”
There’s so much I could say. So much to respond to, but I can’t seem to move beyond two syllables.
“He’s not my boyfriend.” The words slip past my numb lips.
My mom raises one jet-black eyebrow. “You sure about that, muffin? He seemed very… protective of you.”
The nickname, which I haven’t heard since before I could tie my own shoes, makes me look up at her.
And maybe it’s the way she’s giving me her complete attention for once, or her apology, or that long-lost endearment, but all my resistance to truly registering what I’ve lost finally crumbles.
Agatha. My job. My home. My faith in Happily Ever After.
But somehow worse than any of that, Jude.
The involuntary sound that breaks loose from me is half sob, half moan.
I drop my face into my hands, and a few seconds later, a pair of strong arms I haven’t felt in years wrap around me.
I sink into my mother more completely than I have since before her divorce, breathing in her Irish Spring–and-chalk scent.
From the way her chest and shoulders start shaking against mine, I can tell she’s wondering the same thing as me: How did we let ourselves get here?
At what point did our fear of being honest with each other become a callus too thick to feel past?
“Tell me what happened,” she says into my hair. “Tell me everything, and then I’ll sic Brianna and Josie on him.”
A watery laugh emerges from me, but it’s short-lived.
I wipe my eyes as I pull away from her. After the last two months of foolish desperation to keep Larkwood, I could close my eyes and point at any number of dumpster fires to start this story with.
But at the center of my misery, there’s a pulsing red dot.
An ache that goes deeper than anything else.
In a choked whisper, I tell her the truth. “I still love him, Mom.”
She reaches out and takes my hand. “And does he love you, too?”
I try blinking back the freefall of tears down my face. A few days ago, the answer would have come to me in a surge of joy and disbelief: yes. But now, nothing is certain.
“I-I don’t know. He said he did, and I’d give anything to believe him, but there’s just so much he keeps from me,” I tell her, my stomach clenching as I circle closer to the crux of why I can’t be with him.
“He’s lied to you before?” she asks, her voice getting sharper.
“Not outright. Not as far as I know,” I answer. “But he’s never fully opened up, either. He shows me bits and pieces, but when it comes down to really knowing him, he always has his guard up.”
I don’t mention my lingering anger over the fact that he’s going through with a sale that will be incredibly profitable for him, at the expense of Agatha’s legacy.
It’s just too overwhelming to explain, so instead, I say, “In some ways, he’s the most selfless person I’ve ever met.
He treats all the damaged parts of me like they’re just as precious as the polished pieces.
But because there’s so much he doesn’t share, I have no explanation for why some of his decisions seem so selfish. ”
I rub my forehead as a headache begins to throb above my eyes. “I can’t be with someone who doesn’t trust me with their own rougher edges. If I’m going to give my whole heart to someone, I can’t settle for only half of his in return.”
My mom nods. “I know it’s hard to let go of a love that isn’t good for you, sweetheart.
Doing the right thing is hardly ever easy, and you’ve been doing a lot of that lately.
” She squeezes my hand. “But if Jude is as selfless as you say he is, and these decisions he’s making have an explanation he’s been too afraid to share, then he’ll find a way to open up to you. ”
I rest my forehead in my hand. “I don’t know, Mom. He doesn’t even open up to his best friend, and they’ve known each other half their lives.”
“We’ll just have to see, I guess. The ball’s in Jude’s court,” she says, letting go of me and lightly slapping her hands onto her knees. “The big question is, what’s going to give you the comeback you need?”
“Am I being coached right now?”
“Damn right. About time you had a little help from me.” She gives me a sudden, quizzical look. “Speaking of help, what does Sofia have to say about all this?”
I take a sip of my smoothie, delaying my answer. “I, uh, haven’t talked to her about it yet.”
My mom’s eyes widen. “But you two are inseparable. Did something happen?”
I want to brush off her question with a breezy No, of course not! But I’ve already told her everything else—why not this, too?
“Things are better… but we’re recovering from a rough patch,” I say. As succinctly as I can, I tell her about Sofia’s parents splitting up, the disillusionment I’ve been wrestling with ever since, and my fear of reopening Grace & Veil, despite her encouragement.
“I just haven’t been able to bring myself to tell her what happened,” I admit. “She’s going through something so hard right now, and I don’t want to add to her plate again while she’s the one who needs support.”
My mom takes a big swig of her smoothie, nearly finishing it.
“Then don’t add to it,” she says simply, setting her glass down.
“You can still tell her what happened without being needy. Just handle your shit so she doesn’t have to.
You’re an event planner, aren’t you? Make a five-year plan for yourself and make sure it brings you joy.
She’s your best friend. Seeing you happy and fulfilled—or at least on your way there—will go a long way in calming the waters. ”
I nod, amazed by my mom’s unexpected wisdom and grasp on to the idea of a five-year plan like a life raft.
“I can do that,” I say, already imagining the color-coded spreadsheets I’ll make.
Unsurprisingly, there’s no sign of the assistant banquet manager position in my fantasy, but there are fresh bolts of fabric and dusted-off lists of manufacturing contacts.
My mom smiles at me like she can see the wheels turning in my mind. “See? That’s not too hard. But I am sorry about her parents, Gracie.” Her smile becomes pained and self-conscious. “I know you’re close with them.”
My racing mind sobers at once as I realize it’s been over a week since I checked in with her about her family. “I need to call her.”
She nods. “Yes, you do. Check on her, but also make sure you confide in her. She would want you to.”
I swallow hard. “I will. Thanks, Mom.”
Her eyes are sparkly with unshed moisture. “Anytime. Just do me a favor.”
“What’s that?”
“Get back in the game, Gracie. Find a studio space and stop pretending that sewing isn’t the one thing that’s always made you happiest. No one likes a chickenshit.”
I smile with tears in my eyes and lift my smoothie glass. “To not being a chickenshit.”
My mom clinks her glass to mine. “That’s my girl.”
And as rickety as it is, the rope swing holds.