Chapter 31
Sam nudged my arm and asked, "Are we good?"
I bobbed my head in agreement, still staring at Ben and Rob through the boxwood. I'd have to go out there eventually. I'd have to see them and talk to them and be…normal. Whichever version of normal I passed off as my own.
It wasn't that I meant to avoid them. I enjoyed both of them in separate and distinct ways, and if I was required to choose between Sam Walsh and either of my boys, well…
Sam wasn't winning. To be fair, I didn't dislike Sam.
I wasn't angry at him. I wasn't holding on to a grudge.
I lived with a bit of contempt and a slightly larger bit of resentment.
Maybe those were the primary ingredients in a grudge and I couldn't be bothered to read the recipe.
Regardless, I'd allowed myself to believe that was behind me.
But I did resent him. That was the bare bones truth of it.
I was a terrible train wreck of a flirt and there was no way in hell he'd mistaken my advances for anything but.
He was a smart guy and he let me embarrass myself.
So, yeah. I resented him for never, ever, not even once mentioning that he was in a relationship.
For never making an offhand remark about his girlfriend to tip me off.
To save us both from the events that followed.
I didn't let that resentment rule me and I didn't lead with it either.
How could I? My best friends were Sam's sister-in-law and his younger brother and I worked with his firm on a daily basis and I was here, helping his brother move into a new house.
I adored his entire family—his wife included—but there was bad blood in the water.
It was always there, lingering in the background like the memory of Ruby Sharpe's announcement to our entire sixth grade class that I was going to be a gorilla for Halloween on account of my as-of-then unshaven legs.
And the contempt, that came later. It stewed in the weeks and months that followed my spectacular crash-and-burn demonstration with Sam.
It boiled over but then I pushed it to the back burner, left it there to simmer.
It cooled every time Riley or Andy or Tiel—or anyone in Sam's orbit—worked at bringing me in and making things right.
Every time someone else stepped in to patch the tear.
I was certain Sam had a good reason for steering clear of that conversation until just now when we found ourselves wedged between a hedgerow and the house.
Underneath all the rubble, Sam was a good guy.
I knew it because I'd known him. Ages and ages ago, I'd known him.
We'd been such good friends. We'd talked shop like there was nothing else in the world worth discussing and he'd connected me with clients who turned into my biggest, most important jobs.
He'd thought he was doing the right thing then and now—finally—with both of us plunked down in the dirt, he was.
"Yeah. I'm booked up for the remainder of the summer," I said. "But let's get something on the calendar. Shoot me a message later in the week. I'm sure we can sit down and look at your project horizon."
Just like that, the resentment and contempt I'd been clutching for years started to loosen. Letting go was strange. Not especially pleasant. For the same reason I kept jeans that didn't fit comfortably, I wanted to take back the hard, worn leather of that emotional armor.
Because I might need it again.
"I'll call you. There's a project coming up that's perfect for you. Even better, it has a huge landscape budget."
"Now you're speaking words I understand," I replied.
"You're saying I should've led with budget and then begged for your time?" he asked, laughing. "That would've worked better?"
"It's been a few years since we've collaborated, Sam," I said, my words cool and deliberate though I felt none of that chill vibe. "I don't accept small money projects anymore."
He made a sound in his throat, some kind of rattling sigh. "Yeah," he murmured. "I know. Riley's mentioned it two or three hundred times."
Ah, Riley. He was the best of friends. Just the best of them.
Sam pushed to his feet and brushed the dirt from the seat of his shorts. "Sitting behind a bush is great and all but why don't we get up before we meet a colony of fire ants or something? Introduce me to your friends, will you?"
He stepped away from the boxwood and I acted on my brain's first impulse, one still reaching for all of that resentment.
It wasn't a good impulse.
It wasn't a wise impulse.
It wasn't the right impulse.
But it was the first. And only.
I lunged toward Sam and caught him around the calves. The impact sent him stumbling to the lawn and my hold on him meant I followed him down.
My torso hit the ground first, pushing an indelicate grunt from my lips in the process. The inertia yanked my t-shirt down but the essentials stayed covered. Thank god. I couldn't add a wardrobe malfunction to today's list of tragedies. Not after whatever it was I just did to Sam.
Until right now, I'd believed my worst moments were behind me.
At the very least, my worst Sam Walsh moments were behind me.
But no. Nooooo. Dragging him to the ground was somehow worse—substantially worse—than slamming my lips to his all those years ago.
I'd had a rationale for that. This…this defied all reason.
"What the hell was that, Gigi?" he yelled as he pushed up. "What the actual hell?"
I dropped my forehead down, sedating myself with the scent of green grass. When was I going to learn? When was I going to stop getting in my own way? Was that even possible? Was there a world where I wasn't literally falling down and scraping myself up all over again?
That world didn't exist. Not for me. I was always going to do all of those things but maybe—just maybe—there could be a world where Sam Walsh wasn't involved in my relationship with Rob and Ben. Even if I had to tackle him.
"Gigi, any explanation would be awesome," Sam continued. "I really fucking hope you were saving me from a possum or something."
Thanks to Sam (and a few other truly unpleasant men), I could handle damn near anything.
I could pick myself up, dust myself off, and pretend I hadn't fallen into a homegrown sinkhole.
I could be nice and cheery and not give a fuck about any of it.
I could fake it. Oh, I could fake it the best. Wasn't that what I'd been doing for—for years?
But I couldn't fake it with Rob and Ben and Sam. Not all at once. Not after that weird and necessary conversation in the bushes. Not anymore. I couldn't.
Rob and Ben called to me but I stayed there, my hands pressed to my face and head down in the grass. I heard footsteps and then felt hands on my shoulders, my back, but I didn't move. I needed another minute to recover. Before I had to fake it one more time.
"Magnolia?" Rob said to my back. "Magnolia, honey, say something."
"Who the fuck are you and what the fuck happened here?" Ben snapped. "What did you fucking do to her?"
"This was—it's all good, gentlemen," Sam replied.
"What kind of fuckin' predator are you?" Ben continued.
"Excuse me?" Sam answered.
"Sam? Sam, why are you covered in grass stains and why is Magnolia on the ground?"
Oh my god. That was Lauren. Due any day pregnant, moving into her new house fourteen seconds after the paint dried, dealing with all this mayhem Lauren. Oh my god. I'd just tackled Sam to the ground like a lunatic and I was flat on the lawn in front of her house, adding to the damn mayhem.
"Seems like something I'd do."
That was Riley. Oh, shit. Just…shit.
It was true. Nothing happened in my life unless I had an audience around to judge me while it happened.
"We just tripped," Sam replied. "It was nothing. If I know Gigi, I know she's dying of embarrassment and waiting for the lawn to swallow her."
If I know Gigi.
I snorted at that. He was right. But we didn't know each other anymore.
"I know you think you can be left unsupervised, Sam"—oh, god, that was Shannon—"but that's not the case if you're tripping on flat, unobstructed grass and taking Magnolia down with you."
"Is there not a better use of your time?"
That question came from Patrick and I was now convinced the entire Walsh family was staring at me, facedown in the grass.
I should've picked myself up by now but I needed another minute.
To put myself back together and find the right blend of joyous indifference necessary to stand up, shake the grass from my hair, look these people in the eye, and go forward without explaining my inexplicable desire to physically prevent Sam from approaching Ben and Rob.
A hand squeezed my shoulder, ran down my spine. I wasn't sure whether it was Rob or Ben. Right now, I was content with that show of support coming from either man.
"Thank you for that brilliant question, Patrick.
I appreciate you and everyone else coming out to evaluate the current state of affairs.
Helpful. Extremely helpful." Sam continued, "And it was probably my fault.
You know, as I reflect on it now, yes. It was my fault.
I'm the responsible party here. I am—I'm deserving of the blame. Gigi did nothing wrong."
Finally. Finally, an apology I believed. Perhaps it was a product of Sam speaking it to everyone else. Maybe it grew from the conversation we had behind the boxwood. Whatever the reason, I believed it this time.
I believed it, and I believed I didn't need the emotional armor anymore.
"Thank you for that," I mumbled into the grass.
"And who the fuck are you?" Ben seethed.