Chapter 44 A Little Gesture
A LITTLE GESTURE
RIPLEY
Think, Ripley, think.
If this had happened to Haven, what would you do?
I’d find a way to fix it. That’s what I do—fix problems. I need to focus on that instead of freaking out and pacing the lavender fields, unable to do any of my work. All I can do is stare at these pictures of us on my phone.
As soon as Dean appeared, I left the cottage and rushed to the house, finding my grandma in the kitchen, staring at her phone and the pictures her bestie had sent her. And before Grandma left for her in-person French class, she showed the snaps to me.
My heart sank like an anchor to the ocean floor as I read the captions. I owe so many explanations to so many people—starting with my sister.
But first, I need to deal with the man. With Grandma gone to her class, I head for the store before it opens, Hudson trotting alongside me.
Inside the shop, I FaceTime Chloe rather than text.
She’s up already, walking dogs, and sounds concerned when she answers.
When I tell her it’s an emergency, she patches in Bridget.
My pulse spikes with worry. Wasting no time, I tell them about the pictures, and then about Banks’s partner showing up unexpectedly this morning. “What do I do?”
Bridget’s been putting on makeup, and she stops, furrows her brow, foundation brush in hand. “Why do you have to do something?”
“Because it’s a mess. Because his business partner showed up.
And, well, Banks never wanted him to know about us while we were working together.
While he was protecting me.” I feel guilty all over as I admit the full scope of the sneaking around.
“Banks was always the one who risked the most. And I feel awful.”
“But why do you have to fix it?” Bridget asks again.
This seems like a trick question.
“Why do you keep asking me that?” I fire back.
“Just answer,” she says, loving but firm.
I huff out a harsh breath. “Because I’m fucking in love with him, okay?” I blurt out and my god, that hurt. Like ripping a jagged stone from my chest.
And my asshole friends just smile. Both of them. “Good,” Bridget says, her peach lipstick shiny.
Chloe grins too. “I’m proud of you, Ripley.”
Up is down. Black is white. “Why are you smiling? Why are you proud of me? This is awful.”
“It is. But it’s also amazing that you fell in love. Especially when you were convinced you never would again,” Chloe says as the sun rises above her, its light mocking me, like it’s bringing all my mistakes into the day.
And they may be right, but what good did falling in love do? “It’s a mess. And I need to fix it. I have to,” I say, desperation driving me on.
Bridget’s smile disappears. Once her expression turns serious, she says, “Well, there’s one thing you could do.”
She tells me, and it sounds awful. My chest squeezes painfully at her suggestion. But I also know she’s probably right.
When I end the call, I sink down to the wooden floor amidst the bottles of butterfly lavender essential oils, the eye masks promising calmness, and the dried sachets offering peace.
I don’t feel calm or settled or peaceful. I feel terrible. My heart absolutely bleeds for Banks. For me, but mostly for him. Because I know Banks, and I know how awful he must feel right now. Like he failed. I know, too, that he’ll do the right thing.
This means there’s only one right thing I can do now, even if it feels like I’m excavating all my insides with a bulldozer.
I push up to my feet, intent on finding him, my curious pup rising too. Only, I don’t have to look far—Banks is already knocking on the door.
That’s so him. He always knows where to find me. He just does. He has a sense for me.
I wish I could revel in that connection. But I can’t. With a bruised heart, I open the door and let him into the tiny store as the sun rises over my farm.
“Hi,” I manage, and my voice sounds scratchy and raw.
Hudson trots over and wags his tail, licking Banks’s hand. Briefly, Banks pets the dog, then meets my gaze. Pain etches his eyes. His hair sticks up everywhere. He drags a hand through it, like he’s been doing that all morning.
“I really fucked up, Ripley,” he begins, regret thick in his voice.
“Me too,” I say.
He shakes his head as if rejecting that thought. “It was my fault. All mine.”
“It was ours,” I say.
“No. It was mine,” he insists, proving that he only blames himself. He scrubs a hand down his face. “Webflix canceled the meeting. Just now.”
My heart plummets. This is worse than I’d thought. So much worse with him losing business. “Because of the pictures?”
He breathes out hard through his nostrils.
His fists are clenched. Every muscle in his body is taut.
“Because I didn’t act like a fucking professional.
Because I didn’t do my job. Because I’m a goddamn liability.
I prided myself on protecting you at all costs.
I take every job seriously. I looked out for you every second of the day, and what happened?
I wound up in the press for falling in love with you.
” He stabs his chest with his finger. “I’m not supposed to fall in love.
I’m supposed to protect you. Perfectly.”
My heart aches so much I can’t even process the terrible beauty of those words—falling in love.
The words come with a cost. And the cost is coming. Still, my impulse to take care of everything is too strong to ignore. “You can’t beat yourself up,” I say gently, trying to shoulder some of the blame.
“But I can, and I will. This is on me. I’m just like my father.”
This poor man. “You’re not,” I say, emphatic as I shake my head.
He’s silent for a beat—a long, thoughtful one that lets me hope he’ll see the difference between himself and the man who lied about an entire second family.
“Fine. Maybe I’m not,” he says quietly, and a sliver of sunshine warms me. Then it disappears behind a cloud when he adds, “But I still can’t get away with this.”
I brace myself. I knew this was coming because I know this man. He’ll take it all on. He’ll think he can control everything. And he’ll want to pay the price.
So I have to do the right thing, and I must do it before he can. If he says the next thing he came here to say, he’ll hate himself even more than he does now. I won’t let that happen.
“Banks,” I begin, the word scraping my throat raw.
But he’s not the only one who knows how to protect the people they love.
I can protect him too. From himself. I won’t make this any harder for him than it already is.
I won’t fight it. I won’t try to convince him he’s wrong.
Nor will I let him be the one to pull the trigger.
I get the words out first: “I think we should…stop.”
The word burns my tongue as I break it off.
But when he nods gratefully, muttering a terribly heavy, “We should,” I know, too, that I had to be the one to do it. This way, he won’t entirely blame himself. I suppose that’s the only gift I can give him right now.
Sometimes you just have to let go of the ones you love.