11. Rhett
ELEVEN
RHETT
Escape! Somehow, at the age of thirty-two, my main goal in life had become to get away from my mother, my fiancée, her mother, my sister, and my father, and in that order.
They were talking about the wedding all day, every day. It was now only twelve months away. That was a whole fucking year, but if you heard Josie, you'd feel like we had minutes to go before tying the knot, and what the fuck about the fucking flowers!
According to my friend Royal, I was behaving like a man who didn't want to get married. Royal had recently married the love of his life, and I knew he was happier than almost any other husband I knew.
"Why do we get married?" I wondered when I met him for a drink at The Alley Cat Lounge, a dimly lit speakeasy tucked into an unassuming brick alleyway downtown.
As was the norm with such establishments, the entrance was marked only by a small, engraved plaque next to a nondescript black door. You had to know where it was to find it.
Inside, the bar was a cozy labyrinth of low ceilings, exposed brick walls, and vintage lighting. Edison bulbs added to the vintage theme, their warm glow reflecting off the polished brass bar top and the rows of glass shelves stocked with rare spirits.
All the furniture at the speakeasy, including the tables and chairs, were from the twenties and thirties. The mismatched but beautifully restored furniture added to the place’s appeal.
Royal rested against his leather armchair with an Old Fashioned in hand. I had my elbows on the antique table as I stared down at my glass of Johnny Walker Blue.
I took a sip and then loosened my tie. I'd already removed my suit jacket before I sat down. The weight of the day felt like it was peeling off me, layer by layer, in the sanctuary of this dark, quiet bar.
"Different people get married for different reasons." A smirk tugged at Royal's mouth. "I married for love."
"I don't love Josie."
"No," Royal agreed.
When I rolled up the sleeves of my white dress shirt, Royal sighed. "What? Wedding planning becoming too much for the Vanderbilt heir?"
I groaned, rubbing a hand over my face. “You have no idea. If I hear one more conversation about hydrangeas versus peonies, I swear to God, I’m going to lose it.”
Royal took a slow sip of his drink. “Classic avoidance behavior."
"How did you…how did you walk away?" I asked. It was well-known in Savannah that Royal had broken ties with the Legere family. There were a few others I knew who'd done that, but the majority of us just put one foot in front of the other.
"I'm assuming you're asking about how I did it emotionally rather than financially?"
"Financially, I think my father has more to lose breaking off with me than the other way around." I managed the Vanderbilt wealth and did it profitably.
"Let me ask you a question." Royal set his glass down. "How do you feel after you speak to…say, your father?"
“Speak about what?”
“Anything. Just when you talk to him or are in his presence. How do you feel?
"Like I want to ram my fist into a wall,” I replied.
"Is that because you argue?"
"No one argues with George Vanderbilt."
Royal nodded. "You want his approval."
"Yes." I ran a hand through my hair. "He's my father. I don't want to disappoint him."
"Every encounter I had with any member of my family, except for my grandmother, left me feeling like you do after you talk to your father," Royal explained.
"What I realized was that, at its core, my family and I didn't share the same values.
Once I internalized that, it made no sense to continue the farce of having a relationship.
Then Grandma died, and she was the last Legere I gave a fuck about. "
"I've been raised to care for the Vanderbilt name. You know how that goes?"
"I do! Take Gabe Rhodes. He took over the Rhodes hotel business.
His brother Rafe, on the other hand, wanted to get into academia, and the family was fine with it.
Gabe wanted to marry Aurora, his parents supported him.
They share the same values. Can you see the difference between your situation and his? "
"I don't have any brothers like you do," I pointed out.
"It doesn't matter, Rhett," Royal explained patiently. "What you need to think about is that this is your only life. This is not a drill. You marry Josie, who you obviously don't like no matter the show you put on for everyone else—you'll be unhappy for the rest of your only life."
I stared at my drink, the amber liquid catching the light, swirling slightly as I tilted the glass.
Royal arched an eyebrow. “Why are you getting married, Rhett?”
"Because I knocked her up, and now, even though there is no baby, I'm expected to."
He shrugged. “I got married because I found someone I can’t imagine living without. Someone who makes me better. Someone who feels like home.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Josie feels more like a real estate deal. Great on paper, looks good to the outside world, but inside….” I trailed off.
“Then why would you do this?” he asked exasperated.
I hesitated, swirling my drink again. “Because it’s easier to keep moving forward than to stop and ask yourself if you’re going the wrong way.”
Royal leaned forward and rested his elbows on the table. “That’s not a reason, man. That’s inertia.”
That was the word, I thought, inertia, that made the world put one foot after the other. We didn't want to fuck with the status quo, so we kept making the same mistakes over and over again.
"I know," I confessed. "But if I internalize that, I'll be stepping into a free fall that I'm not sure I’ll survive."
My friend Sage joined us then. “Sorry, I’m late.”
She gave Royal a quick hug and did the same with me before taking a seat. She looked from Royal to me and raised her eyebrows. “Who died?”
“I think he’s reevaluating his social life,” Royal mocked.
Sage’s eyes widened. “Tell me you’re going to dump that bitch.”
“Told ya.” Royal raised his glass smugly.
A server came by, and Sage ordered a Sazerac before focusing on me again. “You can’t stand her.”
“How will it look, Sage?”
“Like you can’t stand her,” she offered and then shook her head as if disgusted with me. “Why the hell are you so afraid of your father?”
“I’m not afraid of him,” I snapped. “I respect him.”
“Why?” Sage asked, bewildered. “The man is so conservative he thinks women who wear pantsuits are lesbian and should be put to death.”
Alas, that was only a slight exaggeration. “I’ll lose my family if I do this.” I had been raised to respect my elders, take care of my family, and be the man I was supposed to be.
“Maybe they aren’t worth keeping.” Sage put a comforting hand on my shoulder.
“You should talk,” I shot back. When you have no defense for yourself, you go on offense.
“I should.” She smiled. “I know what it feels like to sacrifice your happiness for doing right by the family. I paid for it…I’m still paying for it.”
My friends’ words stayed with me as I escaped once again, this time leaving Savannah for a conference in Newport Beach. I was relieved because that would give me a break from the incessant familial nagging, and I was excited because Pearl was going to be at the same conference.
The conference was being held at the opulent Resort at Pelican Hill, perched on the bluffs above Newport Beach, with sweeping ocean views that seemed almost unreal.
The place was straight out of a luxury travel magazine, all Italian-inspired architecture—terracotta roofs, colonnades, and lush green courtyards dotted with fountains.
Even the air smelled expensive—of salt from the ocean breeze and a scent that was faintly citrusy, probably pumped in through hidden vents.
A few people from Savannah Lace and my company attended the conference, which focused on the architecture and construction business.
Our small contingent from Savannah met for dinner after a long day of lectures and workshops.
After our meal at one of the resort's restaurants, we gathered around a fire pit, the flames crackling against the cool evening air.
Overhead, strings of lights hung in lazy loops, casting a golden glow over the patio.
Beyond us, the ocean stretched into the horizon, dark and endless, with the occasional glimmer of moonlight reflecting off the waves.
I sipped my bourbon, letting the warmth of it settle in my chest as I listened to the conversation flow around me.
Layla Warren, Savannah Lace’s CFO, was deep in discussion with one of Pearl’s colleagues about supply chain strategies.
A few of my team members were chatting about an upcoming client pitch, their voices low and serious despite the relaxed setting.
I had managed to sit next to Pearl—I had not been able to help myself. I felt drawn to her—I probably always had been. When I looked back at our teenage years, I remembered her as this elusive and charming person people made fun of.
I had approached her because of the bet, but I stayed because of her.
She was the only authentic person I knew in my young life.
She was open and honest—na?ve and affectionate.
There was no calculation. That young girl was no more.
The woman sitting next to me had her walls up.
She wasn't the innocent girl any longer.
She had lived her life—and from what I could see, what happened then had not changed just me but also her.
The consequences of that one thoughtless, heartless act had forced me to look at myself and strive to become a better person—but what had it done to Pearl?
She looked relaxed, one leg crossed over the other, a sparkling drink in her hand that she barely drank.
She wasn't particularly seeking out conversation; she was comfortable in herself and the silence.
She didn't seek attention, but she didn't fade into the background, either—she never had.
She had an effortless presence. Why had this made so many of us insecure when we were young?