17. Rhett
SEVENTEEN
RHETT
I was done.
I probably had been for a while, but until I spent time with Pearl, I didn’t realize how far I had fallen from who I had hoped to become.
I admired her. She’d overcome unfathomable pain to live her life on her terms. The irony of being inspired by Pearl to live better when I’d been so clueless as a teenager wasn’t lost on me.
I had wanted to talk to Josie privately at my place, but she insisted that we go to Elizabeth’s on 37th for dinner. It wasn’t ideal, but it would have to do.
I had decided to end our engagement.
I didn’t love Josie—and I’d never love someone like her.
Getting married for the sake of reputation and status was making less and less sense to me.
It wasn’t going to be easy. Hell no! Josie would fight this.
My parents would be absolutely against it.
But as Royal put it, George Vanderbilt didn’t have to marry and live with Josie; I did, and I didn’t want to.
It was as simple as that, and would be complicated as fuck to navigate.
In our world, we didn’t do things or not do them because of the heart’s desire.
We followed a path put in front of us by society because we were, after all, society.
If the elite didn’t follow the dictates, the world order would fall apart.
I guess I was about to topple said order.
Bring out the gallows!
“I’ve been dying to eat here for ages,” Josie exclaimed as we sat at the bar, waiting for our table to be ready.
I appreciated a good restaurant as much as the next person, and this one was impeccable—crisp white tablecloths, candlelight flickering in crystal holders, and a polite hum of conversation spoken in low tones.
I doubted I could laugh too loudly without earning a judgmental glance—probably from someone who knew my family or me.
There had already been several nods and murmured acknowledgments.
Josie, of course, fit in effortlessly. Her cream-colored dress was tailored to perfection, her blonde hair swept into a chignon that had likely taken her stylist an hour to create.
She was as fake as the elegance of this place and I could almost hear my father say, “Josie Vance will make an excellent Vanderbilt bride.”
I was regretting this setting more and more as I saw one familiar face after the other. I should’ve thought this through—but honestly, I didn’t need another argument with Josie when we were about to have the mother of all fights when I told her she could keep the ring but not the man.
“Rhett, Josie! We haven’t seen you since the engagement party,” chirped Clementine Chamberlain, one of Savannah’s many professional gossips. Her husband Robert stood at her side, nodding amiably while his eyes darted toward the bar. He was a known alcoholic.
“Clementine, darlin’, you look lovely.” Josie’s smile was so polished it practically gleamed. “It’s been a whirlwind. Between wedding planning and Rhett’s busy schedule, we haven’t had a moment to breathe.”
“I can imagine.” Clementine shot me a sly smile. “You’re a lucky man, Rhett. Josie’s quite the catch.”
I nodded politely, noncommittally, before glancing at Josie, who now looked irritated.
She noticed the lack of enthusiasm in my demeanor, I could tell.
She always noticed when I was pulling away, and I knew that she knew that the conversation I wanted to have wasn’t about what fucking flowers I wanted for our wedding.
It was probably why she insisted we eat out.
Damn the woman! Did she really think she could put this off?
After a few more strained pleasantries with Clementine and Robert, we were finally taken to our table with our drinks.
Once we were seated, Josie took a sip of her wine. I could see the tension in her shoulders. The way her fingers gripped the stem of the glass tightly made me wonder if she knew what was coming.
She talked about this, that, and the other with gusto, aware that people looking at us should always see us as a happy couple, so in love with each other.
No matter what people looking into our relationship saw or thought, she knew that we weren’t in a good place. I barely talked to her. I didn’t fuck her. I all but checked out when she spoke of the wedding.
I wish I’d had the emotional wherewithal not to have proposed to her, regardless of how knocked up she was.
I should’ve said we’d co-parent, that I’d be there for her, but I wouldn’t marry her.
Sure, that would have pissed our families off, but it wasn’t like I could avoid it now.
Actually, I’d made it worse. Breaking up after that farce of an engagement party was going to cause endless chatter.
She kept talking, but I was barely paying attention, trying to figure out how best to tell her in a fucking public setting that the engagement was over; the wedding was off. And, yeah, I’d cover any costs that came from canceling whatever the hell had already been booked a year in advance.
She set her glass down with deliberate precision. “I thought you wanted to talk, but now getting you to say anything is like pulling teeth.”
I looked down at my bourbon, the amber liquid swirling as I turned the glass in my hand.
Damn it, this wasn’t how I wanted to do it. Not here, not like this. But there was never going to be a good moment for this conversation, was there?
“I’d have preferred to do this in privacy.”
“Do what?” Her lower lip trembled.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about us, Josie. I don’t believe we’re suited for one another. You’re lovely, and you’ll make?—”
“Shut up,” she hissed.
Christ! The dramatics had already begun.
“I’m happy to do so,” I drawled, “but it’s not going to change the facts.”
“Which are?” she demanded angrily, and then, just like that, she smiled because our server had come to the table.
Yeah, she was as genuine as a three-dollar bill at a church bake sale.
“Darlin’, why don’t you order first? I’m still making up my mind.” She even fluttered her eyelashes.
The poor server was speechless. Josie was beautiful. If only he could see what was inside.
I ordered the pepper-crusted beef tenderloin with buttermilk mashed potatoes, asparagus, and Madeira cream sauce.
I told the waiter no, I wouldn’t be ordering an appetizer. I didn’t think I could stand eating a three-course meal with Josie.
Josie wasn’t in on my dinner and dash plan, so after much dawdling, she ended up ordering the sea scallops without the lemon butter. However, she obviously wanted a side salad.
“It’s too greasy with the butter, and I need to, you know, lose some weight before the wedding.” Josie handed her menu to the server, who flushed.
“Isn’t the whole point of scallops the brown butter?” I couldn’t resist throwing at Josie.
She scoffed and rolled her eyes. The server was gone; the real Josie was back.
“And you should eat the butter if you want to, Josie, because there isn’t going to be a wedding,” I added.
Her face tightened. “What’s that supposed to mean?” she asked, her tone sharp.
“Jesus, Josie, exactly what I said. I don’t want to marry you.” Okay, so I didn’t want to say it like this, but she was shredding my patience.
Her eyes narrowed, and for a moment, she said nothing. Then she leaned forward, her voice low and laced with disbelief. “Rhett, we’ve been engaged for six months. We’re getting married in a year. The venue has been booked. I’m getting ready to buy my dress. Now is not the time to get cold feet.”
I shook my head. This woman was unbelievable. “Josie, I don’t have cold feet. I’m ending our engagement and calling off the wedding. I’m telling you I don’t want to marry you.”
Was that fuckin’ explicit enough for her?
“Please.” She picked up her glass of wine and sipped. “Your mother warned me that you’d want to pull a rabbit.”
I almost laughed at that. Did Josie really think insulting me was going to help her case?
“Darlin’, I ain’t rabbiting on you; I’m telling you that we’re not getting married.”
I had wanted to be subtle and careful, but the hell with it. If she couldn’t treat me with respect, I wasn’t going to afford her the same courtesy. Just because I was polite didn’t mean I didn’t have an asshole streak. She, of all people, should know that.
“How do you think your father is going to feel about this?” she sneered.
“My father isn’t marrying you, Josie.”
The server returned with bread for our table, and Josie all but snarled at him, “I just told you I’m getting married, so please take that away.”
“Please forgive my companion; she hasn’t eaten much all day, so she’s hangry.” I smiled at the server. “And do leave the bread. I love your focaccia.”
The server, not sure what was up, left the breadbasket, and all but ran from our table.
I picked up a slice of warm, freshly baked roll and cut it open. I spread butter over it while Josie seethed.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded.
“Eating carbs.” I bit into the bread with relish.
She flinched. “What’s gotten into you, Rhett?”
“I was hoping we’d have a conversation, Josie. Instead, you decided to just ignore what I was saying.” I took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “So, are we going to talk now, or are you going to pretend I didn’t say what I just did?”
She flinched. “What’s gotten into you?”
“This is who I am,” I said bluntly, locking eyes with her. “I like getting my way, Josie, and I know you do, too. But this time, you’re not getting yours. I’m not going to marry you. I’m sorry to put it like this, but if you’ve been paying attention—and I know you have—you saw this coming.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Her face was all but crumpling, and I was afraid she was going to cry. I would not hear the end of it if she did at this restaurant with at least fifty sets of familiar eyes on us.