Chapter 1 Gracie #2
The night of my stepsister’s wedding, she found me crying in a corner of the ballroom while my whole family cha-cha’d real smooth across the dance floor—fully unaware that I was in the middle of a quarter-life crisis.
Between my breakup with Calvin and the swift death of my business, which followed, the bottom of my life had officially fallen out and caught fire.
But after confiding in Agatha—a sympathetic stranger I had no expectation of ever meeting again—she offered me a job on the spot.
And even though she isn’t in touch with modern costs of living and nearly every precious cent I earn is swallowed by the black maw of my debt, Agatha is the only reason I’m not still sleeping on the lumpy pullout in my mom’s basement.
“It really is,” I agree, trying not to let the sigh that escapes sound too woe-is-me. Reflexively, I slide my thumb down my unadorned ring finger.
Agatha’s eyes cut to mine, and the look she gives me is too all-knowing for my comfort. “He was never going to be your happy ending, sweetheart,” she says, like it’s a simple fact. “That’s something you’ll need to make for yourself.”
The tightness in my throat turns into a full-fledged lump. Our relationship has always been this way—she might be my employer, but there are times when I suspect she wanted a granddaughter more than a wedding planner when she hired me. Maybe she knew I needed her, too.
“I know that,” I say gently. “But sometimes I just…”
Her features soften with understanding. “Want to get laid?”
I can’t fully repress my surprised laugh, and the cellist nervously glances in my direction.
“No, Agatha,” I whisper once I’ve composed myself. “I was going to say that sometimes I wish I could find my person, too.”
Admitting this to anyone feels humiliating, but Agatha has already seen me in my rock-bottom sweatpants and helped me remedy my DIY bangs decision, so it’s only up from here.
“The only way you’re going to do that is by forgetting about Kevin and meeting someone new,” she says.
I don’t mean to snort, but my nose does it anyway.
Unless my meet-cute happens in the Sad Food for Wishful Singles aisle at the local Stop & Shop, meeting someone new seems highly unlikely.
“I’m not like you, Agatha.” I look down at the simple black dress and blazer I wore specifically to fade into the background.
“I don’t emit a homing signal for the single and fabulous. ”
“Oh, tosh. You look like Audrey Hepburn with an ass,” she says succinctly. “Who doesn’t love an Audrey with an ass? Nobody I’d associate with.” She sniffs. “You’re smart, hardworking, and far too kind for your own good. Kevin has no idea what he’s missing.”
“His name is Calvin, but… thank you, Agatha,” I say, more than a little touched. “He definitely doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
I say this with confidence because we haven’t had any form of contact since we split. Not unless you count the one—fine, three times—I’ve snuck onto his Instagram to torture myself with photos of him bonding with his fellow finance bros over happy hour drinks.
“That’s the spirit, honey,” Agatha says, rubbing my back. “You know, come to think of it, my grandson is outrageously handsome and single…” She trails off, like this thought is occurring to her for the first time, and not the five-hundredth time since I’ve known her. “He lives—”
“In Providence and doesn’t visit nearly enough,” I finish for her, thinking of the few glimpses I’ve caught of him from behind my cottage windows.
I know he’s tall. That he has carefully schooled, dark wavy hair.
He’s also always in a suit, he always brings her peonies, and Agatha flat-out refuses to introduce us until I ask her to. Which will be exactly never.
She gives me a wicked grin like she can tell I’m replaying every look I’ve ever gotten of him. “I’m not pushing,” she pushes. “But just say the word and I’ll accidentally bring him over while you’re scantily clad.”
It’s not… the worst idea. Not the scantily clad part—that is terrible. But maybe meeting him. The truth is, I haven’t tried dating anyone since Calvin, and yes, I’m well aware of how pathetic that sounds.
My phone starts vibrating, and quickly, I peek around the column to see Jasmine and her fiancé clasping hands while the officiant speaks. “Sorry, Agatha, I’m getting a call.”
I take my phone out of my pocket but immediately drop it onto the cold flagstones after seeing the caller. Because it’s not Mark or Phoebe. It’s a video call… from Calvin?
“Oh my god,” I say, crouching down and gingerly picking the phone up like it might detonate.
My heart becomes a helicopter in my chest. Calvin is video calling me.
Why? Is this the world’s most tragic butt-dial?
Or is my secret hope—that he’d grow up a little and realize he let go of the one person who loved him best—about to come true?
Remnants of our last conversation come back to me like darts to the chest. We’re just in different places right now, babe. I’m not ready for the picket fence. Maybe when we’re older… who knows?
“Well, are you going to pick it up and give him the finger, or should I?”
Agatha’s voice is crisp and businesslike, yanking me back into reality. I try swallowing nonexistent saliva. “I’m going to pick up. Please, Agatha. Keep an eye on the ceremony and let me know if something, I don’t know”—I flap a hand—“catches fire.”
She harrumphs something about what she’d like to see catch fire as I speed walk farther into the shadowed portico. With a last anxious ruffle of my short bangs, I take a deep breath and accept the call.