Chapter 17 Gracie #2
My mind releases a deluge of panicked reminders that would have been extremely helpful about forty seconds ago.
I am about to go out with this man’s best friend.
He’s trying to sabotage my life! I have no business thinking about his bedroom preferences or the fact that the most adventurous sex of my life involved an impromptu can of whipped cream and a lot of regrets involving Monistat 1.
“I’m changing the subject,” I announce. “Tell me about Henry.”
His voice is an audible glower. “I have no idea if he has any kinks. You’ll have to ask him yourself.”
“I wasn’t— I’m not asking—” I sputter before regaining my composure. “How are you two even friends?” I finally get out. “He’s so nice.”
If I thought his spine couldn’t get any stiffer, I was wrong. “I’m well aware. But somehow, I’ve hoodwinked him into thinking I’m decent company.”
He says it cooly, but there’s no mistaking the undercurrent of hurt in his voice, and suddenly I feel like the jerk. “You are decent company,” I say. “In fact, I keep forgetting not to like you.” I cut my eyes toward him. “I think under different circumstances, we could even be friends.”
“Friends,” he repeats, but I can’t get a read on his tone. The leather of the steering wheel squeaks beneath his grip.
“Sure,” I say brightly. “I mean, before I found out your plans for selling Larkwood, I even thought—”
I stop myself. If things get any more awkward in this car, I’ll be left with no choice but to duck and roll out the passenger door.
“You thought what?” Jude presses, his voice scratched around the edges.
I think back to our initial meeting. How I knew he’d be someone I could find comfort with after losing Agatha. How my heart raced when he saved me from that plant, and he made me feel a spark for someone other than Calvin for the first time in years.
“I thought we shared a connection over Agatha,” I admit, looking out the window at the highway rushing by. “I thought we could help each other through the grief.”
He’s quiet for a long moment until, finally, he says, “What do you think the other night was?”
It feels like acknowledging something off-limits, and the atmosphere between us immediately changes to something softer. Heavier.
“You’re right. And I meant to say thank you,” I tell him, tugging on the hem of my skirt. “I mean, I know you probably have your parents to talk about her with, but for me…” I stare down at my hands. “You’re the only person I can really reminisce with.”
Out of my periphery, I see him shake his head before saying in a low voice, “It’s the same for me. My father isn’t in my life, and my mom…” The exhale he makes is almost inaudible. “There’s family history that makes grieving together complicated.”
At this, my heart feels like it’s just come face-to-face with its long-lost twin. Our gazes catch for a moment, and before I can stop it, a question I’ve been wondering for a while voices itself.
“Is that why you use Larkwood as your last name? Because it’s your mom’s and Agatha’s instead of your dad’s?”
His shoulders shift beneath his shirt. “Yeah,” he says shortly. “I changed it when I was old enough.”
“I’m sorry,” I whisper, overcome by simple, painful understanding. “My father isn’t in my life either.”
He looks away, but not before I see something like anger in the set of his mouth. “His loss.”
“Their loss,” I correct him.
He keeps his gaze fixed on the road. “Maybe. But at least we found each other,” he says quietly, before pausing to weigh his words. “Remembering Nana with you confirms every one of my best memories, Gracie. Like, as long as I know you, I don’t have to doubt that they actually happened.”
Despite all my efforts to stay emotionally detached from this man, I feel a sharp tug on the cord that has connected us ever since Agatha’s funeral. The question rises inside me like a breath I don’t want to let out. What would make you question your best memories, Jude?
I already know how he’d respond: It’s personal. But I want him to know that even if we’re nothing more than two people in mutual grief, thrown together by circumstance, he can still count on me to share this loss. So, I say, “I guess that means you’re stuck with me, then.”
He lets out a ghost of a laugh, keeping his eyes on the road. “Trust me, Gracie, you’re the one stuck with me. I fully plan on sending you traumatizing pictures of Agatha on every major holiday.”
I can’t help the grin that stretches across my face. “I keep meaning to ask—did she ever mention me to you?”
His full lips hitch into a rueful smirk. “Oh yeah. You were always the cute, single wedding planner she wanted to introduce me to.”
“Hmm. Kind of jealous that she chose to go with ‘cute’ when your designation was always ‘outrageously handsome.’ ”
His eyes find mine for a moment. “I may have downplayed what she actually called you. For the sake of propriety.”
“Screw propriety, I want compliments!” I laugh.
“Good thing no one would accuse you of being demanding.”
Smacking his arm, I say, “What did she call me?”
He clears his throat, and then, in an uncanny impression of Agatha’s crinkly old-lady voice, says, “ ‘Just tell me when you want me to introduce you to my gorgeous wedding planner, Judy. You’ll love her—she’s smart as a whip and looks like Audrey Hepburn with an ass.’ ”
Laughter shoots out of me the same moment nostalgic longing weaves through my chest. I never thought I’d hear those words again, but listening to Jude repeat them in the same cheeky tone Agatha always used feels like casting them in gold.
He was right earlier. The memories I’ve cherished alone somehow feel more real when they’re shared with him.
No matter what else happens between us, the love we shared for Agatha will always be there, linking us with a bright, unbreakable thread.
Still grinning, I say, “I don’t know who to be more mortified for—me, because she shared her Audrey comparison with other people, or you, for that nickname.”
“Definitely feel sorrier for me. ‘Audrey with an ass’ is a fantastic compliment, whereas I’ll have to endure a lifetime of Judge Judy jokes and bobbleheads from Henry.”
I laugh, and despite the barb of discomfort I feel when he mentions his friend, I find myself slipping back into the now-familiar current between us, letting myself get pulled irresistibly along.
We keep talking, sharing our precious Agatha-isms like trading cards, and somehow, the hour-long drive flies by.
When we pull up to the familiar strip of small businesses, I’m snorting and begging for photographic proof of the time Agatha pressured him into wearing a purple sequined bolero at their ballroom dance lessons.
“Sweetly Ever After Cakes,” Jude reads in a doubtful voice, squinting at the sign tacked between a pet supply store and a tanning salon.
“Don’t be so judgy, Judy.”
“You really went there. Wow.”
I stick my tongue out at him. “Come on, and be nice. Val’s doing me a huge favor with this last-minute order.”
He opens his door before giving me a smile that cuts my breath short. “You have no idea how nice I can be, Gracie.”
And with that, he gets out and walks toward the cake shop, leaving me to pick up the pieces of my scattered composure.
I know I made the right decision in saying yes to Henry. I know what I should want. But as Jude turns to open the door for me, I also begin to understand that some cravings have no regard for “should” at all.