Chapter 15 Gracie
Gracie
My throat is filled with jagged pieces of glass, each breath shredding my throat, agony sliding down into my chest.
The phone on the counter blurs, even though my eyes are dry. I keep telling myself that it’s okay. I already knew, so it’s okay. But knowing something and then having it thrust in your face are two very different things.
“I was on my way to Ashland to meet a friend,” the woman standing on the other side of the counter is saying, one hand clutched around the strap of her purse and the other propped on her hip.
“Your, uh…shop”—brown eyes swivel around critically—“is on the way out, so I figured it was easier to drop it off here than drive back to Nick’s. ”
Paisley looks back at me, the faintest smirk curling her mouth. There’s a glimmer in her eyes that looks a hell of a lot like triumph, as if she’s won something over me.
I moisten my lips, stifling the urge to ask. I won’t give her the satisfaction of knowing she got to me. She doesn’t seem to give a shit because her smile doesn’t change…even if it never quite reaches her eyes as she looks between me and the phone.
Braxton’s phone.
“We had too much to drink last night,” she explains into the silence. “It was easier for us all to crash at Nick’s together.” There’s an inflection on the last word, a coy suggestion.
My mind is whirling, going through every possibility of what that might have looked like, especially knowing Nick only has one bed, but I keep my expression blank, not giving an inch.
“Thanks,” I say, voice detached. “I’ll give it to Braxton when I see him next.”
She looks almost disappointed by my lack of reaction, but that’s not my problem. Paisley thinks she’s got a read on me because she’s treating me like I’m her,a girl who has no issue going after a taken man.
But still, she’s not the problem.
Braxton is.
I wish I were more surprised. I wish I hadn’t seen this coming, but the last three days have been a slow burn of denial and acceptance, knowing he’s crossed a line that he can’t come back from.
He hasn’t just walked over my boundary—one I clearly laid out for him in a way he couldn’t misunderstand. No, he trampled on it and then lied to my face.
And worse…He did it smelling of her.
Even now, in a shop full of fragrant flowers, her perfume is tickling my nose—a scent that’s already far too familiar. Paisley stands there, silent, smug, and knowing, but I’m not fighting her for someone who didn’t choose me.
She’s welcome to him.
“Okay,” she says slowly, fidgeting with her bag strap. “I’d better go. I woke up late—”
“Because of all the drinking,” I supply smoothly. “With my boyfriend and your brother.”
Paisley’s expression tightens with displeasure, like my words have left a sour taste in her mouth. She’s not sure what to make of me, but I no longer have the time for her, or this—whatever the fuck it is.
Bridget appears, almost like she could hear the SOS my brain was putting out. She takes the two of us in with a glance, her eyes hardening.
“Gracie, I need your help with something,” she says.
“I can take over here.” She doesn’t even hesitate, coming up to my side and nudging me out of the way with her hip.
I touch her arm—a silent gesture of thanks—and walk away, almost expecting Paisley to call me back.
Instead, I hear Bridget say shortly, “Can I help you? Or were you leaving?”
I shut the door before I can hear the response, slumping down onto a pile of plastic crates stacked next to the table where we craft our bouquets and arrangements. The room is colder than the front, and I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself, feeling oddly numb.
Bridget walks in a few minutes later, her eyes concerned. “She’s gone.” She comes to crouch down in front of me, her eyes wide at whatever she sees on my face. “Are you okay?”
I nod, shake my head, and then shrug. To my utter disgust, my eyes fill with water, overflowing before I have a chance to blink them away. “Fuck,” I breathe.
“What did she say?” Bridget asks quietly.
“It’s not her, though,” I say, my voice cracking.
“I’ve spent three days convincing myself that I was wrong.
That it was all in my head.” A brittle laugh.
“No, I’ve spent weeks convincing myself of that.
” I swallow. “I’ve been gaslighting myself into believing a lie, and now the truth has come home to roost.”
“Stupid saying,” Bridget mutters, sinking down until her butt touches her heels. She places her hands on my knees, squeezing. “Talk me through it, girl.”
She already knows the details of my conversation with Braxton about transparency, so I skip straight to the feminine scent lingering on his jacket when I took his crew pizza. “I thought it was Theo,” I mutter. “I figured she borrowed his jacket or hugged him…I don’t know.”
“But now you do,” Bridget surmises. “Because of Paisley’s perfume today?”
I scrunch my face up, desperately trying to choke my emotions back. “No.” My heart picks up, and I press a hand to my chest, feeling it thump erratically under my hand, willing it to calm. Everything in my head feels fuzzy and far away, and I blink, trying to bring Bridget back into focus.
“Gracie?” she murmurs, sounding like she’s coming from underwater.
I suck air into my struggling lungs. “I made this conscious decision to trust him because what if he just saw her in passing and genuinely forgot? He promised me honesty.”
“I get it,” Bridget whispers, reaching up to brush the streaks of tears off my cheeks, but they’re immediately replaced with fresh ones. “Don’t blame yourself, Gracie. Whatever comes next, you had every reason to trust him.”
“Did I?” A choked sob escapes. “After what I heard at Thanksgiving, what I saw? How can I be surprised by where we are now?”
Her own eyes are filling now, but she firms her expression. “Get it out,” she orders gruffly. “Finish it.”
I nod weakly. “A week went by, and it was fine. Not fine, but we were okay, I guess. There was this distance between us, like he’d put up a shield I couldn’t break through.
But he told me there was this bad car crash, and the chief had told him to go talk to a counselor.
So, I figured it was just that, you know?
I tried to be there for him, but”—I shake my head—“he wouldn’t let me. ”
I can’t look at her for the rest of it, my eyes pinching shut and my fingers clenching into fists on my lap, my nails digging viciously into my palms, the pain grounding me in a way nothing else can.
“He went to his appointment last Wednesday,” I whisper, eyelids flickering, but I stubbornly keep them shut. “I asked if he wanted me to meet him there, but he said no. He told me he would be back in time for dinner at my place.”
“But he wasn’t,” Bridget guesses, and I shake my head.
“I called all afternoon, but every single one went straight to voicemail. I sent messages, each one undelivered. I tried not to worry, because therapy…” I lift a shoulder, not wanting to talk about my own experiences with therapy and how hard that shit is.
It doesn’t fix anything, not unless you work at it, and I knew one session wasn’t a cure-all for whatever is hurting Braxton.
“I figured I’d give him space. That we could talk when he got back. ”
“I’m not going to like this…” Bridget mutters.
“He crawled into my bed after midnight,” I say roughly, finally looking at her.
“He crawled into my bed and wrapped his arms around me, and he smelled like her.” I point a shaking hand to the front of the store.
“The same perfume that was on the jacket, and the same one she’s wearing today.
Bridget—” My face crumples, and the rest of my body follows, folding in on itself.
She surges up, wrapping her arms around me tightly enough that I can’t breathe and tightly enough that it feels like she’s somehow holding all my pieces together, refusing to let me fall apart.
“It’s okay,” she murmurs into my hair. “It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay.”
But we both know it’s not.
Two hours later, I still feel like I’m holding on by a mere thread, every second a conscious effort of keeping my feelings locked down and buried. Bridget and I are closing the shop, my movements disjointed as I work on autopilot, grateful that Maryann decided to shut early for Christmas Eve.
Just as we finish up, Bridget looks over at me, her expression concerned. “You’re coming back to mine,” she decides firmly. “We’re going to watch Christmas movies and turn in early.”
“I just want to be alone,” I protest weakly.
Bridget shakes her head. “The last thing you need is to be alone.” She refuses to take no for an answer, and a few minutes later, we’re hustling out to her car, leaving mine in the parking lot.
I watch as she fiddles with the heater, turning it on full blast before sitting back and breathing on her hands, waiting for the engine to warm up.
She side-eyes me. “How’re you doing?” I open my mouth to tell her I’m fine, but she adds, “And no bullshit.”
I sit back, giving her as much honesty as I feel able to.
“I feel numb, honestly. Like my veins are filled with ice.” My eyes go to the windshield, staring blindly outside.
“I just keep wondering how I turned into this girl. The one who lets a guy treat her like shit so she doesn’t lose him.
” I huff out a laugh, but there’s no humor in it.
“Girls like me don’t get happy endings, and I never should have—” My chin starts quivering again, and I sink my teeth into my bottom lip.
“Stop that!” Bridget snaps, reaching over to grab my forearm and shaking me.
“You are not the woe-is-me girl, and this…You won’t let him turn you into that.
None of this is your fault. Trusting him does not make you wrong or stupid or whatever.
Him abusing that trust? That makes him an asshole, and that’s it.
” She goes still, her eyes flaring. “Paisley came here to return his phone,” she realizes slowly.
“Did she just want to tell you that she was with him last night?”
“Yes.” I exhale sharply. “With Nick…or not. Who knows?”
Bridget slams a hand against the steering wheel. “That utter fucking cunt.” A wet snort escapes me, and she glares at me. “I don’t care that we don’t blame the women. This is just—”
“Cunt behavior?” I ask wryly, and she nods vigorously. But as quickly as the moment lightens, it goes dark again. “Do you think they slept together last night?” The words taste acrid on my tongue, but the question is plaguing me, wondering how far it went.
I think about how his eyes have been dancing away from mine, like he can’t bear to hold my stare for too long, or I will see the truth.
“I don’t know, Gracie.” Bridget’s eyes are sympathetic, and I can’t stand it. I look away, tucking my shaking hands under my thighs. After a moment, she sighs, putting the car into gear and pointing us toward her home. “I wasn’t kidding about you coming home with me.”
“Okay,” I whisper, grateful to have her. The idea of going back to my apartment alone is enough to have bile surging into my throat. “What do I do now? It’s Christmas tomorrow. I’m supposed to go to his family’s house and pretend everything is normal.”
She doesn’t say anything for the longest time. “You could just stay with me.”
I open my mouth to accept, but then shake my head. “Is it stupid to want to go? Raewyn and Stephen…They gave me the first Christmas that ever made me feel like I was part of a family.”
Bridget thumps her head against the headrest. “Gracie, you’re killing me right now.” She eases to a stop at an intersection, her eyes watery as she looks over at me. “I don’t like crying, so if you could stop, that would be great.”
My smile is wavering. “I’ll try.”
Her shoulders lift with her next breath, and then the car is moving forward again. “You want one last taste? Of Christmas, I mean.”
I scrunch my brows together. “That’s one way to put it, I guess. I don’t know if that’s dumb, but I could also…” Pain flares in my chest, making my breath hitch. “I could talk to Braxton there. Neutral ground. I don’t…I can’t go to his apartment, and I don’t want him at mine.”
“Don’t do it,” Bridget urges. “I’ve got two girlfriends driving over from Ashland to have a ‘Friendmas’ with me, and you have an open invitation. You don’t need to do this to yourself, Gracie. You just don’t, especially on Christmas.”
My teeth chatter together, torn, knowing she’s right, but… “It’s my way of pretending for one more day, and then—”
“Gracie…”
“And then I’ll say goodbye.”
Bridget mutters a curse. “Oh, we’re getting so drunk tonight.” She turns a corner and sits forward with a frown. “Isn’t that…?”
“What?” She points, and I follow her finger, realizing we’re on Oak Street. The house—my house—is sitting there, like usual, but the For Sale sign has a big SOLD sticker plastered over it. “I don’t understand,” I say numbly. “He hasn’t said a word.”
Bridget taps her fingers against the steering wheel. “Do you think he was…I don’t know…saving it as a surprise? For tomorrow?”
I blink at her. “‘Merry Christmas, I cheated on you. Here, have a house’?” Confusion is battering at my grief and pain, leaving me at a loss as to what I should be feeling.
I shake it off. “I can’t think about it right now,” I mutter.
“It doesn’t matter anyway, right? That house was supposed to be ours, so it’s already gone anyway. ”
“Gracie—”
“I could really use that drink right about now,” I interrupt, giving her a tight smile. She watches me for a beat before dropping her chin.
“You got it.”