Grace
When I woke up this morning, I felt more positive.
The reunion I’d dreaded most had happened and was out of the way, however uncomfortable it was, and I’d survived it.
A moment I’d spent the better part of twelve years wondering about.
How would it feel? How would he react? Hell, how would I react?
Would he look different? Sound different?
All those questions were answered yesterday.
Although for every one question that’d been answered, two unanswered ones took their place.
Still, I figured I wouldn’t have anything too confronting to worry about today.
I was wrong. Tucker wasn’t the only person I turned my back on all those years ago—a fact that slaps me in the face as a mass of red curls bounce toward me.
She’s so much taller than I remember. Her face is hers but not, similar to the way Tucker looked like himself, but didn’t.
The realization that she’s an adult now has a pang of regret shooting through me.
We spent years daydreaming about her prom, her first boyfriend, her first kiss—there’s no doubt in my mind I missed all of that and more.
If losing Tucker was the worst pain I’ve felt, then losing his little sister was a close second.
Whitney clings to me like I might vanish if she lets go.
I can hardly blame her; it wouldn’t be the first time.
Waves of regret and shame wash over me, an uncomfortable burden weighing down on my shoulders.
I loosen my grip a smidge and Whitney reciprocates, allowing me to hold her at arm’s length, taking her in.
Most of the time it doesn’t feel like I’ve been away that long, but looking at the girl who was a younger sister figure for most of my teenage life has me feeling each of the almost twelve years that have passed.
“I can’t believe my eyes. Are you really here?” Her eyes light up with child-like wonder, a small window into the little girl I used to know.
“Yeah Whit, I-I’m here,” I respond, the words like molasses in my throat.
I don’t get another word in before Whitney wraps a hand around my wrist and drags me toward a table in the back.
It’s a wonder we don’t collide with any other patrons in the café as we zigzag through tables and those awaiting their to-go orders.
She slides into the black leather booth seating, patting the table in quick succession.
The motion draws my attention to a stack of pamphlets clutched in her grasp.
“Sit, sit! We have so much to catch up on. Please?”
The last word is added quietly, accompanied by a small wince, as though she’s suddenly unsure if I will. I pull out the chair across from her with a lump in my throat at having caused that flash of doubt in her. It’s impossible to say no to her; always was.
“What are these?” I ask, fiddling with the corner of one of the slightly crumpled flyers still within her grip.
“Oh!” she exclaims, appearing to have forgotten about their existence. She plucks one from the top of the pile and holds it out to me. “Flyers for the rodeo. I’ve been hanging them around town all morning.”
The words Beaumont Ridge Annual Rodeo are displayed boldly across the top, only outshone by the huge 75th Anniversary medallion-looking logo beneath.
The event date is two months from now. There’s a collage of rodeo images from years past strewn over the entire page as a backdrop.
I have to do a double take when I see the center picture—at first glance I assumed it was a very old picture of the late Mr. Beaumont.
Upon closer inspection though, I realize it’s Garrett Jr., Whitney’s eldest brother.
He always resembled their dad in his younger years, but it seems time has practically turned him into his twin—he’s the spitting image of the man who once held his namesake.
“Woah, is it really the seventy-fifth already? It doesn’t seem like that much time has passed since the fiftieth. Not that I remember much of it though, given I wasn’t even five-years-old.”
“I was barely two, so I remember nothing. I’ve seen pictures though, and it looked spectacular. Dad really nailed it with that one.”
The mention of her dad, so offhandedly, has my eyes snapping up to meet hers.
But where I expect to see hurt or heartbreak, there’s only adoration.
I know his death was many years ago, but considering I haven’t seen her since before then, it feels far more recent.
She continues before I find the words, oblivious to the internal debate currently plaguing me.
“This is the first anniversary that we’re organizing without him. I’m trying to stay positive about it, truly, but I can’t lie—it’s been a struggle.”
As descendants of the founding family, the Beaumonts are tasked with the responsibility of organizing the anniversary editions of the town’s rodeo.
The Council members and townspeople volunteers organize those in between, which were always a success, but the anniversary editions are something else entirely.
The 50th one, in particular, was one for the ages.
“We’re doing everything the council usually does, but the ticket sales have been abysmal to say the least. The boys are trying their best, and I’m doing all I can at work, but nothing seems to help.”
This catches me off guard. “Do you work at the rodeo grounds?”
Whitney lets out a tinkling laugh. “Oh heavens no. C’mon, Grace, you know me better than that. I mean, I love the rodeo, but it ain’t my life like it is the boys. I run the Marketing Sector at Beaumont Ridge Media.”
I almost miss the last sentence, focusing instead on the ache left by the one before it.
You know me better than that. It wasn’t meant in a negative or hurtful fashion—Whitney’s never had a nasty bone in her body—but it hits as though it was.
Because I don’t know her better than that.
I don’t know if I really know her at all anymore. And who’s to blame for that? Me.
“Wait, you run the team? At twenty-seven? Wow, Whit, I remember when you picked a career in media at the ripe age of nine. I can’t believe you’ve done it.
” Yet another reminder of everything I’ve missed.
Like most people, I have some regrets in life—choices I’ve made that I’d make differently if I could do it all over.
Sitting across from Whit, I have the painful realization that this right here is one of my biggest regrets.
I should have kept in touch with her. Or at the very least, asked Dad for more updates over the years.
He never updated me on anyone in town of his own accord; only provided them if I asked.
He’s always been far too good to me, I’m so lucky.
“It’s no hot-shot Events Executive role,” she shoots me a wink, “but I enjoy it. The ultimate goal is to freelance. Or maybe even start my own thing. I’ll see where the wind blows.”
I’m taken aback once more. As far as I know, Dad hasn’t kept people updated on my life in Chicago. Would Whitney have asked him?
“How do you know that?” My brow furrows almost painfully as I assess her, stupidly trying to figure it out rather than just letting her tell me.
“What, you think I haven’t kept tabs on you all these years?” There’s an earnest expression on her face as she reaches across the table, her slender hand clasping my own, squeezing lightly. “You were the big sister I never had, G.”
Tears swell unexpectedly, silently slipping over the edge. I rush to dab them away, but not before Whitney notices.
“Oh, Grace,” she says solemnly. “I didn’t mean to upset you. I’m sorry.”
“You always were the best person in the room, Whit.” Because she was. Because she is. “So, this rodeo,” I say, desperately wanting to change the subject, “is there anything I can do? I’m only here until Dad’s all healed, but I’d love to help you out in any way I can.” I flash her a grin.
Rather than mirroring my smile, her hand releases mine and her eyes slide up to my face, searching. “Oh crap, that’s like, what, six weeks? Eight, max? We really need to actually catch up then, if I’m losing you again so soon.”
Well, fuck.
Whitney: 2
Grace The Asshole: 0
Without a single note of malice, Whitney has succeeded in reminding me, yet again, of how I left her behind like she wasn’t also the little sister I never had. I refuse to make her feel bad for inadvertently offending me again though, so I try my best to keep the smile from slipping off my lips.
“It’s a bit of a nastier break, so they’ve said eight weeks. You’re right though, we do need to actually catch up. Not only because I need to know absolutely everything I’ve missed, but also because I want all the goss. And to hear more about these career aspirations of yours.”
“It honestly couldn’t have been planned better if we tried though, because you’ll be here for the rodeo! Not great about poor Randy, of course, but great for me because it’s brought you home, even if only for a little while.”
She’s talking a mile a minute and I’m struggling to keep up. “Whit, you’ve gotta take a breath.” I can’t hide my amusement, a laugh bubbling to the surface without permission.
“Shit, sorry.” Whitney shakes her head and sighs. “I tend to talk fast when I’m excited.”
I can’t help but smile at her admission. This isn’t news to me at all; she’s always had this tendency. “I’m glad to see some things never change.”
“Anyway, let’s get into it: the rodeo.” A tiny smirk tugs at the corner of her crimson lips, her eyes narrowing ever so slightly with the movement.
The chuckle leaves my lips before I can stop it. “I don’t think I like that look.”
Excitement oozes out of her as she sits up straight and clasps her hands together on the table.
“I have a bit of a wild plan, and I think you might just be the perfect person to help me bring it to life.” My eyebrows almost touch my hairline as they shoot up, furrowing in the center.
Despite the look I give her, she presses on.
“Okay, just hear me out—we create something of a rodeo festival of sorts.”
The cogs in my brain begin churning immediately at the mention of ‘rodeo festival’. “Whit, I think you might be onto something here—what’s your plan?”