Grace
Two Weeks until the Rodeo
Every spare second of the past week has been spent reminiscing—mainly about the conversation with my dad and the subsequent dinner with Tucker.
Most of my thoughts lately have centered around Tucker in some way or another. He should be paying rent for the amount of space he’s taking up in my mind recently.
At this exact moment, with his thigh pressed up against mine where we sit on the timber floor of his living room floor, he owns every square inch of my mental capacity. It’s hard to think straight when he’s in such proximity.
“So,” I clear my throat and point to the latest draft of the run sheet, “if we have the last round of athletes finish up at 3:00 p.m., that’ll give the crew an hour and a half to turn the arena around during Carson’s sound check, and allows the guests just under three hours to refresh for the gala. ”
Tucker scratches his bread. “Three hours doesn’t seem a little excessive to you?”
I dip my head on an angle, raising a brow at him, “Tucker, think about the women for a moment, please. Hair, makeup, outfit change. That stuff doesn’t happen by miracle.”
He laughs softly. “Point taken. Three hours is perfect.”
“Right, I think that covers it.” I climb onto my knees and gather up all the printouts that’re strewn across his coffee table. As I slide them back into my handbag, I smile at Tucker. “Can you believe this time in two weeks, this’ll all just be over?”
The smile he gives me is one of earnest. “Time really does fly when you’re having fun.”
“And it’s only going to get faster from here. I’ll blink and suddenly be on a flight back to Chicago.”
The moment the words leave my mouth, it’s as though something dies inside me. There’s a sharp pain in my chest, and my hand strays up to rub the spot where it aches.
“You’re still going back?” Tucker’s voice has lost some of the enthusiasm it had just a moment ago, and his expression has fallen a little, the edges of his mouth turned down slightly.
“Well yeah,” I almost mumble.
When he doesn’t answer, I decide to push. I shouldn’t, because deep down I know where this is going, but that little self-sabotage voice in the back of my mind is screaming at me—push, push, push! “Why wouldn’t I?”
He glances at, confusion crossing his face. “I just thought maybe you might’ve had a change of heart, that’s all. You know,” he gestures to the space between us, which feels like an ocean right now with the way he’s looking at me, “because of all this.”
The brown of his eyes is almost caramel in the sunshine streaming through the living room window, but they lack their normal warmth.
Despite the self-sabotaging voice, everything else inside me is screaming to look away, to back down, to put an end to this facade, but I can’t—I’ve never been very good at listening to my gut.
With a pitiful shrug, I respond, “I still have a life I need to get back to.”
This takes Tucker by surprise. His eyebrows shoot up, threatening to join his hairline, and his mouth pulls into a thin line.
“I’m sorry, Gracie, but I just don’t accept that the last eight weeks haven’t made an ounce of difference to that.
Look me in the eye and tell me so, if you really believe that’s the case. ”
Even with the heartache it causes, I feel my defenses slide into place. Throwing my arms out to the side, something between a huff and a sigh escapes me. “What are we doing here, Tucker?”
“What do you mean, what are we doing?” he asks, genuine confusion evident in his tone. “Sure, there’s some things we need to figure out, but it seems pretty damn obvious that we’re inevitable, so why wouldn’t we try to make this work?”
Something in his eyes has my breath catching in my throat.
I think it’s hope—genuine, heartbreaking hope.
I recognize it because I’ve seen the same damn thing reflected in my own eyes whenever I’ve caught a glimpse of my reflection these past several weeks.
I don’t know how all of this crept up on me without making a sound, but it feels almost deafening now.
“My life is in Chicago,” I say simply, but the words feel anything but. They grate against the inner wall of my throat with every syllable. I fight the urge to wince at the razor-like sensation.
“Your life used to be here, Gracie, with me.” His voice is softer now, like a gentle warmth rolling over me.
His eyes have softened, too, but there’s pain there as well, just behind the surface. I can’t let it get to me, or I’ll fall apart right here on his couch. He’s saying everything my heart’s feeling, constricting in my chest like it knows I’m going against it.
I cross my arms across my chest, letting out a sigh. “That was a long time ago.” My voice has an underlying defensiveness to it, so I try to soften my delivery. I may be fighting him with everything I have, but the last thing I want is to cause him pain. “A lot has changed since then.”
“And what about these last six weeks?”
“What about them?” I don’t like where this conversation is going. It’s emotionally charged, and it’s too much to deal with right now.
“You’re telling me they haven’t changed anything for you? Because they sure as hell have for me, Gracie.”
“Ugh,” I let out a frustrated groan, throwing my arms down to my sides, “that’s not what I’m saying, but it doesn’t change the fact that this isn’t my life anymore, and it hasn’t been for a long time.”
“You’re scared, so you’re running away. And I get it.
But please, Gracie, stay.” He reaches across to place his hand on my denim clad knee, but the warmth radiating from his palm all but pushes me into standing.
If I let him touch me, it’s game over. And I’m too frustrated, too emotionally charged, to not get this off my chest.
“I am not running away from anything. I’m going back to the life I’ve made for myself. The life I was forced to make for myself—alone, if you recall—when you never showed up.”
“You don’t think I’ve spent every damn day of the last twelve years regretting what happened between us? Because fuck, Gracie, it almost tore me apart.”
“Nothing happened between us, Tucker, and that’s the point.
We didn’t fight for one another, we just let the distance consume us until we were just you and I, no longer an us.
Maybe we just weren’t meant to be, and that’s okay.
The statistics of high school sweethearts remaining together were never in our favor, anyway. ”
Eyes closed, Tucker leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and roughing his hands up his face and into his hair.
I swear he groans before lifting his head back up and opening his eyes.
“That’s okay? Gracie, there ain’t no world where us not being an us is okay. Not in this life, or any other.”
“We didn’t work, Tucker.”
“We didn’t try hard enough, Gracie.” There’s a desperate exasperation in his voice. “Relationships are tough, but we should’ve been tougher. We both had a lot of shit going on back then, and it’s nobody’s fault, but we can try now. We can make up for lost time now.”
“I wish you’d stop fighting me and listen to reason.”
“I would, if there was reason in anything you’re saying.”
“I created a new life for myself, and I got on with it, Tucker. As did you. And we were fine. We’ve spent all of these years apart and we were fine.
” Even as the last word leaves my mouth, it feels wrong—like lead in the pit of my stomach.
But I push on. “Me being back here for eight weeks doesn’t magically make us need each other. ”
He’s standing now, too, close enough that I can smell his cologne and the subtle undertone of his soap. “I spent twelve years being anything but fine.”
I take a step back, unable to think clearly with him in such close proximity. “I can’t do this right now,” I say, more to myself than Tucker, but the stiffening of his body and the wince in his expression tells me he heard it, too. Without another word, I gather my things and walk out.
Instead of going back to Dad’s, I pull into the diner. Grabbing a table near the back, I order some fries and a Diet Coke before dialing Carson’s number.
“Hey, G.” I must be on speakerphone, because she sounds several feet away.
“Hey, Cars. You busy?” I try to keep my voice steady. Carson is the sort of friend who’d drop everything for you if she got the smallest inkling she was needed, so I don’t want to steal her focus if she really is busy.
“Just reworking my latest bridge, but never too busy for you. What’s up?”
“I think Tucker and I had a fight.”
“Wow, first fight in twelve years. How’d that feel?” I can hear her pencil scratching furiously in the background.
“Are you sure I’m not interrupting?” I hate the tiny waver I hear in my voice. “My boy drama can wait until you’re actually free.”
The pencil clatters and there’s shuffling on the other end of the line. “G.” Her voice is much closer now. “Tell me how it felt.”
I sigh, leaning on my elbow and cupping my jaw. “Is it crazy to say it somehow felt awful but also good?”
“It is a little crazy, I have to admit. But it also sounds accurate.”
“Accurate how?”
“There’s a fine line between love and hate, G. Now I’m not sayin’ y’all hate one another, but more so that you never stopped loving each other.”
“Well I can’t speak for Tucker—”
“Oh honey, I can. That man looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. I have no doubt that you’re his whole world.”
“When did you become Team Tucker?”
“I’m team whatever makes you happy. But I ain’t gon’ lie to you, it’d make me real happy if Tuck was the cause of that happiness. Y’all are the real deal, if you ask me.”
I can’t help but laugh. My best friend: always supporting my happiness, but particularly when it proves her right.
“Grace, are you alright?”
I’m about to question why she’d ask that so randomly, when a tear slips down my cheek. My laughter has morphed into sobs without me realizing. I quickly dab at my wet cheek and lower lashes, praying the tears go unnoticed by anyone passing my table.