29
(Cara)
“So, with all our best wishes for an amazing forever . . . to Amie and Tayer.”
The room erupts in a low, dignified rumble. Clinking glasses, muted voices, the sound of a few guests laughing a little too loudly and a little too early in the evening for a society wedding in downtown Chicago at the opulent Palmer House. I’m sure my mother’s already managed to identify the offending parties and has set her sights on them with a laser-beam glare, ensuring they don’t ruin her perfect wedding.
Will gives the crowd a nod, then sets his glass down before taking his seat, shooting a quick look my way from over the heads of Amie and Tayer, his brows raised in what seems to be a question. I smile back, offering a low-key thumbs-up to reassure him that his best-man speech was perfect. He wipes mock sweat from his brow and grins.
When the orchestra starts in again, Amie and Tayer are off, doing what’s expected of them tonight. Smile and kiss, greet and circulate, dance, and kiss some more. Amie gives my shoulder a squeeze as she steps away.
“Promise me you’ll dance at least once tonight, Cara Jane.”
Despite all the hectic demands that came in the final weeks before the wedding, and our well-behaved but still whirlwind bachelorette glamping trip, my sister looks exactly as I knew she would today: beyond gorgeous and elegant, entirely poised while still enjoying this day for all that it should be. And she’s definitely doing justice to her custom Carolina Herrera lace trumpet gown, its delicate re-embroidered lace contrasting with the flutter of tiny organza feathers that cover the skirt, and the glimmer of rose-gold embellishments throughout. Even my Carolina dress is a dream, silk and tulle in the softest shade of blush, in a similar silhouette to Amie’s but without all the adornments that only belong on a bride.
I tip my head back to see her, cock a brow. “Can I choose the song? Because I’ve been listening to a lot of country music. And, let me tell you, that Luke Bryan knows how to pen a gem. I’m thinking the one where’s he’s asking that country girl to shake it for him would be a hit with this crowd.”
“Please do. Just so long as I know you’re having a little fun.” A tilt of her head and a smile, full of nothing but love.
“I’m sure more cake will bring a smile to my face. Go on now. Take your new husband and go be beautiful and dazzling.”
Amie mocks a curtsy for my benefit and sweeps off with Tayer at her side. I scan the room and try to determine if there’s anything I should be doing right now—some maid of honor task I’m neglecting. But we’re nearing the point in the evening when the stodgiest guests will start to check their watches and plan an escape, while the less-genteel folks will start figuring out how best to cajole someone up to their hotel room. I simply have to decide if I’m going to drink and wallow away my evening here, or go home and do so in the privacy of my condo.
PRO: Drinking alone in a hotel room sounds like a crack way to end the night. Celebratory. Going home and drinking alone sounds depressing.
CON: Hotel suites make me think of Garrett. Garrett thoughts are off-limits.
PRO: Immersion therapy is an actual thing. The opposite of avoiding would be spending the night in a hotel suite, alone, to help you forget.
CON: Heartbreak is also a thing. An actual, living, breathing, heartbreaking thing.
“You’re doing that thing, Cara.” Will plops himself in the chair next to me, abandoned when Amie left to be dazzling.
“What thing?”
“Where your lips get all twisty and pursed. The thing that means you’re pro-coning something in your head.”
A little groan escapes me, one that tapers into a snort. “I’m debating drinking. Not whether I should drink or not. Just the location of said drinking.”
“Do you need a pen? You could scratch it out on the back of this menu card.” Will casts a small piece of card stock to the tabletop in front of me, makes as if he’s patting his tuxedo for a writing utensil. I flick the card away with a laugh. Will looks across the room and clears his throat.
“I read your article.”
My body perks. One happy distraction—other than Amie’s nuptials—I’ve had from Garrett thoughts these past weeks has been the excitement of seeing my Gerald Ramsey piece in print.
“You did?”
I try to keep the anticipation out of my voice. The needy, please tell me it was good, but only if you truly mean it tone that always comes out sounding squeaky.
Will nods, then smirks. “Don’t make that face. It was really good, Cara. You know it was.” I shrug, but a stupid grin follows. “It was different from your stuff at the newspaper. I don’t know exactly how to explain it, but it was like it was more you.”
My hand drops to his forearm when I tell him thank you, the touch feeling so normal and so equally odd at the same time. Will looks up and catches the eye of a dark-haired woman sitting at a nearby table. She’s porcelain doll tiny, with high cheekbones and a sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
And she’s his date.
Vivienne. The sister of a lawyer at his firm, she’s confident and smart, only drinks chardonnay, and is short enough that even in four-inch heels, she barely meets his shoulder. She’s perfect for him—and I couldn’t care less. Observing them together, even kissing a few times during the rehearsal dinner, sent nothing into my heart or my gut. Mostly, I watched them like I would a documentary, waiting to see if I would feel something. I didn’t.
“So where is he?” Will leans back in his chair, scans the crowd.
“Who?”
He waves toward the room and my eyes follow the gesture.
“The guy. Your Colorado boy. Garrett.” I crook a questioning brow his way. Will cracks another smile. “Seriously? You think Amie and Tayer haven’t given me a full report? Come on, I know everything, Cara Jane. And it sounds like he handled Nan like a champ at dinner in Aspen, so I’m intrigued. Point him out.”
I drop my eyes and start to fidget with the bracelet on my arm, straightening it on my wrist. “He’s not here.”
“Really?” he asks, genuine surprise in his tone.
“Really.”
Will narrows his eyes my way. “Did you break up?”
I vaguely want to flop forward and face-plant into what’s left of the salted butterscotch pot de crème I snagged off the dessert table. “No. Not break up. I mean”—I sigh—“I live here. He lives there.”
“And?”
“And, what I just said. Here, there.”
“And that’s why you’re not together? The here, there thing?”
I could try to explain there’s more to it, but I don’t know if that’s true or not. And even if it is, sitting with my ex at my sister’s wedding is not the place to figure that out.
“Yes. That’s why we’re not together.”
Will furrows up his brow, assesses me, and then thrums his fingers casually on the table. And after so many years of knowing him and his black-and-white, legal-eagle mind, I know he’s about to say something pointed.
“Well, that’s a dumb-ass reason if I’ve ever heard one.”
And there it is.
After seeing Amie off amidst a shower of rice grains and good wishes, I decide that another minute in that hotel is the last thing I want. An hour later, I’m home with my pretty dress sitting in a pile on the floor next to my even prettier shoes, my hair still styled in today’s updo and a full face of photo-ready makeup, all while wearing a T-shirt I stole from Garrett’s—one I’m sure he’ll never notice is missing since the man has nothing but T-shirts. With the TV on as background noise, I set about painting my toenails a bright shade of happy yellow for no reason other than just because. Because it’s been a long day, because my beautiful baby sister got married, because I miss Garrett and I’m currently not bothering to pretend like I don’t. I feel like missing him tonight—just because.
A half-empty glass of wine is on the bedside table along with my phone and a bowl of popcorn. I swipe a final coat on my big toe and take a peek up at the TV, where a group of dating show cast-offs are trapped in “paradise” together and someone—not of the female persuasion—just started to drunk cry. Recapping the bottle of polish, I set it on the nightstand and stretch my legs out, then take a gulp of my wine. As I set the glass down and make for my popcorn, my phone rings. My eyes zero in on the display.
I look at my wineglass to make sure it isn’t empty. If it were, that might explain why I’m seeing things. Because if I’m not, then that means Garrett is calling. Before I have time to process anything fully, I realize the damn thing is about to go to voicemail. My hands latch on to the phone, poking and sliding to be sure that doesn’t happen.
“Hi.” I answer, heart beating too fast and my voice a little breathless.
“Hey. It’s Garrett.”
“I know.”
He chuckles and my skin erupts in a tickle. I’d almost forgotten how much I love that sound.
“I got your letter. And the magazine.” He clears his throat. “It’s amazing, Cara. I’m so proud of you. You made it happen.”
Quite a few people—Will tonight, others before—have said the same thing. Congratulated and encouraged me, told me they were proud and impressed, but from Garrett, the compliments are weightier. Whether it’s because he was my guide through so much of this or how much Garrett’s opinion on nearly anything matters to me, I don’t know—but his praise means everything.
“Thank you.” My mind jumps to the article, then jumps again. “Did you listen to the interview recording?”
“Yeah. You were right, Gerald sounds like good people. Reminds me a little of my dad.”
He drops it there. Doesn’t tell me if he heard what I did or if he could see himself as the kid Gerald described as clearly as I could. All the ways that I’ve always wanted to know Garrett better—convince him to tell me more—rise up like usual. And if I were still in Hotchkiss, I might push those thoughts away and resist the urge to ask for more.
But I’m not. I’m here, back where he thinks I belong, all because he let me go. So screw holding back. I don’t have anything to lose by asking—not anymore.
“And? What about the rest? The guy he’s looking for to take over his land. The guy that sounds exactly like you. Did you hear that? And if you say no, I’ll know you’re lying.”
Garrett’s side of the line goes quiet, all except the faint sound of him breathing.
“God,” he eventually sighs. “I fucking miss you, Cara. So much. I miss you and I’m in love with you, and I can’t shoot an arrow straight or stop feeling miserable—because you’re gone and it’s killing me that I lost you.”
His attempt to change the subject works. It works rather well, because my heart stops for a few beats, then restarts with a thump that feels like it might rupture a few of my ribs.
“You didn’t lose me, you let me go,” I finally clarify.
“Fuck, I never let you go, Cara. Not where it counts.”
I try to stay calm, having wanted to hear all of this so badly it’s made getting out of bed a chore some days. And I still want those words . . . I just really wanted to hear them two months ago.
“You’re not the only one who’s been miserable, Garrett. I’ve been hurting, too. Since the day I left.”
“I’m sorry. I never wanted that—for you to hurt. Ever.” He pauses to let out a heavy exhale. “I don’t have anything to offer you. Nothing. Had I asked you to stay, I would have been asking you to settle. And I’d have woken up every damn day wondering if this was the day you’d figure out how much you gave up to be with me, for us to be together. Do you get that? Why I couldn’t ask you to stay? Stay for what?”
The pieces of Garrett I’d been trying to understand since I’d met him—what made him give up so much and accept so little—all fall into place. It was simple, really.
Fear.
Garrett Strickland was running scared. He had lost too much all at once—his father, his farm, his future—so he went home to where it was safe, where life was predictable and people knew him as the easygoing guy who never wanted for more than he had, so that was all he had to be.
Figuring that out means I could answer what he just said in a few different ways. I could soothe him, say something that doesn’t take him to task for more or demand that he refuse to back down from his own goddam life. But that’s not what he needs.
“For you, Garrett. That’s what I would have stayed for. For you. For us.”
“What us?” He counters cynically. “The us where you’re living in my shitty modular, waiting for me to get home from my dead end nine-to-five at the co-op? Or the real bullshit fantasy where I’m farming and you’re trying to play farm gal but hating it? Which us is it you would have stayed for?”
I bite my tongue for the seconds it takes to keep my temper. Stubborn, shortsighted, presumptuous man. If I didn’t love him as intensely as I do, if I didn’t believe that he loved me the same way, I’d tell him to have a nice life and hang up this phone. But I believe that he’s more than this moment, when he’s underestimated what he deserves and what I’m capable of, when I still believe that we’re meant to share a life together.
A slow exhale means I’m ready, steady enough to say what I need to.
“You’re a pain in the ass, you know that? If you remember correctly, I spent a lot of time, by choice, at your shitty modular. The only problem I have with your job at the co-op is that I think you stay there because it’s a dead end. And you know I don’t want to play farm gal. I just want you to be you, and me to be me. The two of us supporting each other, living out our dreams—together.”
He starts to cut in, but I stop him. “That night in Aspen, you told me I could have everything I wanted. You can, too. And I know you’re enough for me, right now, no exceptions. But if you don’t, we won’t stand a chance. So if you think you need to be more, go figure out how to do that.”
We both take deep breaths when I pause, the sound echoing across the line and the miles between us. But I’m determined to have the last word, knowing that’s what we both need in this moment.
“And if I were you, Garrett? I’d start by taking a trip to Kansas.”