Chapter 14: Never The Best: Chapter 14

Since we had several hours to spare before our flight out of LAX, I decided to visit downtown LA and check out a few of my old haunts. Rhett asked to come along, which excited me.

Our walk that night on the beach had cemented a bond between us, which I suspected was friendship, even though I was uncomfortable calling it that. After spending half my life thinking of him as my nemesis and cause of destruction, it was discombobulating to have him as an ally.

‘Did you like living in LA?’ Rhett asked as we walked down Broadway.

‘I lived in downtown and loved it. I don’t think I’d like living in West Hollywood or the hills or whatever,’ I replied. ‘DTLA is diverse and alive.’

‘Where did you live?’ he asked, looking around the buildings in the historic district.

‘Eighth and Grand.’ I pointed behind us. ‘If we have time, we can walk by there.’

The Last Bookstore was one of my favorite places to spend a couple of hours. Part bookstore, part art installation, part labyrinth, the massive two-story space was a shrine to books old and new. Its high ceilings were crisscrossed with exposed beams and string lights, and its walls were stacked with books in colors, sizes, and ages that seemed endless. Shelves curved into arches, creating tunnels you could walk through, while others spiraled in dizzying, artful displays.

‘This is amazing,’ Rhett confessed as I took him around the store.

The air smelled faintly of paper, ink, and time, a blend of old and new. Through the tall windows, a view of Los Angeles street life bled in. It was vibrant, chaotic, and very DTLA.

I picked up an old Raymond Chandler book and read the back cover. ‘They have so many old books here. They even have a room with antique books.”

We wandered through the aisles in silence for a while, the noise of the city fading as we stepped deeper into the store. I ran my fingers along the spines of books, some new, some so old their titles had faded.

From one of the classic book aisles, Rhett picked out a book and held it for me to see: The Grapes of Wrath. My hand froze on the spine of the book I was going to pick up, and I felt a pang deep in my chest.

‘I never read it,’ he whispered.

“I haven’t read it since,’ I admitted. “I couldn’t. I threw my copy away.”

His jaw tightened slightly, and he nodded again as if he’d expected that answer. ‘You were bringing this book to me that day.’ He sounded sad.

‘Yes.’

He took a deep breath. ‘I have nightmares about that day—over and over again.’

I raised my eyebrows in surprise. ‘Me too.’

Pain swarmed his eyes. He put a hand on my cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, Pearl. What I did was unforgivable.’

‘Yes,’ I agreed, my voice low.

My therapist had said that I didn’t have to forgive anyone or forget anything—I had to accept it happened, and that it wasn’t my fault or responsibility and, therefore, not my burden to carry.

‘Look, I know you want redemption, but I don’t want to keep remembering.’ I tried to keep the edge out of my voice but couldn’t.

He dropped his hand from my cheek. I looked down, my eyes tracing the intricate patterns of the hardwood beneath our feet.

‘I am”—he laughed mirthlessly—’sorry. It appears I keep apologizing to you.’

‘Can we move past the apologies and the past?’ I wondered, looking up at him. ‘I’d like to.’

‘Yeah?’

‘Just don’t ask me to forgive or forget.‘

‘I won’t do that,’ he promised. ‘I understand what I did to you; what it led to can never be made okay.’

‘But we can move forward, can’t we?’ I wondered if we could, but I hoped he might.

“Do you think….” His voice broke the stillness, tentative. “Do you think we could try again? Read The Grapes of Wrath together. Make peace with it.”

I lifted my head, studying him. There was no smirk, no cocky façade. Just Rhett, looking at me with guilt and hope. I thought about it. About the years I’d spent avoiding not just the book but everything it represented.

Burying issues and challenges didn’t make them disappear. I’d had enough therapy to know that. It was time to lift myself out of what happened to live in the present and in anticipation of a brighter future.

‘Yes. I’d like to catch up with the Joads. To see Ma’s strength again, to watch how she holds everyone together while⁠—’

“Hey, no spoilers,” he protested, and just like that, the mood between us was lighter.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pulled out two copies of the Steinbeck classic.

There was always a long line to get the cash register downstairs, and as we waited for our turn, Rhett revealed a little more about himself to me. ‘You’re the reason I started reading.’

‘You were reading before we met,” I objected.

“Well, yeah, but it started because of you.” He looked almost sheepish. “You always had a book with you. I remember seeing you with Moon Palace once. I wanted to ask you about it, but I didn’t want to sound like an idiot, so I looked it up. When we…you know, started to hang out, you told me Paul Auster wrote for people who liked to think in circles. So, I read him so I could understand what you meant.”

I wanted to rage at the term ‘hang out’ because what he had been doing was seducing me for a bet, but hadn’t I just decided to live in the present? So, I let it go and laughed, shaking my head. “And did you find out?”

“I didn’t get it at the time,” he admitted. “But I re-read the book later when I was a little more mature, and that’s when I got it. You were the only person I knew who made books seem cool then.”

“I wasn’t cool,” I said, smiling despite myself.

“You were to me.” He was so sincere that I had no choice but to believe him.

As we waited, we talked about the books we’d read since. Obviously, we circled Southern literature. After all, we were from Georgia. Dorothy Allison came up, and we bonded over our shared love for Bastard Out of Carolina. Then, James Baldwin, whose words had shaped so much of how I viewed the world. We talked about Another Country and how it gutted us in the best way.

Rhett paid for our books, and after, we walked toward our next stop, my favorite wine bar downtown, Garçon de Café, for lunch.

‘I’ve always believed that books burrow into your soul and stay there, shaping how we see ourselves, how we see others.’ I hitched my purse on my shoulder as we walked down Spring Street to the Spring Arcade building, where the wine bar was.

‘I agree.’ He tucked one hand into the pocket of his linen pants while the other held a paper bag with our books. I usually saw him in a suit, but he was in travel wear: pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers. He fit right into the easy SoCal sartorial culture.

The boy had become a man, and I found myself just as drawn to him now as I had been all those years ago. But what made this grown-up version of Rhett even more appealing wasn’t just how he looked—it was his self-awareness, his maturity, and the humility he’d cultivated along the way.

“I’m really glad we’re doing this, Pearl,” he told me when we stood outside the wine bar. “Not just talking openly and reading The Grapes of Wrath together…but all of it.”

I glanced at him, his face open and honest.

“Me too,” I admitted.