Chapter 16: Never The Best: Chapter 16

There was a skip in my step. No, seriously—I’d never skipped before in my life, but there it was. For a woman who had always felt heavy, no matter what the scale said, this was a banner day.

I’d talked to my therapist the day after I returned from Newport Beach, and he’d been happy to hear that I’d not forgiven or forgotten what happened with Rhett but that I had made my peace.

“Why the hell didn’t I do this before?” I wondered, annoyed with myself for holding my bitterness and anger, my fear so close to me that it had almost killed me.

“You weren’t ready,” my therapist informed me. “You’d never have believed his sincerity earlier.”

“Am I a fool to believe it now?”

“That’s fear, Pearl.”

“Yeah, tell me about it; I feel it all the fucking time.”

“Okay, say he’s pretending to be sorry. What’s the worst thing that could happen?”

I pondered that question for a while. He and I often did an exercise in which we unraveled a situation to the worst possible result, and then I had to find my way back to the plausible present.

“He’d find a way to make everyone laugh at me, ridicule me.”

“Okay. How would that look like?”

I licked my lips, humiliation coursing through me as memories of the past assaulted me.

“He’d tell everyone that I was still interested in him, but he isn’t interested in me because I’m fat and ugly—and he’s engaged. He’d tell everyone that I’m a horny slut who wanted to fuck him, even though he found me disgusting.”

It wasn’t until I felt my cheeks become wet that I realized I was crying.

My therapist gave me a somber look from across my computer screen. “What brought up those tears for you?”

“I remembered how I felt after all that happened.” I felt weighed down suddenly, like I was, once again, a gazillion pounds. “I was feeling fine, but now…I….”

“Pearl, did you throw yourself at him?”

I shook my head.

“Did he indicate in any way at all that he’d make fun of you?”

I shook my head again.

“What is the likelihood of this scenario ever happening?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.” I felt pathetic.

“Pearl, let’s say all of Savannah laughs at you. Do you really care what they think?”

“I do care.” My voice was small, I felt small.

“Do you care what your mother thinks?”

I paused. “No.” I really didn’t.

“Cash?”

I snorted.

“Would Nina Davenport believe these rumors?”

“No. And even if she did, it wouldn’t change how she felt about me. She’d continue to mentor me, respect me.” I was confident of this.

“Aunt Hattie?”

I smiled. “She’d tell me I could do better than her nephew.”

“So, the people you respect would not let you down.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

Once I internalized that, I started to feel a lot better. But what also helped was Rhett texting me. They were innocuous messages similar to ones I received from Luna, Aurora, and even Aunt Hattie. He and I were friends, and sure, I had the hots for him, but he didn’t know that. In any case, he was engaged, so it wasn’t like we’d ever go there.

Why the hell was he with Josie? A man who appreciated Paul Auster and hated Pip would not be happy with someone like her.

Stop it, Pearl. You don’t want to be one of those people who wants the lives of others.

“Someone looks like they either got up on the right side of the bed or from the right bed,” Nova, our office manager, grinned appreciatively when she saw me stroll into work.

My clothing choices tended to go from black to gray to beige. But when I woke up that morning, fueled by a good conversation with my therapist and a funny “good morning” meme from Rhett, I hadn’t wanted to slip into my usual boring suits. Instead, I put on a peach-colored dress.

Yep!

A bright peach sheath dress with a matching suit jacket. I wore my bumblebee necklace and daisy earrings to go with it.

Owning the name Bumblebee had been an idea I’d gotten from reading a book where a woman who’d been bullied did the same. I felt empowered when I created my Tinder account and started to expel the old feelings I experienced when I thought about the cruel way I was treated.

“I always am in the right bed: mine,” I scoffed with good humor.

I felt remarkably light, as if telling Rhett the ugly truths had somehow helped me shed them. I had told the man who’d hurt me how much he’d fucked up my life, and he’d been penitent; he’d validated what I felt and what happened to me—he hadn’t made fun of me or made excuses, as I feared he would.

The weight I’d been carrying for so long was not exactly gone, but it had shifted, so it wasn’t pressing down on me quite so heavily anymore.

As I walked to my office, the usual clatter of keyboards and muted phone calls were like background music. When I passed through the finance department, people gave me curious looks, most probably because of how I was dressed. Usually, I avoided eye contact, keeping my head straight and my steps brisk. Today, I smiled back and cheerfully said good morning. It was strange how small things like that felt so monumental.

“Good morning, Pearl,” Layla called as I passed her office door, waving me in.

“It’s absolutely a good morning.” I stepped inside.

Layla set her phone down on her desk and leaned casually against the edge, crossing her arms as she studied me with a raised eyebrow. “Alright,” she teased, her lips curving into a sly smile, “you’ve either had a life-changing epiphany or someone spiked your coffee with something strong. Spill it—what’s going on?”

“What? Can’t a girl wear some color without everyone wondering what’s going on?”

“Absolutely not,” Layla stated.

I chuckled, shaking my head. “I feel good today.”

“Really?” She raised an eyebrow. “Usually, you’re rushing to start up a call or a meeting, and what you say is you’re busy, never good. Should we alert the press?”

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my lips. “I don’t know what to tell you, Layla.”

She gave me a knowing look. “You don’t have to tell me a thing, Pearl. It’s good to see you so bright and cheerful.”

I nodded, my fingers brushing over my dress. “I am, however, still as busy as they come.”

“Of course, you are.” Layla smirked. “Well, whatever it is that’s happening, keep it up. You’ve got a glow about you, Pearl. Don’t let anyone dim it.”

A glow? I didn’t know if I believed that, but as I sat down at my desk and opened my email, my phone buzzed with a text, and I couldn’t help but smile when I saw Rhett’s name on the screen.

Rhett: Okay, I’ll admit it. Steinbeck’s description of the Dust Bowl is…kind of brilliant.

Me: Kind of brilliant? The way he makes you feel the suffocation is completely brilliant!

Rhett: Fine, completely brilliant, but still depressing as hell.

Me: True, but also profound and life-changing.

Rhett: Want to place bets on how many chapters it’ll take before I’m completely emotionally wrecked?

Me: Three. Tops.

Rhett: If you lose, I pick the next book we read together.

Me: Deal! P.S. I started last night and my heart hurts already. I forgot how this book wrecked me in the best ways possible.

Rhett: I’m going to hang in there and show you I’m made of sterner stuff.

I set my phone down, still smiling as I turned to my spreadsheets. Maybe Layla was right. Perhaps I did have a glow about me.

By the end of the day, I was buzzing with energy. Halfway home, an idea hit me: I should cook dinner tonight.

It was such a simple thought, but it stopped me in my tracks. Cooking had never been my thing. Food, for so many years, had been nothing but an enemy, a constant battlefield. But lately, the idea of food—real food, prepared with care—felt palatable.

I stopped at the market and bought some fresh vegetables, chicken, a loaf of crusty bread, and a bottle of Chardonnay.

When I got back to the cottage, I called Aunt Hattie.

“Dinner?” she repeated, her tone laced with mock suspicion. “You’re cooking?”

Aunt Hattie and I often ate together, usually at her place. She had a cook, and she knew I wasn’t proficient in the kitchen, so I understood that she was surprised and suspicious.

“Yes, Aunt Hattie,” I said with a laugh. “I promise it’ll be edible.” Fingers crossed!

“Alright, alright,” she asserted. “What time should I be there?”

“Seven, and it’s nothing fancy,” I warned her, suddenly feeling chagrined that I’d fuck up the meal, as I hadn’t cooked in a long while.

“Darlin’, even if you made grilled cheese, it’d be fancy ‘cause you made it.”

I changed into shorts and a tank top, put on Brazilian jazz, and, as I hummed to “Girl from Ipanema,” I put together a meal thanks to Jamie Oliver’s step-by-step video instructions.

By the time Aunt Hattie arrived, my cottage smelled like garlic and thyme. The chicken, along with carrots, potatoes, and Brussels sprouts, was roasting in the oven, and the blanched green beans were ready to sauté as soon as I set the chicken to rest.

“Oh my,” Hattie announced as she stepped in with a bottle of Malbec and she saw I’d set the table with simple white plates, silverware, and white cloth napkins.

“Pearl Beaumont.” Hattie surveyed the scene. “I didn’t think I’d live to see the day.”

“Very funny.” I waved her toward the table.

We sat down, and for the first time in forever, I felt relaxed as I ate.

The chicken was a little overdone, and the green beans weren’t as crisp as I’d hoped, but Hattie didn’t seem to mind. She sipped her wine, laughing as we talked about everything and nothing.

“What brought this about, darlin’?” Hattie asked when I was clearing the plates.

“I feel good,” I told her, and then, because she deserved to know why, I added, “Rhett and I talked in Newport Beach.”

Aunt Hattie cocked an eyebrow.

I grinned and told her everything except how I was attracted to Rhett. Partly, because he was engaged, and partly because it made me feel like a fool to be even remotely interested in a man who had done to me what Rhett had, albeit, back then, he hadn’t been a man but a boy.

“He finally got his head out of his ass,” Hattie mused. “I’m very pleased to hear that. Now, if only he’d get rid of Josie, he could finally be happy.”

“You don’t think he’s happy with Josie?” It seemed like the proper follow-up question, so I asked it, not because I wanted to know.

Right!

“I told you she trapped him by pretending to get knocked up.”

“Aunt Hattie, no one does that anymore,” I protested as I closed the dishwasher. “Not even Josie.”

She snorted.

I returned to my seat next to her at the dining table.

My cottage had an open-plan kitchen-dining-living space, and two bedrooms—one of which I’d converted into an office. It also had a gorgeous porch with a path to the pond. The porch was surrounded by Aunt Hattie’s beautiful garden, which included magnolia, live oak, and fruit trees, as well as manicured rows of flowers. I loved living here, and having Aunt Hattie so close was a bonus.

“Rhett is so busy being a Vanderbilt that he’s forgotten to just be himself. Actually, I don’t think he even knows who he is. But I know he’s trying to find out. The fact that he opened up to you and apologized makes me proud.” Aunt Hattie took my hand in hers. “And I’m proud of you for moving past the past, my darlin’, ‘cause you deserve all the happiness this world has to offer.”

That night, as I brushed my teeth, I felt like I climbed Mount Everest in my shorts. I’d made a meal. I’d shared it. I hadn’t thought once about how much food was on my plate or how much I was eating. And the best part? I enjoyed all of it.

By the time I climbed into bed, I was pleasantly tired.

I was just about to turn off my lamp when my phone buzzed with a call on the nightstand. I picked it up, and Rhett’s name flashed on the screen.

I answered immediately. “Hey.”

“Hey,” he said, his voice low and warm. “I hope I’m not calling too late.”

“No, it’s fine.” I settled back against my pillows. “What’s up besides you and me, that is?”

Was Josie not with him? I knew from the grapevine that they weren’t living together. Josie was still at her parents’ place, since she’d sold her place after Rhett proposed to her. The rumor was that she’d been ready to move into his house, but he’d told her he wanted to wait until they were married. The other rumor was that Josie wanted the whole house overhauled, renovated, and updated, which was why she hadn’t moved in.

“I just finished chapter three.” I could hear the faint smile in his voice. “You were right. I’m wrecked.”

I giggled. “I warned you. Steinbeck doesn’t hold back.”

“So, you’re going to have to pick the next book for us to read when we’re done with The Grapes of Wrath.”

Given how I felt about him, I shouldn’t have encouraged this friendship. But…there was nothing wrong with being friends with an engaged man—as long as we kept it platonic, right?

“Have you read Catch-22?”

“Major Major?”

“You have!”

“A long time ago. I don’t mind rereading it if you don’t. I’ve forgotten so much.”

“How could you forget Doc Daneeka telling Yossarian that there was a catch?” I teased.

“Words to the effect,” he stopped as if recollecting. “If you’re sane enough to not want to fly, you must. If you’re crazy enough to want to, you can’t.”

“Ah, so you do remember.”

“You know what I really remember? How reading the book made me feel. I was laughing a lot at the beginning, but then I started to realize how messed up everything was. By the end, it hit me—none of it was funny. Not Nately’s whore, not Yossarian standing in the lineup naked—none of it.”

I was surprised that he not only had read Catch-22 but he had also reflected upon it. “I think it’ll be good to read that book with you.”

Stop this, Pearl. You’re falling for this guy again. Nothing good is going to come out of it.

For a while, we talked about Joseph Heller’s only great book—Rhett’s thoughts on the characters, and my memories of reading it for the first time. But the conversation drifted, as it always seemed to with Rhett, to other things.

He told me about a client he’d met that day, someone who reminded him of one of Steinbeck’s Joads, and I told him about dinner with Aunt Hattie.

“What did you make?” He didn’t make a big deal out of me cooking, just asked a natural question.

I told him, and added, “It wasn’t anything fancy, but it felt…good.”

“It sounds good,” he said, his voice soft.

For a moment, there was silence, the kind that felt heavy with things unsaid.

“Pearl,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant. “I…I’m happy we’re talking again. That we’re friends.”

“Me too,” I said, my chest tightening.

But as the call ended and I set the phone down, I couldn’t ignore the way my heart ached. Because no matter how much I tried to tell myself we were just friends, the truth was I wanted more.

And he wasn’t mine to want.