Into You Series: The Complete Collection

7. Grace

CHAPTER 7

GRACE

I f you invite me to spend a Saturday night out in bars with booze and dancing, I’ll say, “Sure, I guess I can make it.” But tell me I can instead come home and have hot tea with my old dog, and I’ll be zooming out of the parking lot before you finish your sentence.

I spent my Saturday doing exactly that: Cuddling with Hank, ordering too much food, and flipping between old episodes of Sex and the City and 21 Jump Street. (A young Johnny Depp? Swoon.) It might make lazy Saturdays a bit lazier than they need to be when I switch from show to show, but I’m willing to make sacrifices.

By Sunday night, I’ve finished one season of each show, devoured two large pizzas, and burned off all the calories by going on occasional walks with Hank. At least, I like to think so.

Shush, it helps me sleep at night.

Okay, so sure, I switch to grapes because I need some type of healthy balance after the junk food. I’m still popping them in my mouth and imagining I’m instead being fed by some Greek god next to a pool when my phone rings.

“Hey Ramona.”

“Did you catch up on The Bachelor yet?” she asks.

“What are you talking about? You know I don’t watch that.”

There’s a beat of silence between us. “Wait, is this Grace?”

“Yeah,” I laugh.

“Dang. I meant to call Corinne. It’s The Bachelor night.”

This isn’t surprising. Ramona—ever the fast-paced sort of girl—commonly calls the wrong person when she’s in a rush to gossip. I wish I could say this is the first time it’s happened with The Bachelor, but I’d be lying. I should probably watch it with her and Corinne from the amount of times I’ve been mistaken for my cousin.

“Well, while I have ya, how are you settling in, girl?” she asks.

“I haven’t been through The Bachelor, but I’ve demolished some Sex & the City this weekend.”

“Big and Carrie’s love is to die for,” she swoons.

“Too complicated.” I scrunch my nose. “Give me Charlotte and Harry’s any day. He’s goofy, and you can tell it’s true love through and through.”

Another moment of silence and Ramona clears her throat. “How are you, really? Without Joe, I mean. You haven’t lived alone in two years.”

My stomach sinks.

“Just fine,” I lie. I wrap a string from my hole-riddled lounging tee around my finger. “I do miss that house, though.”

She laughs. “I believe it.”

Our house was a pet project for both of us, even though Joe was always a little less interested and rarely helped with the renovations. I made the big decisions.

It started as a two-story basic house, but I added so much character to it. In the end, it could have rivaled the pad of a young celebrity influencer with too much money to spend.

I covered the kitchen in chalkboard paint, tore out the walls on the top-most floor so that the master bedroom became a loft overlooking the den, and even transformed the cupboard under the stairs into a bedroom for Hank.

Joe and I lived in it for a stellar two years and then a not-so-great four months that involved no sex at all. Nothing. Nada. Not even a I’m-frustrated-we-haven’t-had-sex-so-let’s-get-it-on kind of deal. Just barren ground. There could have been tumbleweed going through that bedroom. But sometimes, and only sometimes, he would roll over in our pallet-style bed and plant a small kiss on my forehead. The jerk gave me hope.

“Do you think you miss the house or the man?” Ramona asks.

“Don’t use your psychologist voodoo on me, ma’am.”

Whenever Ramona’s day job bleeds over to our conversations, it’s never good. Maybe it’s because she’s right most of the time.

“I’m just curious!” she says.

I exhale. I shouldn’t miss Joe. But I’ve always had a hard time with breakups. When your parents have a marriage as epic and beautiful as the one my parents had, you tend to romanticize even the bad relationships.

Joe was supposed to be it for me. All those little kisses, the monthly flower deliveries, and even the grand vacations to Cabo or Scotland kept driving me toward him. He kept me imagining our forever. I should have known it would fail when he mentioned he didn’t see us getting married—or that he didn’t even believe in the concept.

“Whatever, I know I’m too good for him,” I say. “He isn’t worth my time. I am a new person. I’m a designer. I go to work events and stuff. I went to my first Beer Friday yesterday. It was a great time.”

Joe and I used to go to his work events too, but that’s beside the point.

I am experiencing growth!

“That’s great!” Ramona’s voice raises a pitch as if she’s trying to lighten the mood again and not make me concentrate on Joe. “Did you see Ian?”

Sure, Ramona’s brother was there. But so was Cameron. Gorgeous, sarcastic, demanding Cameron.

I’ve really got to stop thinking of him that way.

“Yeah, he seems like he’s doing good,” I say.

“I would know if he ever called! Geez, we should all get together again soon,” she whines.

“Would it be weird without Joe?” I ask.

“Ian never really liked the guy anyway,” she scoffs. “Remember that time he refused to play Monopoly? Who refuses Monopoly?”

“Most of the world. It’s like, a two-hour game, Ray.”

“Stop defending him.”

“I’m not!” I say. Hank peers up at me from his bed. If he could raise an eyebrow in disbelief, he would. “I’m over him, I swear.”

“If you’re over him, why are we still talking about him?” she asks.

“Because I’m totally fine. Hank and I are absolutely loving our weekend alone. It’s fine. Everything is fine.”

“Okay, weirdo. Well, let’s plan a date together, okay? I gotta go. The Bachelor is almost back from commercial, and I have your cousin to vent to!”

“Go for it.”

Once she hangs up, I toss my phone on the floor and lay back on the couch. Ramona left me to simmer. I don’t like simmering.

Joe, Joe, and more Joe.

I don’t need memories of our stupid relationship and our stupid house. I wonder what he’ll do with it. A lot of my money went into the reconstruction, and I should probably ask him how we’re going to split the sale.

We didn’t discuss what would happen to it, but I guess a conversation is hard to have when I’m so adamantly ignoring him.

Should I call him?

No. Definitely not. Stop, Grace.

My phone rings again.

Good Lord, did Ramona misdial Corinne’s number again?

I pat the floor beside me until I find it and answer without looking.

“Ramona, it’s still Grace,” I say.

A much deeper voice responds, and my body breaks into chills.

“Hey, it’s Joe.”

“Oh, damn it,” I blurt out.

He chuckles. “I guess that explains why you answered.”

“What do you want?” I ask. My neck hair stands on end, and I feel cold. I reach for the bundle of blankets I’ve accumulated at the other side of the couch and tug them over me.

“Just calling to talk,” he says. His fun-loving tone makes me pull the sheets up to my chin. His charm stretches even over the phone. Not surprising given that he charmed other women over the phone while we were dating. “We should get dinner.”

“I don’t want to.” I close my eyes tight and cringe. I sound like a child.

“We should talk about the house.”

He’s a mind reader, I swear.

“Do we?” I ask. “Talk to me again when you’re not a cheater.”

“Come on, Gracie.” The nickname makes me fist the sheets tighter, and I hang up without saying any pleasantries. He doesn’t deserve them. Joe knows that nickname belonged to my Dad, and he used it as a weapon against me. Strike number fifty thousand, Joe.

I roll over to face the back of the couch, shoving my face between the cushions. Hank’s collar jingles as he jumps up. The cushions depress under his paws from one side of the couch to the other until he reaches me and places his head on my hip.

“I am over Joe,” I mumble, but words feel bitter and untrue.

Monday rolls around and my computer at work is just as I left it. The only exception being a new calendar event from Mr. Cameron Kaufman slated for today at 9:00 a.m.

I make my way to Cameron’s office about five minutes before our meeting, hoping to re-establish my first impression, but instead I see him, head down on his desk. I knock on the door to announce my presence.

“Cameron?” I ask. I still only see the top of his head. I wonder if I misread the calendar event. Is he sleeping? “Are we still set for our meeting at nine?”

Cameron’s head shoots up and a groan like a bear coming out of hibernation escapes his throat. His hair is wild as he blinks himself awake. He quickly runs his fingers through the locks, but it doesn’t fix much. It instead gives him the look of a punk rocker just coming off stage from a concert. Weirdly enough, this is still just as attractive as his normal hairdo.

Then I notice the left side of his face is surrounded by purple, blue, and hints of green. It’s bruised. Bad.

Oh, so I guess he can look unattractive.

“Jesus!” I let out, covering my mouth and dropping my papers. “What happened to you?”

He moans, lowering his head to the desk again and using his free hand to wave me in.

“Come in and shut the door,” he grumbles.

I close it behind me and walk over to his couch, taking my seat slow so as not to disturb the beast.

“Bad weekend?” I ask. “God, you look awful .”

He lifts his head. His face is filled with annoyance.

“What did I say about that mouth on Friday?” he says.

“I’m not the one with the bruise, sir ,” I respond, crossing my arms. “I mean, geez, are you okay?”

“Let’s not talk about it,” he says, as if I didn’t just tell him he’s a sitting piece of trash. Whoops.

“Not talk about what?” I say, trying to redeem any sense of professionalism I lost in that snotty comment.

He smirks at me, and his dimples do the job they were born to do by slaying my soul.

“Ha-ha,” he monotones.

Is it bad his half-beaten face—combined with a complete lack of interest in what I’m saying—is totally turning me on? This is exactly how I ended up with Joe, and I already know how that turned out.

What the heck is wrong with me?

Cameron opens his top drawer, sifts through some papers, and pulls out a packet. He slides to the edge of his desk. I stand up, take it, and sit back down.

“Anyway, listen up, we have a huge project coming up,” he says. “I’ll be honest with you, as the new designer you’ll be doing a lot of the grunt work, but it’ll help you in the long run.”

“Grunt work?”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“Yes, when I was in your position, these kinds of projects are the best things to happen to a new hire. You’re lucky you’re jumping in when you are.”

He briefs me on the project at hand, and I’m trying to avert my attention from his bruise so I can focus on all these expectations. But this isn’t news to me. The old creative director told me similar things in the interview with the whole “work hard, play hard” mentality being their driving force for the company’s success.

“I want to know now whether this will be an issue,” he says, his eyes boring into my brain as if testing me to go against anything he just said.

I want to say I don’t want grunt work, or that I can definitely take on more responsibility.

Instead I nod.

“I’m more than prepared to dive in.”

“Perfect, any questions?”

I want to ask about his bruise. He doesn’t seem like a fighter, but what do I really know about this guy? Nothing at all.

He raises his eyebrows, waiting, and I shake my head. “No—no questions.”

“Good.”

The meeting ends unceremoniously as he gets up and opens the door for me. We pretend there is absolutely no giant, elephant-sized bruise in the room lurking between the two of us.

The door shuts behind me and all I can do is send thoughts his way.

Whatever good that does.

When I get back to my desk, I have a missed call and a voicemail from my mom who insists on getting dinner later. Not that I was going to turn down the offer, but she says she already made reservations for a place nearby, so I guess the plans are set in stone for me whether I like it or not. That’s both the best and worst thing about us Holmes women: We want something, so we go for it.

Getting food? Boom. Reservation. Want to see a movie? Pow . Tickets bought in advance. Tired of your job? Shazam . Guess we’ll start at a new company and make bad impressions with the new boss.

Sigh.

I head out right when five o’clock hits. When I arrive at the restaurant, it doesn’t take long for me to find my mother frantically waving her hand. I hear her wrist bangles knocking against each other before I see them.

In the seat across from her sits a tiny white gift bag with the handles wound and tied together in a pink ribbon, complete with tulle and lace. I wonder if she spent more on the gift or the packaging.

“Oh, Mom, you didn’t have to,” I say. “But, uh, how am I supposed to open it?”

I pick it up and give it a small but harmless shake.

“Oh, hush and come here, girlie!” She swats at me, readying her arms for a big hug, which I crumble into.

We unhook ourselves from each other and I sit across from her, taking the gift bag and placing it in my lap. I look down at the bow and frown.

No, but seriously, how do I open this?

Mom sees my pained expression and reaches across the table to take the bag from me. Around the side of the bag is a tiny clip which she unhooks, making the bow release its wrapping from the bag’s handles.

What is this sorcery?

“Thank you,” I exhale with relief.

I part the handles, sift through more pink tissue paper, and pull out a small brooch in the outline of a golden retriever. The silhouette is filled in with the same creamy color as Hank’s fur, and the edges and lined details in the dog’s coat are trimmed with gold. A smile is painted on it that is very reminiscent of Hank’s I-just-ate-your-shoe-and-I-can’t-wait-until-you-find-the-damage smile. Arched across its body are the words:

“ ‘Life is Golden’ ?” I read, laughing.

“Do you like it?” she asks, grinning from ear to ear knowing full well that she hit it out of the park this time. It’s gaudy, but it’s just my type of gaudy.

“I love it!” I say, unhooking the back and pinning it to my corded black cardigan. With the shimmer of its gold edges, the color coordinates perfectly with the canary yellow shade of my blouse underneath.

“I saw it and thought it looked exactly like Hank,” she explains. She never understands that there’s no need to have a reason for every gift. I can like it just the same without an explanation. “I figured you needed a little piece of him during the day.”

But bless her for having one.

“Thanks, Mom. I love it,” I repeat, taking the other side of my cardigan across my chest to wipe the pin clean and let it shine.

“How’s your job going?” she asks.

“Good! First week in the bag,” I say. “I actually got a new project today.”

“And how’s Hank doing?” she asks, picking up the menu in front of her and letting it cover her face. This is the move of a shameful woman. This can only mean one thing: She’s somehow about to make things awkward.

“Hank is doing well,” I answer, slow and skeptical.

She’s seconds away from asking about Joe. She knows I know she is going to ask about Joe. I know she knows I know.

“And is he missing Joe?”

So predictable.

“No,” I say. “He feels nothing for Joe.” I shove my menu up to my face as well.

“Oh, baby don’t cry!” she wails out, lowering her menu and reaching across the table to take one of my hands.

“Mom, I’m not crying!” I insist, lowering the menu and pointing at both of my eyes as if to prove zero tears have fallen from them. “See? Nope. No sadness here!”

It’s like she wants me to feel more emotion from my breakup with Joe. I do feel a lot. In fact, I feel so much emotion I sent her an onslaught of texts for the first month after. But it’s been a while, and those texts have stopped. I think she’s still in the mourning state even after I’m trying not to be.

Trying being the key word.

“He didn’t deserve you and Hank,” she huffs then mumbles, “He was supposed to give me a grandbaby, but hey that’s beside the point.”

And there it is. I know at the core of it all, Joe was the shining beacon of hope she had for a son-in-law. He was someone who could eventually provide her a grandchild that isn’t a golden retriever. I don’t blame her, really. I’m twenty-seven and according to my conservative family’s standards, I’m far behind on the game of life. It doesn’t help that I’m an only child.

“Mom, way to lessen my pain!” I say, putting down my menu with as much self-restraint as I can muster to not slam it down in anger. I’ve done so well not thinking about him. Work has been a brilliant distraction and the last thing I need is guilt. “Plus, I hate to break it to you, but kids weren’t even on the agenda. Joe didn’t want any to begin with.”

She stares at me. I could have just slapped her in the face, and I don’t think she would be as surprised as she is now.

“How dare he!” she says, slamming her menu on the table.

I shrug as if it means nothing to me.

It meant everything.

I never told my mom about Joe’s aversion to children or marriage—mostly because I didn’t want to believe it myself. Joe and I had multiple conversations about children, and we both agreed that it didn’t really matter at the end of the day. We had Hank, and that was good enough.

“He called me,” I admit.

“And what does the man want?” she hisses. Her eyes dart as she reads the menu. There’s no way she’s taking in any of her meal options.

“He wants to go to dinner.”

It’s silent for a moment then she says, “Do it.”

Huh?

“Wait, what did you just say?”

“I said you should do it. You meet up with the jerk and give him a piece of your mind. You tell him he’s made a mistake and that he’s not welcome in the Holmes household again. Not under my roof.”

“I don’t even live with you, Mom.”

“You’re my baby.”

The way she says it is sweet but also borderline threatening.

Here’s the thing: Mom is a steadfast advocate and constant quoter of the “Live, Laugh, Love” mantra. It is displayed in, at minimum, thirty different places in her house. Almost more than Bible quotes. But if we’re all being honest with ourselves, we both know she could bite the head off a snake if it side-eyed her.

And Joe is her snake right now.

“I don’t think meeting up with him would solve a thing,” I say.

“It could give closure,” she insists.

“What even is closure?” I exhale.

“It’s getting him to pay for a dinner while you tell him how … how ridiculous he is.”

If my mom allowed herself to curse, I’m sure she would have used better expletives to describe exactly what he is, and ridiculous isn’t it.

“That’s harsh,” I laugh.

“Is it?” she asks, her eyebrows cinching in the middle. “He cheated on you.”

“He downloaded a dating app and sexted other women.”

“Why are you defending him?”

“Why do I keep getting asked that?”

Admittedly, it’s a good question. But I’ve thought about the whys and what-ifs for a couple months now. I’m tired of thinking what I may have done wrong or why I’m still defending someone who was compelled to send dick pics to other women. Which, by the way, were not flattering. He took them at an angle that made his penis look like a withering hot dog on a summer day in the south. Very unappealing.

“I’m not defending him,” I say. “I just don’t think I have the heart to be that vindictive.”

“Oh, this has gotten me so worked up, I swear I’m having hot flashes,” Mom says. “Where’s the ladies’ room?”

I point to the left side of the restaurant, but she still does the dance of walking from one corner of the restaurant to the other trying to find the restrooms before disappearing into the hallway.

My phone buzzes and speak of the devil …

Joe: We at least need to discuss splitting the house.

I hesitate. He sure knows a way to get me hook, line, and sinker.

If all we’re discussing is the house, that can’t be bad, right? Plus, I can handle anything he might throw at me. I’m a badass chick now. Maybe it’s the strength of my killer combat boots, or maybe it’s the power of the golden retriever pin having Hank’s old, wise dog energy flow through me, but I respond with an answer even I don’t expect.

Grace: Fine. Let’s do dinner.

Joe: Perfect. Details later. :)

My heart sinks and I know I shouldn’t have agreed. But it’s just about the house. That’s all. It won’t be some fancy dinner. We’ll probably go to some quickie place like McDonald’s, meet for twenty minutes, and call it a day. Then I’ll go home and bury myself in a design like I always do. No muss, no fuss.

But that smiley he just sent tells a different story. Maybe he believes he made a mistake. He’s only human.

Or maybe I’m just a sucker.