And, eventually, the man I found myself falling in love with.
“Where do you want to end up after this?”
His question draws me from my musings. “Well, it’s late, so maybe we can grab somethin’ small to eat at that—”
He chuckles softly. “No, I mean, after graduation.”
I consider it briefly before shrugging. “Honestly, it’s expected that I’ll put my name in the runnin’ for one of the local spots. Maybe city council.”
“Is that what you really want?”
“Yes.” No. But no one’s ever really asked me what I want to do with my life after graduation. It’s always been one huge unspoken expectation.
Can I see myself running for city council? Eventually working my way up the government’s hierarchy? Of course.
But I’d be lying if I said I was passionate about it. Not the way Grant’s passionate about following in his father’s footsteps and finding new opportunities for properties.
Grant takes a sip of his hot chocolate, his eyes trained on the rink. Even though his tone is casual, there’s a touch of something indecipherable in his expression. A nervousness, maybe?
“We’ve been edgin’ our way into the Eastern Shore, and there’s a lot of opportunity there. After I graduate in May, I could start overseein’ things…” He lets his words settle between us, the insinuation clear.
We could make a life together in Fairhope.
I falter because…well, because we’ve never really talked about the future. I mean, sure, we’ve done the joking around comments of, “When we’re married, maybe you’ll finally learn not to talk to me before coffee,” or “When we’re old and gray, you’d still better hold my hand.”
But that’s all I took them for—jokes.
He turns to me, blue eyes tender, a loving smile gracing his lips, and I realize I never once considered this. I’ve never considered a future with Grant.
I never let myself because a part of me has been holding on to the past.
To a man who’s all but completely detached himself from my life.
Now, as I sit here with the man who loves me, a man I know without a shadow of a doubt would love me forever, I let my mind play out what a life with Grant might look like.
It’s…nice. Comfortable. Safe.
I lean in and dust my lips to his. “Plannin’ to woo me, huh?” I tease.
His lips curve against mine. “I reckon I could use an old ball and chain.”
When my lips part on a half-laugh/half-protest, his hand cups my nape and his mouth captures mine in a kiss that has me melting.
A kiss that soothes most of the rough, battered edges of my heart. Most, but not all.
But it’s enough.
It has to be.
Text from Hollis
Hollis
MARCH
Amelia Island Concourse d’Elegance
Hosted by Sotheby’s
Amelia Island, Florida
I’m bone-tired. And jet-lagged. Even though the car expo in France was a great experience, and I doubt most guys my age would ever have the opportunity to go to an event at a chateau and call it work, I’m glad to be back in the States.
We’ve just finished a long-ass weekend here in Amelia Island. If I felt surrounded by wealth back home in Fairhope and at the country club there, this surpasses that on all fronts. Let’s just say when the words “Sotheby’s auction” are spoken, it’s a whole different ball game.
Uncle Johnny tried to prepare me for it, warning me I’d see some cars up for auction that’d give serious car restoration enthusiasts “massive hard-ons,” but I had no idea it would be—could be—on this grand of a scale.
Now, I’m seated at the bar in the Amelia Island Plantation Resort, nursing a beer. Now that the event is over, this place has thinned out considerably. I should be celebrating with the other guys and my uncle, who are in the billiards room playing a game of pool and partaking in friendly shit-talking, like usual. Instead, I’m here, scanning the countless liquor bottles in front of the mirrored wall of the bar, wondering if my eyes were just playing tricks on me.
It’s happened before. First, a few weeks after I got to Atlanta. Then in France. In my periphery, a woman with long blond hair, the shade of Magnolia’s, will catch my eye. It’s never her, though.
She haunts me, but I have no one to blame for it except myself. But I needed—need—this. To try to make something of myself. To try to be worthy.
To try to feel worthy.
I reach for my back pocket and withdraw the small, thin item like it’s some sort of priceless artifact. It’s fucking ridiculous since it cost me less than a dollar, but I always keep one with me. Having a packet of cherry Pop Rocks makes me feel closer to her somehow.
The guy beside me slides off his barstool after scribbling his signature on the credit card slip. Within seconds, someone new takes his place. Distractedly, I run the pad of my finger over the edge of the packet and take a sip of beer. The bartender sets a fresh pint of the pale ale on tap on the coaster in front of the guy beside me.
I wonder what Magnolia’s up to. I haven’t been able to bring myself to search for her on social media. I’ve steered clear of creating a Facebook account of my own, but I created one on Instagram. Granted, it’s more to drum up attention for Uncle Johnny’s shop because I tag his business’ Instagram page when I post. Which reminds me…
I reach for my phone that sits on the lacquered bar surface and snap a pic of my beer and the coaster. I tag Custom Motorwerks and mention the auction, and within seconds, notifications pop up with people liking it or commenting. I take another drink of beer and toy with the edge of the Pop Rocks packet.
“What’s her name?”
My head snaps around at the question from the man beside me, his Southern accent thicker than molasses. From Texas, maybe?
At first, I’m caught off guard by how physically intimidating he is. Sure, I jog and do push-ups to stay in shape since I’m lugging around heavy equipment daily and logging long hours on special restoration projects, but this guy has serious bulk. Yet the thing that stands out to me most are his sharp blue eyes. They give me the impression he doesn’t miss much.
He lifts his chin in my direction. “That expression on your face is a dead giveaway.” One edge of his mouth turns up. “Gotta be a woman.”
I shake my head and turn my focus to my beer glass, the condensation beading on the outside.
“Let me guess. Sweet Southern belle. Her daddy chased you off with a shotgun.”
I shoot him a sharp look. “You always like this with people you don’t know?”
“Yep,” a male voice answers from behind us, and a dark-haired man steps into view, sliding into the spot beside the other guy. “He won’t shut up till he bleeds you dry of your life story.”
“Not feelin’ the love, cuz.” The man’s tone says otherwise, voice dripping with amusement.
The dark-haired man meets my gaze. “I’m Jude, and this behemoth here”—he tips his head, gesturing to the blond man—“is my cousin, Kane.”
Begrudgingly, I offer my name. Good manners and all that. “Hollis Barnes.”
Something flashes in Kane’s eyes that looks like recognition. He cocks his head to the side. “You’re Johnny Barnes’ nephew, huh?” His eyes survey me.
“Yes, sir,” I answer carefully.
Kane’s lips stretch wide into a grin. “You just sir’d me.” He leans against the back of the barstool, looking over at Jude. “You reckon I’m an old man, now?”
Jude lets out a low grunt and smirks. “Now?”
Kane’s hand flies to cover the center of his chest, and he feigns hurt, his Southern accent growing thicker. “That wounds me deeply, darlin’.”
“Yet somehow you’ll move on, I’m sure,” Jude answers drily.
Kane shakes his head with a smile and turns his attention back to me. “I served under your uncle. He’s a good man.”
It takes me a moment to get on track with th
e shift in topic. My uncle Johnny had been in the Army for a while—specifically a Green Beret—until an injury took him out of the game. He’d battled with TBI, traumatic brain injury, until he finally called it quits.
“That he is.” I take a drink of beer.
“Word on the street is you’re the best guy for body work aside from him. Impressive for your age.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the compliment. My uncle doesn’t cut corners and actually takes his time with projects. His work is top-notch, and I’ve learned more than I ever expected by shadowing him.
I’ve graduated from my apprenticeship, and I’m proud to say I’ve earned my title of Auto Body Restoration Technician. I’m still on the lower ranks, but I know I’ll move up quickly. I’m good at my job, and I love it. It’s something that gives me pride, especially when we auction off our work through a prestigious company like Sotheby’s.
The more I learn and the better I get at this job, the closer I get to being good enough.
For her.
It’s always at the back of my mind even though I’m sure she’s moved on by now. No way could a girl like Magnolia Barton stay single forever. I know there’s no chance she’d want to be with me, but at least I feel closer to being good enough.
“You from Georgia, too?” Kane’s question draws me from my thoughts.
“No, I’m from Alabama.”
“And the girl you left behind’s there, too?”
“Ye—” I stop myself abruptly, jaw clamping shut. Damn, he’s slick.
“Well played,” Jude mumbles.
Kane nods, and his eyes flick to the Pop Rocks lying before me. “You got a sweet tooth?”
A small laugh rushes out. “Not really.” Shit. My voice sounds all sad and pathetic. I’m hoping he won’t notice.
“But she did.” It’s not posed as a question.
I just nod.
Jude flashes Kane a sharp look before turning to me with a sigh. “I hate to leave you with him, but I need to talk with your uncle about my foundation’s upcoming charity auction.” He thumbs toward Kane. “Just ignore him if he starts prying.” He settles a knowing look on his cousin. “He’s a prier.”
Kane grins proudly as if he’s just been given a compliment. “Why, thank you.”
Jude shakes his head with a laugh. “Nice meeting you, Hollis.”
“Great meetin’ you.”
I turn back to my beer, hoping this unexpected interaction will fade.
“I’m a good listener, you know.”
I don’t respond aside from a sharp side glance. You’d think he’d take a hint.
He doesn’t.
“I’m dyin’ to know the story behind the Pop Rocks.”
Jesus. This guy doesn’t let up.
I’ll pay my tab and move on. Because the last thing I want to talk about—least of all, with a stranger—is Magnolia.
“It’s her favorite candy.” The words are out before I realize it, and shock settles through me.
What the fuck is wrong with me? Have I sunk so low that I’m becoming one of those pathetic barflies who moan about their sad life? Shit.
I reach up to pinch the bridge of my nose and release a long, slow breath.
“And where might this lovely lady be now?” A more serious tone has replaced his earlier lighthearted one.
“Auburn University.”
“Huh,” is all he says for a moment. “You still love her? Or just miss her?”
I swallow hard before my response comes out, sounding hoarse. “Both.”
“And how does she feel about you?”
I huff out a humorless laugh and shake my head. “Not sure.”
I find myself telling him the entire story, and surprisingly enough, Kane lives up to his claim of being a good listener. Once I finish, we both fall silent.
“Want my advice?”
A hoarse laugh escapes me, and I hate how emotional I get just thinking about her. “Sure.”
Why the hell not? It’s not like I have anything to lose.
He fixes his blue eyes on me. “You’ve gotta get rid of that shit-ton of baggage you’re luggin’ around first.”
My brows slant together in confusion. What?
He continues. “You’ve had it jammed down your throat that you’re not good enough for her to the point you believe it.” His features turn intense, and I struggle against the urge to fidget under his scrutiny. “I’ll let you in on a secret. If you really think hard on it, no one’ll ever be good enough for your Magnolia. Not even you.”
He levels me a look. “And definitely not some guy who works on Wall Street, wears a three-piece Armani suit, and rakes in millions. But if you”—he points his index finger in my direction—“feel good enough about yourself and know you’d move heaven and earth to do right by her, that’s enough.”
He turns his focus on his beer glass, appearing thoughtful. “When you see good people get run through the wringer, it puts things in focus.” He glances over at me. “My buddy Hendy came back with scars all over his body. Went from bein’ a stud to what he saw as a monster.”
A faint hint of a smile forms. “He found a woman who saw more than the surface shit. She understood that money and material things don’t hold up in the long run. It’s what’s in here”—he taps the center of his chest—“and here”—he taps a finger against his temple—“that’ll keep you in the game for the long haul.”
I mull over his words quietly as I finish my beer.
“This woman…” I toss him a glance. “She’s still with your friend?”
He nods, and the edges of his mouth tip up affectionately. “Sure is. They’ve got a little girl now. Couldn’t be happier.”
Leaning back in his seat, he settles his laser focus on me. “You’re the one who needs to figure out if you’re good enough. Not for her. But for you. Until then, you’re no good to her.”
The next day, I decide to try something different. In addition to the usual postcard and cherry Pop Rocks I send in an envelope, I also send a text.
Hollis: Greetings from Amelia Island, Florida, Shortcake. I miss you.
I don’t get a response.
Until three days later.
Shortcake: Looks beautiful out there. Have fun and be safe.
Hollis: Greetings from Rome, Italy, Shortcake. I miss you.
Again, her response comes a few days later.
Shortcake: Looks amazing. Eat some good pasta. Have fun and be safe.
With each message—my stupid way of testing the waters—she never reciprocates. At least not the way I stupidly hoped. At best, we’re friends, and I need to come to terms that I’ve lost my chance.
But if friendship is all she’s offering me, then by God, I’ll take it.
If I can be in Magnolia Barton’s life in any capacity, then it’s enough.
It has to be.
Magnolia
Senior Year
AUBURN UNIVERSITY
Grant continues to talk about the future—more specifically, our future—and I suspect he plans to ask me to marry him after graduation. Everyone adores him, and I’m not sure there’s a soul on God’s green earth he couldn’t hit it off with.
His lovely family welcomed me with open arms, so warmhearted that it caught me off guard. It’s the opposite of the cool, guarded greeting I’ve come to expect from people with any form of wealth. His mom shared her recipe for her “famous” cornbread, and I divulged the secret our housekeeper, Miranda, taught me when making her delicious collard greens.
I can imagine myself marrying Grant and having Grandpa Joe officiate. Maybe starting a family a few years after, once I’m established in my job. Yet there’s a fine tether that holds me back.
Hollis.
I’ve only allowed myself to look him up on Instagram a time or two, but I’ve only found photos of sights or spots he’s found during his travels while working for his uncle. Or the latest car restoration—before and after photos—which are impressive even to a
person who knows next to nothing about that sort of thing. I don’t follow him on there because once he left, a line was drawn, an unspoken agreement that we would keep in touch in the most minimal way.
Then he sent those two text messages and completely threw my world off-kilter.
I miss you. Three words he hasn’t included at any other time sent a mix of anger and near debilitating pain rushing to the forefront. Anger, because how dare he suddenly tell me he misses me when he’s the one who left me. When he hurt me so badly. When I wasn’t sure I’d be able to put the pieces of my heart and soul back together again.
Suddenly, he decides to change things, and I don’t know what to make of it. I’ve come so far, finally dredging myself out of the miserable abyss from his absence, and now it seems as if he’s trying to pull me back under.
I couldn’t bear to respond initially. I just couldn’t. I stared at those texts so long and so many times, I swear, if I close my eyes, they’re still imbedded on the insides of my eyelids.
Maybe it’s time to finally let Hollis go. Lord knows I’ve let this drag on enough, this hold on my heart I’ve continued to let him have. Even though the idea of closing the door on any prospect that we could ever be together, that he would come back for me and want a future with me, sends a sharp stab of pain radiating through me, the more rational part of my brain knows it’s for the best to lock it tight and throw away the key. He can have my friendship but nothing more.
Nothing more? an inner voice questions while I ignore the piercing anguish that follows.
Nothing more. Just friendship.
Because when it comes down to it, Hollis never did the one thing I’d hoped for him to do.
He never chose me.
Hollis
AUBURN UNIVERSITY
Magnolia’s Graduation Day
I reckon I shouldn’t be here, but I couldn’t stay away. Least of all, on a day as important as this one.
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