“I was going to tell her,” I say. “I just wanted to wait until Victoria’s confession was official. Until I could give her the whole picture.”
“And instead she found out on her own.” Landon whistles low. “That’s rough, man. Victoria has always been a pain in the ass. She’s started drama with some of the other guys too, you know that. Told one of the wives that she’d slept with her husband. Then took it back three days later.”
“I know. Now I know. Back then it scared the shit out of me.”
“So what are you going to do about Jess? You can’t let her just walk away.”
“She needs space. She needs time to process. I’m trying to respect that. You know, listen to her. Give her what she’s asking for this time.” I can’t shake the knot that’s settled over my chest.
“Bullshit.” Landon leans forward, suddenly serious. “Five years ago, you gave her space. You gave her so much space you ended up on the other side of the country. How’d that work out?”
“Well I’m here with you and beer instead of in bed with her. So…” I raise my beer to him and polish it off.
“You could do a lot worse than drinking with me. But thanks for keeping your clothes on.” He laughs.
“I’ve got a plan. I’m going big at the charity gala. She’s going to be there. So will the press and everyone in Charleston. I’m going to tell our story. There won’t be a person in Charleston who doesn’t know how much I love that girl.” My heart thuds against my ribs. “The NDA is almost done and I’m not afraid anymore. If Marshall wants to come after me, I’ll tell the truth about Victoria too. Either way, it will be on permanent record that I love Jess. I’ll tell the whole world that she is publicly, irrevocably mine.”
“Damn. You think she’d want that?”
“I think she deserves to know I’m not going to run again.” My throat runs dry. “She’s spent five years thinking she wasn’t worth fighting for. I’m going to show her she is.”
“Okay brother, I’ll be up there with you if that’s what you want to do.” Landon holds his beer up to mine.
I spend the rest of the night at Landon’s, working through the logistics. The gala organizers are surprisingly receptive when I call, apparently “hometown quarterback makes emotional speech” is exactly the kind of PR the charity wants.
By the time I get home, it’s nearly three a.m.
I can’t sleep.
Instead, I sit in the dark living room, staring at the ring I’ve kept in my sock drawer for five years. I bought it three weeks before everything fell apart. Cushion cut, because she told me once that’s what she liked. A single diamond, simple and elegant, just like her.
I was going to propose on our anniversary. I had the whole thing planned, dinner, a walk along the harbor, and the question I’d been practicing for months. Then Marshall Ashworth summoned me to his office, and everything I’d planned for our future went up in flames.
I’ve carried this ring through every city, every season, every lonely night when I thought I’d never get the chance to give it to her. It’s been my proof that what we had was real, even when the world tried to tell me otherwise.
The gala is just a few days away. I’m going to tell Jess, in front of everyone, with nothing left to hide, exactly how much she means to me. If she still walks away after that, at least I’ll know I gave her everything. No more secrets. No more noble sacrifice. Just the raw, messy truth of how much I love her.
CHAPTER 13
JESS
I don’t go home.
I can’t. Home is the apartment I rebuilt my life in. It’s the space I filled with things that don’t remind me of Griffin Callahan. If I go there now, with this box of letters burning a hole through my passenger seat, I’ll fall apart completely.
So I drive to Grandma Dot’s.
She’s on the porch when I pull up. It’s like she knew I was coming. Maybe she did. Grandma Dot has always had a sixth sense for when her people need her.
I don’t say anything. I just climb the steps and put the box on the wicker table between us. Then I sink into the rocking chair I’ve been sitting in since I was fifteen years old.
She looks at the box. Then at my face and then back at the box again.
“That boy’s handwriting.” It’s not a question. It’s a statement. Leave it to Old Dottie to crack the code immediately.
“Yep. There are five whole years of letters.” My voice comes out raw. “He wrote me every week. He never sent a single one.”
Grandma Dot rocks slowly. The creak of her chair keeps time with the cicadas. She doesn’t reach for the box or ask to readthem and that checks out. I would never expect her to. Instead, she just waits.
