Page 37 of Never the Best

“Okay,” she said sweetly, and with that one word, she let me in.

My heart swelled, so full it felt like it might burst. And that’s when I knew—I wasn’t just attracted to Pearl. I was in love with her. I realized I’d probably half fallen in love with the memory of her, the girl I’d wronged so many years ago. But the reality of who she was now, the strength, the wit, the quiet resilience—that had stunned me. And in these past few months, I fell all the way for her.

CHAPTER 14

Pearl

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, andveryDTLA.

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.

"Ineverread 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, butIdon'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?"

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