Page 38 of Never the Best

"Just don’t ask me to forgive or forget."

"I won't do that," he promised. "I understand what I did to you; what it led to can never be made okay."

"But we can move forward, can’t we?" I wondered if we could, but I hoped he might.

“Do you think….” His voice broke the stillness, tentative. “Do you think we could try again? ReadThe Grapes of Wrathtogether. Make peace with it.”

I lifted my head, studying him. There was no smirk, no cocky façade. Just Rhett, looking at me with guiltandhope. I thought about it. About the years I’d spent avoiding not just the book but everything it represented.

Burying issues and challenges didn't make them disappear. I'd had enough therapy to know that. It was time to lift myself out of what happened to live in the present and in anticipation of a brighter future.

"Yes. I’d like to catch up with the Joads. To see Ma’s strength again, to watch how she holds everyone together while?—"

“Hey, no spoilers,” he protested, and just like that, the mood between us was lighter.

“Fine.” I rolled my eyes.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as he pulled out two copies of the Steinbeck classic.

There was always a long line to get the cash register downstairs, and as we waited for our turn, Rhett revealed a little more about himself to me. "You're the reason I started reading."

"You were reading before we met,” I objected.

“Well, yeah, but it started because of you.” He lookedalmost sheepish. “You always had a book with you. I remember seeing you withMoon Palaceonce. I wanted to ask you about it, but I didn't want to sound like an idiot, so I looked it up. When we…you know, started to hang out, you told me Paul Auster wrote for people who liked to think in circles. So, I read him so I could understand what you meant.”

I wanted to rage at the term "hang out" because what he had been doing was seducing me for a bet, but hadn't I just decided to live in the present? So, I let it go and laughed, shaking my head. “And did you find out?”

“I didn’t get it at the time,” he admitted. “But I re-read the book later when I was a little more mature, and that’s when I got it. You were the only person I knew who made books seem cool then.”

“I wasn’t cool,” I said, smiling despite myself.

“You were to me.” He was so sincere that I had no choice but to believe him.

As we waited, we talked about the books we'd read since. Obviously, we circled Southern literature. After all, we were from Georgia. Dorothy Allison came up, and we bonded over our shared love forBastard Out of Carolina. Then, James Baldwin, whose words had shaped so much of how I viewed the world. We talked aboutAnother Countryand how it gutted us in the best way.

Rhett paid for our books, and after, we walked toward our next stop, my favorite wine bar downtown, Garçon de Café, for lunch.

"I've always believed that books burrow into your souland stay there, shaping how we see ourselves, how we see others." I hitched my purse on my shoulder as we walked down Spring Street to the Spring Arcade building, where the wine bar was.

"I agree." He tucked one hand into the pocket of his linen pants while the other held a paper bag with our books. I usually saw him in a suit, but he was in travel wear: pants, a T-shirt, and sneakers. He fit right into the easy SoCal sartorial culture.

The boy had become a man, and I found myself just as drawn to him now as I had been all those years ago. But what made this grown-up version of Rhett even more appealing wasn’t just how he looked—it was his self-awareness, his maturity, and the humility he’d cultivated along the way.

“I'm really glad we're doing this, Pearl,” he told me when we stood outside the wine bar. “Not just talking openly and readingThe Grapes of Wrathtogether…but all of it.”

I glanced at him, his face open and honest.

“Me too,” I admitted.

CHAPTER 15

Rhett

Since Pearl had lived in Downtown LA for many years, I wasn’t surprised that she knew all thecoolplaces. The wine bar she took us to was a not-so-hidden gem.

Garçon de Café made me feel like I’d stumbled onto a Parisian side street.

Inside was an understated yet elegant bar with a long, polished counter. Bistro tables scattered across the room, their surfaces catching flickers of light from the votive candles. Soft jazz floated through the air, and in the corner, a sleek black piano stood waiting, promising live music later in the evening.

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