Page 33 of The Boyfriend Boycott
“Oh, Grady.” She breathes, and her eyes are glassy when I finally look up at her. “I’m sorry I pushed, I didn’t know. Of course, we’ll keep the Whisky Jack,” she concedes.I clear my throat to get rid of the lump forming there and turn to put the prawns back on the burner, shaking the pan to swirl them in the garlic butter.
“So, when is this event happening? Who do we need to invite?”I ask once I’ve refocused on the task at hand.
“No need to worry about that, I already sent out the invitations.”
“God, I—this is amazing, Spence.” I shake my head in awe of what this woman is capable of. Even if she is doing this for her own reasons, her own end goal, I can’t get over the way she just goes out there and does it. I put the pan back down on the stove and turn to face her where she’s still standing with her arms crossed over her chest, pushing her breasts up to her neckline. Her hip is now leaning against the shiny metal prep counter. I marvel at her. I’m captivated by her. Her drive and her motivation are contagious. There’s something about Spencer that satisfies the part of me that wishes I was more of a go-getter, the way she is.
I take two strides and close the distance between us, bringing my hands up to cup her cheeks. My eyes roam her face, taking in her plump, bow-shaped lips, the freckles smattering her nose. And then I kiss her deeply, inhaling her scent, her very essence. I don’t care if Spencer has laid down the law, if she’s deemed that we’re just casual. If she can go out and get what she wants, so can I.
Finn walks into the kitchen as I’m kissing Spencer and whistles.
“Hey, lovebirds. I don’t know if making out in the kitchen is very food-safe.”
Spencer yanks herself away from me and straightens her top as if Finn hasn’t already caught us red-handed. A flush spreads up her neck and even though she’s really fucking adorable when she’s embarrassed, I could punch Finn for interrupting. He’s a great guy and all, but he has terrible timing.
“I should go.” Spencer starts to turn away from me, but I grab her hand, turning her back to face me and plant one last kiss on her perfect mouth.
“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she says as she pulls away again. “Don’t forget about dinner.”
“Right,” I say, trying to appear casual about the whole thing, but the reality is I haven’t forgotten. It’s all I’ve been able to think about since she agreed to let me take her to dinner at Eleanor’s. “I’ll pick you up at four.”
“Dinner isn’t until six.” Spencer cocks her head at me, her eyebrows twitching together in question.
“I told you I was taking you on a date. I’m going to take you on a date,” I tell her. Phase one of my plan to win over Spencer involves an evening of showing her more of my favourite places. The way she visibly fell in love with the sight of Heartwood when I took her to the lookout, the way she talks about wanting somewhere to call home … It makes me wonder if there might bea chance that if I show Spencer all the reasons to love with this place, she might just fall in love with me. Heartwood is such an integral part of who I am, after all. “Be ready at four.”
“Got it,” she says over her shoulder as she disappears through the back door of the kitchen into the alley.
When I turn around, Finn is leaning against the wall, arms crossed, a grin on his face.
“I don’t want to hear a word out of you,” I warn. “And keep this to yourself, okay? We’re just friends, and I don’t need this getting out all over town.”
He throws his hands up in the air and gives me akeep me out of itlook as he turns and heads out into the front of the bar to start opening in time for lunch.
CHAPTER 14
SPENCER
I can’t stop staringat their smiling faces. I can’t stop staring and feeling like I want to punch them right in the veneered mouths. The picture on my phone screen becomes blurry as tears collect on my lashes. The burning behind my eyes catches me off guard. I strictly don’t cry. That is, I don’t cry over other people. I bite the inside of my cheek to try and quell the sob that is threatening to burst forth like a tidal wave from the back of my throat. But no matter what I do, a tear escapes and rolls down my cheek.
My dad never looked that happy when he was standing next to my mother and me, but in this picture, he’s absolutely beaming. Standing next to his new wife, Sherry, a stunning brunette wearing a cream-coloured silk wedding dress, and her daughter. I guess, his new daughter. The twenty-something that shares nearly all of the same features with her mother. I study her face, wondering what she has that I don’t. What makes my father want to put his arm around her protectively like he’s doing in the photo, and not me.
They got married so quickly, as if it wasn’t even a difficult decision to make. I wonder if my dad spent as long contemplating marrying this woman as he did about leavingmy mother and me. Had he even considered the consequences of leaving at all? Did he know that my mother and I would become homeless for so many years without him? An unfamiliar ache radiates behind my sternum, and I rub it with my hand to try and relieve it. I hate this feeling, the sting of betrayal, of rejection.
It’s not even about the fact that my father remarried. I might have been able to find some shred of happiness for him. My hatred and blame towards him has certainly dissipated over the years. But it happened so suddenly and without so much as a ‘Hey, just wanted to let you know I’m eloping in Italy next week.’ An invitation at this point is not something I would ever expect, but it would have been nice to have a heads up, so I wasn’t learning about it on social media from my father’s new daughter’s page. That Marla sent to me without even a warning.
I clicked open her text message and saw a link to Instagram. It’s not unusual for her to send me funny videos here and there, but it is unusual for her to send me a picture of my father, grinning next to his new bride, with no explanation except for an eye roll emoji.
What’s more unusual for me is the flood of emotions that has consumed me ever since I saw it. I’ve been so careful, so deliberate, in avoiding this kind of betrayal. I always kind of expected this behaviour from my father. So, my solution was to not reach out, not even attempt to have a relationship with him. But that’s an unfortunate fact about life. You don’t get to choose your family, as much as you might try. You can build all the walls in your relationships that you want, pretend that what they do doesn’t bother you. The cruel fact of the matter is that when it comes to family, some part of you will always care about earning their approval. Whether you want to admit it or not.
I throw my phone down on the bed and pull my fluffy duvet up over my shoulders, cocooning myself in it. I close my eyesas more tears threaten to fall, and I breathe in the warm pine air through the back hatch of the camper that I’ve left open. Say what you will about living in a van, this has truly become my peace. It’s where I’ve learned to be alone and sit with my feelings. Lying in bed listening to the birds, the trees swaying in the wind, the gravel crunching.
A car engine pulls to a stop. Footsteps through the campsite.
Someone is here.
“I’m back here,” I call, not leaving the comfort of my bed but quickly wiping the sticky tears from my face. I’m assuming it’s Ally. I’d be willing to bet anything that Marla sent her the photo too, and she’s come to make sure I’m okay. However, the voice that speaks is deeper than Ally’s, and it rumbles through me as they say my name, soothing the remnants of the rage burning in my gut.
“Spencer?” Grady calls once more before finding me around the back of the camper. The moment he lays his soft green-brown eyes on me a line forms between his brows. Concern. I don’t need Grady to be concerned about me. I don’t need anyone to be concerned about me. I’m fine.
