Page 46 of The Boyfriend Boycott
I turnthe key in the front door with a click. Letting myself into Grady’s house feels as if I’m trespassing for a moment. This isn’t my home. Yet, when I open the door and take in the smell of his house, the unique scent that only Grady’s space would have, it feels more like home than I’ve ever felt. It’s the same warm vanilla and tobacco smell, with something else. The smell ofhim.Without his cologne. The smell of his skin when he’s clean out of the shower.
My chest squeezes. The pang feels momentarily like jealousy, like longing, for something I’ve never had before. A home that I’ve lived in long enough for someone to walk in the front door and instantly recognize the smell as mine and mine alone.
My mother goes one way down the stairs towards the basement guest suite, and I head up to the master bedroom as if that’s where I live now. Though I know I don’t.
I pad down the hallway to Grady’s room, and something catches my eye on the charcoal-coloured bedding.
Flowers. Orange lilies. I pick them up off the bed and take in the sweet scent of them, a juxtaposition to the modern, masculine space. It’s then that I notice an envelope balancing on top of a carefully wrapped box labelledRebelin loopy writing. My heart flutters, swelling to a size I didn’t know it was capable of. I’ve warmed up to the nickname, and the way he says it as if my wild side doesn’t need to be tamed.
I open the envelope, being mindful not to tear the paper.
To capture all the places you have yet to explore. All the moments you want to savour.
My heart clenches as I reach for the box. The paper is sparkly. Jade green.
When I unwrap it, I find exactly what I expected I would. Even though I know what the box contains, I’m still shocked by the burning behind my eyes. The thought that Grady put into this is … I don’t know why I’m so surprised. This is just how Grady is.
I pull out the camera, the kind that professionals use, complete with different lenses. A wide angle for those panoramic shots, like the one I couldn’t quite capture with my phone from up on the lookout. It’s one that I never would have been able to afford on my own.
I hear light footsteps behind me, and realize that my mom is ready to go, and I’ve just been standing here, slack-jawed and haven’t even moved to change yet. She stands hesitantly in the doorway, watching me where I sit on the edge of the bed, turning the camera over in my hands.
When I look up at her, I see that she’s wearing the dress. The deep magenta somehow compliments the red of her hair, the hair that I inherited. I lift the camera, pointing it at her. She opens her mouth to protest and before she speaks, I know what she’s about to say. She’s never loved having her picture taken, and it’s only today that I realize it’s because she’s always allowed other people to shape her opinion of herself.
“You look beautiful, Mom,” I say, snapping a picture of her leaning against the door frame. She does. This is the version of my mother that I love, that deserves to be documented. The version of her that wears what she wants because she loves it.
“Roy didn’t seem to think so,” she says with an eye roll.
“What?” I don’t bother to hide the disdain in my voice. “When did Roy see the dress?”
“Earlier. I sent him a photo of me in the change room, trying it on. I thought maybe …” Her voice trails off, and when I don’t say anything more it prompts her to finish her thought. “I thought maybe he would be a little jealous or something. That I’m going out and about, and looking great, too. At least I thought I looked pretty good …”
“You look amazing in that dress, Mom. You look amazing in everything you put on. He didn’t think so?”
“He never responded. I just sat there like an idiot, staring at my phone, hoping he would. He never did.” Ah. That explains the foul mood after we left the store, the fixation on her phone screen. I nod solemnly, my mouth forming a tight line.
“Well. Fuck Roy, then,” I say, and she reels at the comment.
“Spencer, that is my husband. That is the man I am committed to and am trying to salvage a marriage with.” Why she feels so much loyalty to Roy is beyond me. Why Roy deserves her loyalty is another glaring question I don’t currently have an answer to. But that’s my mother. Giving all of her power away to whoever will look in her direction.
“Nah, fuck him, Mom,” I say, more resolute in my decision to throw Roy under the bus. Her face is stunned for a moment, but I think that means she’s finally fucking listening. “If he doesn’t treat you like absolute gold, then fuck him.” I don’t fully understand where these words are coming from. I haven’t exactly had a good track record of choosing men who treat me right either. My thoughts drift to Grady, and the way he’s shown me how valuable I am to him more than anyone in my life ever has. Maybe, just maybe, Marla and I both deserve that.
I finish getting ready, and by the time Marla and I park on Main Street and start walking toward the bar, nearly all theparking spots have been taken, and others are already filing through the double doors.
“Are you coming?” Marla turns and asks me because I’ve stopped, and am standing stock still, taking in the sight of a brand-new sign above the wooden doors of the Whisky Jack. Or, rather, Jack’s, as it’s apparently now called. The sign is brand new, the wood fresh and unweathered, making it stand out against the worn siding of the building.Jack’sis written in bold block letters, with smaller writing beneath it that readswhiskey bar. The corner of the sign has the silhouette of a whisky jack, perched on a branch. A smile claims my features.
He did it. He not only changed the name to fit with the new branding, but he also kept the tribute to his dad front and centre, just like he always wanted. Pride blooms in my chest thinking of the way Grady has come into his own, the way he’s taken charge. Pride, and a little bit of something else. Something my heart isn’t ready to acknowledge just yet.
“Yeah, I’m coming,” I say as I catch up to Marla on the sidewalk, and we enter the bar arm in arm.
CHAPTER 19
GRADY
“You double-checked all the ingredients, right?”I ask Finn, who is busy behind the bar preparing a jug of chilled Earl Grey tea. I’m fidgeting, organizing and reorganizing the recipe cards I printed out for him. They had been arranged in alphabetical order, and now I’ve got them sorted by the alcohol base, with a separate category for mocktails.
“Quadruple-checked. We’re good to go. Relax.” Finn places a hand on my shoulder. The number of cocktail submissions was staggering, and I’m not going to lie, I’m nervous. The reassuring smile on Finn’s open expression eases some of the tension within me. “People are here to have fun, raise a little money. It’ll be great.”
“Yeah, I know. I just want this to go well.” I give him a sheepish look.
