Surely everyone knows after that video.
“Yes, I knew.” Something that is probably the closest she can come to sympathy enters her eyes. “I just assumed . . . well, the two of you seemed to be friends even before you were . . . more, so I wasn’t sure if you still talk.”
“We were.” I look around to find San still deep in conversation. “We are. It’s just . . . complicated.”
“Believe me. I know how difficult Rhyson can be.”
“He’s not difficult.” I blurt the defense before I can stop it. “I mean, he’s complex, yes, but not difficult. At least I wouldn’t say so.”
“I see you still have feelings for him.” She pulls her thin lips into a matte red moue.
I smooth the belled skirt of my dress, running my fingers over the raised flowers embroidered into the material. Caution slows my response. There’s nothing maternal about Angela Gray. If anything I hate how she’s hurt Rhyson in the past. She’s the one who got him hooked on prescription drugs when he was still just a boy so he could perform under pressure. She doesn’t trust me with her son, and I certainly don’t trust her with him.
“Let’s just say Rhyson’s not an easy guy to get over.” I look up from my skirt and offer a smile that tells her nothing more.
She pats my hand, that supposed sympathy evident in her eyes again.
“I’m sure you’ll manage, dear. There’s someone out there for you.”
The thought of being with anyone other than Rhyson nauseates me, but I just wax a smile onto my face. I wish she’d rip away the thin layer of pleasantry and voice what is so apparent beneath her polite smiles and condescending words. I wish she’d just say I’m not good enough for her son. That someone like Petra is better suited, is her preference. But she’s not prepared to be that sincere at her brother-in-law’s wedding in front of two hundred guests, and neither am I. I’m saved from responding to her candy-coated gibe when San walks up.
“Sorry to interrupt.” San smiles at Mrs. Gray before looking back to me. “But they’re seating now.”
“Of course.” I gesture to Mrs. Gray. “San, this is Mrs. Gray, Rhyson and Bristol’s mother. Mrs. Gray, my friend, Santos.”
“Nice to meet you.” San’s smile doesn’t slip, but his eyes chill a degree or two. He knows the history between Rhyson and his parents as well as I do. As well as everyone does.
“Yes, nice to meet you, too.” Her eyes flit from me to my good-looking best friend, speculating about a relationship between us. Maybe it’s best I let her believe that.
“Ready if you are.” I link my arm through San’s, smiling up at him warmly. “Let’s go.”
We’re a few feet ahead of her when San leans down to whisper in my ear.
“What was that all about?”
“Nothing. She doesn’t like me, at least not for Rhyson. It was all she could do not to jump up and down that we aren’t together anymore.”
“She must not have seen you together when we first got here.” San lets out a low whistle. “You could have boiled an egg between the two of you.”
“He wants me to meet him.”
“I just bet he does,” San says with a chuckle. “Two months is a long time. Wedding fucks are the best.”
“Not for . . . not for that, San.”
“I’d bet my next check it is for that.”
I ignore all the tingly places his suggestion ignites, and don’t bother responding since we’ve reached our seats. Instead, I settle into the white folding chair and absorb the beauty of this day. Not the green carpet of grass under our feet, vibrant, verdant. Or the canopy of cloud and cerulean sky overhead, with the sun glowing bright and gold. Not the trees, Spring heavy on their branches, blossoms scenting the air. No, the beauty of a man who has always sought good for others, finally finding so much good for himself.
Grady didn’t have to take me under his wing when I moved here, a country bumpkin fresh off the truck, green as a watermelon. But he did. He looked out for me, for San, and so many of his other students. He looked out for Rhyson, when his parents should have but didn’t, and for that I’m more appreciative than a beautifully wrapped gift from Williams-Sonoma could ever express.
I cry a little when Grady takes his place at the front under an arch of crimson roses. So much of the good I see in Rhyson is because of Grady. Seeing Rhsyon standing beside the man who’s been more of a father to him than his natural father only stirs the emotion more. I reach into my little clutch where I stuffed Kleenex. I thought that was all the preparation I’d need, but wiping away the tears doesn’t wipe away the emotion that goes even beyond Grady.