Page 99 of My Grape Crush
Me? I’m so fiercely proud of Rhys, my heart wants to explode. My lover, all business.
“To summarize,” Rhys says, “if you don’t retreat your sorry suited ass to whatever hole you crawled out of, prepare for war.” He crosses his arms, totally flexing in both manners of the saying.
I glare at Brett in utter disgust. The gaze he returns is dull at best, although I get the sense he is searching to find a biting reply.
“Screw both of you,” is the best he can come up with. Then, in a truly shining example of douchebaggery, Brett shoots his final lame bullet at Rhys. “You’ll be in her rearview mirror in no time, useless fuckboy.”
Brett kicks aside his chair like a tantrum-throwing child and storms out. The lone barista, who watched the drama unfold from behind the pastry display, fiddles with her nose ring. There seems to be nothing more to add.
But then she says, wise beyond her twenty-odd years, “Adulting much?”
For some reason, Rhys and I find this outrageously and immensely humorous. I laugh until my stomach aches and Rhys pulls me into his arms. His eyes, rimmed with thick lashes criminally wasted on a guy, shine with victory.
Seeing me for not only who I am, but who I can be.
“Who are you and what have you done to Rhys?” I ask.
Smiling like a fool, he says, “Not bad, huh?”
“You might have a career in law after all, my little pit bull.”
If anything calls for a celebratory kiss, this is it. Rhys weaves his hand up into my hair, tips my head back, and kisses me hot and open-mouthed. His demanding tongue punishes mine into the dark corners as the room, the sunny day, everything fades away, and I feel this ache of desire to take him right here, on any flat, available surface.
God only knows what else would have happened if the barista hadn’t cleared her throat, sending us stumbling into the table and our cortado thimbles flying to the floor.
“Sorry,” we sing-song simultaneously, giggling like pranksters.
Not sorry one iota.
Meeting number two—the Amelia Summit—commences at sundown. The sky has shifted from a brilliant bright blue to the indigo of approaching dusk, the moon hidden behind thinning summer clouds. My sister squirms awkwardly in her chair, caught between the past and the present.
The karmic journey of the three of us converges here, in my apartment, sitting at the Restoration Hardware dining room table I scored on Facebook Marketplace.
“I’m sorry,” Amelia mutters, eyes downcast to her untouched bagel and cream cheese. “For everything. I’m not proud of what I did.”
Rhys doesn’t respond right away. He wants the power dynamic made clear from the start. She can sweat it out until he’s ready to forgive and forget.
“I’d hope not,” he finally says, arms banded tight across his chest.
After wading through the sludge of Trenton family drama and Rhys at my side earlier to banish Brett, the baton now passes to the Rialto sisters to clean up their side of the yard.
“The past is the past, Ames,” I add. “And today is all about the future. Our future.” I reach for Rhys’s forearm, moving my thumb back and forth on his tanned skin like windshield wipers to soothe him. Now I can add “feisty” to the adjectives we use to describe him. “We need your word that what happens between us remains between us.”
“Because if I can’t trust you,” Rhys interjects, laying it on heavy, “that will only hurt Dani in the end.”
“I get it,” Amelia grits out, a touch hangdog after the fifteen-minute browbeating Rhys laid down shortly after she arrived. “And I’m not the same person I was back then. I’m a mother. I have different priorities. Better priorities,” she stresses.
Rhys leans back, his gaze landing on mine with the question,what do you think?We had intense discussions about this get-together all week. The ground rules he wants in place with Amelia. No hidden agendas or scheming intentions. No acting like a Crazy. If we’re moving forward together, the slate starts fresh.
Amelia reaches across the table and waits for my hand to twine with hers. She’s on fire, skin burning hot, no doubt from the heat of Rhys’s interrogation. God, he’s surprised me today. This entireweek. How he’s navigated it all with tenacious resolve.
“I’m sorry I never said anything. Hopefully, you understand why.”
“Of course I understand.” I tilt my head gently at Rhys, the gesture implying we’ve put her through enough. “And we will never say anything about why your podcast ended. Or utter a word of this to Dean.”
Something flickers in the depths of Amelia’s baby blues. Surprise? Definitely shock. An understanding that we mean business. (With some low-key flexing if required.)
“Thank you,” she says, the words sounding snagged in her throat. Then she tucks two freshly ash-blond locks behind the pink shells of her ears and offers a peace pipe in the form of dinner with Dean and the twins.
