The Fear of Letting Go (16 page)

My stomach turns. Wow, she's really angry with me. “Insulting? For me to buy you a nice dress?” I shake my head. “How is that insulting?”

She lets out a huge sigh and places a hand on the box. “Where do I even begin? There's the implication that you felt the need to dress me,” she says. “Like I won't fit in unless I wear exactly the right thing. Like nothing I own is good enough for a guy like you. And second, when a guy like you gives a girl like me something expensive I could never be able afford on my own, it feels like payment for services rendered, if you know what I mean. Or a bribe to get into my pants.”

I put my hands up. “Whoa, hold on a second. You got all that just from a gift?” I ask. “That's not at all what I meant when I sent this to you. Do you really think that's the kind of guy I am?”

Her shoulders fall slightly and she turns her eyes from me. “I don't know,” she says. “Maybe. That's the way it makes me feel, Preston. I already told you I wasn't sure I would feel comfortable at an event like that. Sending me a dress I could never afford in a million years just makes me feel cheap.”

“You said you didn't have anything to wear. I thought this would help make you feel more comfortable,” I say. “If I'd thought, even for a second, that this would upset you, I never would have sent it. It's really not a big deal. If you don't like it, we'll just send it back.”

“It's not about whether I like the dress, Preston. It's about you thinking I needed your help in the first place. I don't like the implications.”

“You are blowing this way out of proportion,” I say. I'm trying my best to wrap my brain around the real problem, but I honestly can't understand what has her so upset. “I was trying to do something nice for a girl I care about.”

“You were trying to make sure I look like everyone else there,” she says.

“No, I swear to you that was never even in my thoughts,” I say. I've never before had a girl complain about me spending money on her. In fact, they usually complained I didn't spend enough. What in the world did I do wrong? I can't shrug the feeling there's a lot more to this than she's letting on. But how do I get the truth out of her when she's so closed off? “If you don't want the dress, it's fine. I'm sorry. I was trying to be thoughtful.”

“What I don't want is for you to think you can buy my affections with fancy gifts,” she says. “Or dress me up like some little couture robot doll so that I fit in with your crowd, when it's clear that I don't belong there.”

I scratch my forehead and swallow. “Is that what this is about? You think I'm trying to control you? Damn,” I say. “That's complete bullshit, and I think you know it. If all I cared about was having a girlfriend who looks like she belongs, I would have just asked one of the dozen boring girls I've been out with since Christmas.”

“You do that, then,” she says, pushing past me again. She puts her hand on the doorknob, but I reach over and touch her shoulder.

“Jenna, what I'm trying to say is that I don't want any of those other girls. All they care about is how much money I have and how we look together,” I say. “It's always the same with them. Every single date I went on before you, I felt like it was only a matter of time before they mentioned something they were hoping to get from me: A ride on the private jet, A free trip to the Bahamas, Jewelry. One of them even started talking about us getting married and building a house together right on the beach. On our first date. That's all they seemed to care about, as if I wasn't even a real person to them. Just a bank account. You're not like that.”

“So, why in the world would you think sending me an expensive gift would make me happy?”

The meaning of her words finally sinks in, and I feel like a complete idiot. I've treated her exactly as I always treat my dates, showering them with gifts to make them happy and to make them want to stay with me.

“I don't know,” I say. “Shit, I wasn't thinking. It's just that when you said you didn't think you'd feel comfortable at the event, I wanted to help. I don't ever want you to be anyone but you. I swear.”

She draws her lower lip into her mouth and her hand drops down to her side. “You really mean that?”

“One hundred percent,” I say. “I don't ever want money to come between us, but it's tricky. I can't suddenly not have it, but at the same time, I don't ever want you to feel like I'm trying to buy you. We've been dancing around this issue since we first kissed, and honestly, I think there's more to this than you're telling me. Maybe we need to sit down and really talk about it. I'm not trying to be a jerk, but I'm not used to people being mad at me for spending money on them. I need to know why you're really upset. You don't get mad when I take you out to a nice dinner.”

“A nice dinner is one thing. Spending more than two months of rent money on a dress I'm going to wear once is something completely different.”

“Maybe we need to set some ground rules, then. But let's talk through it next time before you just assume I'm trying to turn you into some brainless, what did you call it? Couture robot?”

She looks up and I see the anger she was feeling is gone from her eyes. She shakes her head and gives me a half-smile. “Okay,” she says. “Maybe we should talk about it. I have to get to work, though. Another joy of not having a bank full of money.”

“Hey, I work, too,” I say with a smile.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, it's exactly the same,” she says. Her eyes dance in the light, and I know she's forgiven me.

I pull her into my arms and kiss her forehead. “What time do you get off work?”

She wraps her arms around my waist. “Probably close to midnight,” she says. “What are you doing tonight?”

“Counting the minutes until midnight, apparently,” I say, and pull her into a kiss.

Jenna

I am counting the hours until I can clock out and head back to Preston's. I owe him a serious apology. I feel ridiculous for storming over there like a child, complaining about a gift, but I feel so much better after he told me his reasons for sending it.

I completely overreacted, but seeing that dress made me feel like I'm living my mother's life all over again. That's not his fault, though, so why did I lash out at him? What is wrong with me?

I guess in the end, I've been really proud of myself for making it work on my own here in Fairhope. I don't want him to swoop in like some fairy god-boyfriend and suddenly start taking care of me. I saw how that worked out for my mom, when she started her affairs with the rich guys she used to work for. It was nothing but trouble for all of us involved.

Part of me wants to believe the differences in our finances aren't important, but at the same time, it's a real issue for me. We come from completely different worlds. How can I possibly expect him to understand what it's like to be worried about where your next meal will come from? That's not even something that's registered on his things-to-consider in his entire life, while for me, it was an every-day concern growing up. Hell, who am I kidding? Sometimes it still is.

So, tonight we're going to talk about it.

Something I've been dreading since the moment his lips first touched mine. I don't want him to know how difficult things are for me sometimes, or where I came from. I'm scared he'll either feel sorry for me, or try to fix me. Both would be horrible and embarrassing beyond belief. I don't want him to take care of me or buy me things, and I'm afraid once he really knows what kind of family I come from, he'll go running for the hills.

Of course, if he does, then at least I'll know what kind of guy he really is and what he finds important.

He says he's looking for someone different, but what if it's only temporary? What if he's just going through some rebellious phase, trying it out for a change to get away from the types of women he's been dating? If that's the way it is, I know it will only be a matter of time before dating the girl from the wrong side of the tracks loses its novelty and he's falling right back into the arms of someone more his type.

Then where will I be?

I finish filling the sweet teas for Table 6 and load them up on my tRob. I need to get him out of my head for the next few hours so I don't end up dumping an entire tRob full of drinks on someone's head. Maria is a forgiving boss, but she's already been looking at me funny all evening. I know I'm not on my usual A-game, so I make an extra effort to keep my head on straight and forget about Preston for the rest of my shift.

It's a slow night for a Saturday, at least, which is bad for money, but good for my current state-of-mind. I wish Leigh Anne was working tonight, too, but she's already flown to Boston to spend the weekend preparing for the trial. Knox went with her this time, which makes me happy. She could use all the support she can get. It's only a month and a half until the scheduled court date, and even though she's putting on a brave face for all of us, I know she's nervous as hell.

The hostess, a sweet high school girl named Phoebe, ushers a group of couples about my age to one of my empty tables. I sigh. I recognize a few of them from school and from the looks of it, they have already been out celebrating the last weekend of spring break. One of the girls can barely walk in her mile-high heels. Her arm is slung around her boyfriend's shoulder and he's practically carrying her to her seat.

I toss a glance at Maria, who already has her eye on them. I can't tell if the rest of them are too far gone to be ordering more drinks, but I always hate making judgment calls about this sort of thing. It's always the waitress who takes the blame if she has to tell them no. I wish they had just gone straight up to the bar so Colton could deal with them. He's much better at handling their verbal abuse, if that's what it comes down to. Me, I'm not in the mood.

I take a basket of bread to the table next to them, plaster a smile on my face, and walk over. “Hi, I'm Jenna. I'll be taking care of you this evening,” I say. “Can I get you started with an appetizer or some of our famous sweet tea?”

“Jenna, you beautiful thing, bring us a round of Long Island Ice Teas,” the guy on the end with the drunk girlfriend says.

I try to catch Maria's eye over the top of the booth, but she's gone back into the kitchen. “Sure,” I say. One drink. “Can I see your ID's, please?”

“Oh, come on, you're not going to be like that, are you?” he says. “We're good.”

Crap. I really don't need this tonight. “I'm sorry,” I say with a smile that probably looks as fake as it feels. “Manager's orders. If it were up to me, I'd let you slide, but she'd kill me if I didn't check.”

“Okay, but it's coming out of your tip,” he says with a wink. Like it's such a cute thing to say.

He lifts his butt from the seat and pulls out his wallet. None of the other three at the table make a move. I take his ID and check the date. He's only legal by two months, and I get the sneaking suspicion his friends are underage.

“Thank you,” I say, and look to the other guy, hoping he'll get the hint and everyone else will follow suit.

No such luck. The other guy sets his hands on the table and looks up at me like he has no clue what I could possibly be waiting for.

“What can I get for you?” I say as sweetly as I can.

“I asked for a round,” the first guy says. “That means one for each of us. And we'll take one of those big combo appetizers.”

I feel tired. I hate that they're actually going to make me ask them for ID a second time. What is with these people?

“I'll be happy to put those orders right in for you,” I say. “As soon as I see everyone's ID.”

The guy slaps a hand down on the table, and I jump. “What the heck is your problem?” he asks, loud enough that several of the other guests around us turn to look. He motions toward his date. “Don't you know who this is?”

I take a deep breath and count to three before I speak. “No, but if she would show me her ID, I'm sure I'd figure it out.”

“This is Sheriff Hathaway's daughter,” he says. “She doesn't need to show you her ID. We came in here to have a good time, but if you can't help us out, maybe we should get your manager involved, after all.”

I press my lips together and hold my tongue. This is the worst part about being a waitress. Not being able to speak my mind when someone is being a dick.

I don't answer the guy or even respond to his threat. I simply walk away.

Maria is in her office typing away at her calculator. She doesn't even look up when I knock. “Table 7 giving you shit?”

“Of course. They refuse to show ID, but want to be served,” I say. “I think they've all already been drinking. The guy says his date is the Sheriff's daughter?”

Maria laughs, not missing a beat with her calculations. “I swear, they get dumber every year. He really thinks that's more likely to get them served when they're underage?”

“Are they?”

“Refusing to show ID should have been a dead giveaway. You're slipping, hon,” she says. She finally looks away from her receipts and pushes her rolling chair out from the desk. “What's eating at you tonight? You've barely been here all evening.”

I sigh and lean against the door frame. “Boy trouble,” I say. “What do you want me to do?”

“I'll deal with it,” she says. “You just take care of your other tables and close out when they leave. I'll let Phoebe know I'm cutting you early. Everything okay?”

“It will be,” I say. “Thanks, Maria.”

“You're welcome,” she says. “You deal with whatever you need to deal with, because I need my best girl around here.”

She smacks me on the ass as she heads out to the dining room.

**

The order is up for one of my other tables, so I get everything set up on the tRob and head back into the dining room. As I drop their food off, I listen in on Maria's conversation with the group at Table 7. They are much nicer to her, but of course, she's the kind of person you don't want to cross.

The much nicer couple at Table 4 orders a bottle of red wine, and I make my way to the bar to ring it up.

“Fun evening?” Colton asks. He's cleaning glasses and walks to my end of the bar.