“Ten years. And it doesn’t matter because I know you. It’s about damn time you found someone worthy of you.”
A twinge of insecurity tiptoed into her consciousness and waved its arms about for attention. “What if I’m not worthy of him?”
Jack circled in front of her on the sidewalk. “Look at me.”
His mouth was set in a firm line, his gaze penetrating and paternalistic. “That’s Evan talking right there. And your parents. And Blake. You’ve been chasing their approval your entire life. It is long past time for you to realize that you’re never going to get it.”
“Ouch.” She laughed and folded her arms across her chest to cover up the sting of his words.
“The problem is with them, Gretchen. Not you. Somehow you emerged from their shallow, fucked-up priorities with more drive, more purpose, more generosity than Evan or Blake or your parents could muster in a hundred lifetimes. And deep down, they know it. They’ve known since the day you were born that you were different. Better. They look at you and see how far they’ve strayed from the legacy of Cornelius Donley. And your refusal to join the business or to follow in their footsteps is like holding a giant mirror in front of their faces. They hate what they see in their own reflection. And they hate that you make them look at it.”
Jack gently poked a finger into her shoulder. “You. You are the true standard-bearer of Cornelius’s legacy. So I don’t ever, ever want to hear you question your worthiness again. There is no person on this Earth more worthy of love than you. And anyone who has ever made you doubt that doesn’t deserve a single second of your attention.”
He ended his monologue with open arms. She walked into them and hugged him around the waist. “Thank you, Jack.”
He squeezed her tightly. “You don’t have to go to D.C. or Michigan or even that damn tree house to run away from this family, Gretchen. You just have to stop wishing that people who will never appreciate you will someday wake up and beg you to stay. And if Colton is the person I think he is, then the only place you need to run to is him.”
The salty sting of tears made her blink rapidly. “He is,” she said, voice thick as she stepped from Jack’s embrace. “The person you think he is.”
Jack cocked a smile. “Then what are you waiting for? Start running, honey. And don’t you dare look back.”
* * *
? ? ?
J. T. Tucker was about to puke all over his scuffed-up Converse shoes.
Colton almost felt sorry for him when the kid walked into Old Joe’s that afternoon, pausing just inside the doorway to let his eyes adjust to the darkness. J. T. carried his guitar in a soft-sided case slung over one shoulder and all his anxieties in a gnawed lower lip.
Colton could sympathize. If he’d been invited to meet with Brad Paisley when he was eighteen, he’d have been too nervous to speak a single word, much less sing.
Duff opened a bottle of Bud in front of Colton. “Go easy on the kid. He still thinks you’re something special.”
“Go easy on me. Where’s the good shit?”
“I told you. That’s only for people I like.” He smiled when he said it, though.
Colton slid from his barstool and lifted a hand. J. T.’s eyes were as round as a banjo as he shuffled closer, as if he was about to be granted his wildest wish. Sometimes, Colton could barely remember what that was like—to be at the beginning of it all, nothing but talent and a guitar and big-assed dream.
The kid practically gulped as he held out his hand. “Mr. Wheeler?”
“Colton,” he corrected, shaking J. T.’s hand. A lot of people called him “Mr. Wheeler,” but that coming from the mouth of someone who had a nervous habit of picking at the scab of a still-healing zit on his chin made him feel as if he actually belonged in Silver Sneakers. “Thanks for coming to meet with me.”
J. T. showed the first signs of life. He snorted. “Are you kidding? Thanks for even knowing I exist.”
“I heard you in here a couple of weeks ago.”
“I know. I saw you. I almost shit my pants.” He blinked. “Sorry, I mean—”
Colton chuckled. “Don’t worry. Takes a lot more than some foul language to upset me.”
“Right. Sorry.”
Colton motioned toward the empty booths with his beer. “Let’s have a seat.”
J. T. set his guitar case on the floor before sliding into the booth. When it careened sideways and banged on the floor, he nearly jumped clear out of his seat. Poor kid was about to burst a blood vessel. Colton decided to take mercy on him. “No need to be nervous. I called you, remember?”