Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“George—he’s my husband,” Lilly explains to me, “he’s been retired for years. But recently he was offered a board position at an automotive start-up in California. We thought we’d buy a place out there in Santa Barbara, maybe, or Montecito. Try on the bicoastal lifestyle for a bit.”

“Doesn’t Oprah live in Montecito?” Gracie asks.

Lilly nods. “She does. Such a gorgeous place.”

Gorgeous, and really fucking expensive if Oprah’s got a place there.

Not that I’d know. Only times I’ve been to California were for baseball. I didn’t have time to see much of it outside the usual hotels and locker rooms.

“Good for y’all. I love the west coast. I was just in L.A. to do some research and a bit of shopping for our new space,” Gracie says. “That simple, masculine Southern California design aesthetic really inspired my vision for the addition.”

I blink, my eyes bouncing between the two of them.

Design aesthetics.

Bicoastal lifestyles.

Renovations of ten-thousand-square-foot historic homes.

Lilly is a lovely, gracious person. Same as Gracie.

But right now, I cannot relate to a damn thing either of them is saying.

I literally have nothing to add. I don’t mean to be rude. I just…don’t have anything to say. I mean, what the fuck is an automotive start-up? Where the hell is Montecito on the map and why did Oprah choose to live there?

Couldn’t tell you.

I start to feel clammy under my collar.

Gracie and Lilly chat for a little while longer before Lilly excuses herself. Gracie gives my arm a squeeze.

“Should we get a drink?”

“Please,” I say. Maybe having a little alcohol in my system will help ease the anxiety I feel being so fucking out of my element.

But as Gracie leads me into the house, passing through one palatial room to the next, my anxiety only intensifies. Most of the people here are in suits. Suits they wear with the ease of men and women who know they have the world by the balls.

No one is in jeans.

But everyone is friendly—Gracie greets almost every single person, smiling the whole time. They shake my hand and ask about my farm. But the conversation inevitably turns back to either something I know nothing about or Gracie. Seeing her in action like this is sexy as hell. She’s a total natural at working a room, her gracious, down-to-earth energy pulling people in like bees to honey.

But as I watch her press the flesh, and make polite conversation with this hedge fund manager and that commercial real estate developer, I can’t help but feel like I’m on the outside here. Like I’m just a visitor in this glittering world. Brought up to first class for the night before being sent back down to steerage, where I belong. Jack Dawson style.

What would Leo do?

Because I’m not quite sure what my move here should be. I feel like I’m thirteen again, awkward and pimply and not nearly cool enough to talk to the popular kids.

I try not to panic. But it’s hard not to feel embarrassed when you don’t have anything in common with the people you’re talking to. Half the time I just stand there like an idiot, dick in my hand as I scramble to think of things to say that won’t sound stupid.

One couple beams with pride as they talk about the work they’ve done to raise money for a community theater on Queen Street. It’s funding a “snazzy” production of Phantom of the Opera.

I don’t think I’ve ever even been to the theater. I definitely don’t know who the hell this phantom is and why he’s at the opera.

Another guy talks about being flown on a private jet to an investor meeting in London.

It’s been years since I got on any plane. And honestly, I don’t miss it. Heirloom veggies excite me way more than travel does these days.

I think I finally have something to say when a woman mentions how much she loves grits. But just when I’m about to say I mill my own out on the farm, she pivots the conversation and starts talking about volatility in the high yield bond market and how it’s widening spreads.

Needless to say, I don’t know what the fuck any of that is.

Anxiety is getting harder and harder to fight with every passing conversation. The language these people speak—the easy way they talk about finance, art, the corporate world—it’s definitely not my language. In fact, it’s completely foreign to me. So foreign I can’t help but feel like the dumb jock in the room, unable to contribute or keep up.

This foray into Gracie’s world is making me think we might be more different than I realized.

Yeah, we’ve known each other forever. But now I see how we don’t know each other. Not in any real sense of the word. I don’t know her friends, and she doesn’t know mine. I didn’t know what she was interested in, what kinds of things she’s involved with. What lights her up besides dirty jokes and good food.