Let’s talk about The Big Grovel.
The Big Grovel is that moment in a book where one of the main characters (typically the guy) has to beg. Plead. Get down on his knees and acknowledge what an utter dumba$$ he was.
Really good Big Grovel scenes take a lot out of me. I’m one of those people who forgets nothing. I’m not easily offended, but if you cross a big line, you’re toast.
So big grovels are fascinating to me. The grand gesture leads to the Big Forgiveness, and forgiveness requires trust. A lot of it.
Mind you, I’ve been with the same guy now for nearly 28 years, and you cannot be in a relationship for this long without learning to let small stuff go. Or, as my longtime psychologist said to me a few years ago:
“It’s not a debate. It’s a marriage. You can be right, or you can have a relationship.”
Oof.
[Note: as someone who does enjoy being right, married to a guy who loves feeling emotionally connected (not that I don’t), this one hit me in all the feels and called me out, but then again, that’s why I’m in therapy, amiright?]
Big Grovels are about recognizing that the other partner was right, that the groveler (is that a word? It is now) transgressed, and atonement - BIG HUGE MEGA ATONEMENT - must take place.
Now, you might be wondering why I titled this little essay “redemption stories” instead of The Big Grovel. It’s because I have a mind like a hummingbird and I pattern-match weird things, so here we are, talking about both.
Because they are connected.
Here are clips from some of my Big Grovel moments. Liam from Random Acts of Hope has the biggest one, because the man thought Charlotte cheated on him and got pregnant by someone else when Liam assumed he was sterile from getting mumps as a teenager.
(Spoiler - I ain’t keeping anything secret on a book that’s been out for TEN YEARS).
She miscarried after being dumped by him and he ghosted. They reunite but never really explore the past emotionally , until she gets pregnant AGAIN - and Liam loses it.
Darla tells him to get his swimmers tested (hello!) and he tells her that already happened. She calls him out and he tests again.
Well.
Surprise (not!).
This is short but packs a punch:
“I’m here to say I’m sorry.”
That was a good start.
“And that you don’t have to forgive me.”
Even better.
“Because you were right all along.” His hands started to shake so badly it made my stomach flip. Then his shoulders. A wild, uncaged look filled his eyes as he searched my face, seeking something he plainly wasn’t finding.
“I… oh, God, I made a terrible mistake. A horrible, wretched mistake and I’m so, so sorry.” And then Liam McCarthy took four steps toward me. Just when I expected him to envelop me in his arms he bent down and put his head on my shoulder, one hand splayed flat on my belly over the baby, and he said:
“I went back to my old doctor. They did new tests. Oh, Charlotte, I’m so sorry. Our babies. Our babies.”
And that was the moment I got my friend back.
Hamish has a Big Grovel moment in Shopping for a Highlander, and it’s EPIC:
“IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT! LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, HAMISH MCCORMICK FROM DUNSDILL!”
The guys in front of the open glass doors part like the Red Sea did for Moses.
I look around. Mom is across the room, Dad's hand literally covering her mouth as she hops up and down in place.
Oh, God.
What is happening?
And then Hamish's voice is on the loudspeaker. The television screen changes, cutting to him standing alone in the center of the pitch, holding a big mic in his hand. As usual, he seems to be eating up all the attention.
“I ken this isna the norm, but it's an exhibition game, so this doesna matter anyway,” he says into the mic, the crowd laughing. “Nothing I say will hurt us. Or help us. But that's no’ what this is about anyhow.”
The crowd goes hushed, anticipation rippling like they're doing the wave.
“Would a cameraman please find Amy Jacoby? In the club suite, I think? She's a ginger like me, but better looking–long curls, and a thousand-watt smile.”
My stomach drops as my face appears on the jumbotron, some camera inside the club finding me quickly. Of all the times to have a bad hair day. And before my fresh lipstick, of course.
Of course.
“What is he doing?” I say to Carol through gritted teeth, slumping down onto a stool, Mom eagerly coming to stand next to me.
Carol's grinning as she moves away from me, and now I'm front and center, featured on the screen, Mom's blonde hand the size of an elephant on the screen.
“I don't know. Just enjoy it! Whatever it is, it's big,” Carol says
“That's because Hamish is big! Larger than life.”
“Amy,” he says from down on the field, “would ye please look at the camera so everyone can see how pretty ye are?” He clears his throat, adding quickly, “And smart, too, of course. She earned her MBA just this year!”
Carol, Shannon, Dad, and Mom all start giggling.
Mom swats my arm, so I stand up slowly from my seat, the crowd cheering. I am on the big screen and every pore, every fleck of stray mascara, plus all my fear, is on my face.
I hate being the center of attention in public. Hate it.
Plus, I still have to pee.
“I have two announcements, the first necessary fer the second. So here goes: Dear women ye call 'jersey chasers' here in America –”
Screaming women dominate the crowd noises and Hamish gestures with his palms, trying to get all the estrogen in the stands to settle down.
“Ye willna squeal when ye hear I am retiring ma todger from ye. Nae more.”
“What's a todger?” Dad asks, mystified.
The shrieking turns to a keening wail, a female chorus of boos erupting.
“I think he's saying he won't sleep with groupies anymore,” Carol says to Dad.
“Oh, God,” I groan. “Of all the ways to do this, he has to do it in front of tens of thousands of people?”
“He's that kind of guy, Amy,” Carol says. “Go big or go home.”
“Is that an option? Can I just go home and see him there?”
Dad moves next to me, hands on my shoulders. He's either comforting me or preventing me from leaving.
“I think you want to stay and hear this.”
“Hamish is why you're all here, isn't he?”
“Maybe.”
“And he arranged this? Not Andrew?”
“He got some help from Andrew.”
“Oh my God, Dad, he's not going to propose, is he?”
“No,” Dad whispers. “He's not that stupid. Fastest way to get you to move to another continent. He wouldn’t put you on the spot like that.”
“Good. Then... then what?”
“Why don't you just wait and see what happens?”
“You know I hate surprises!”
“I know.” He squeezes my shoulders, then leans forward and whispers, “But what if you didn't?”
“AMY JACOBY!” Hamish booms into the microphone, his arms wide. “Would ye stop talkin’ and listen fer a moment, pet?”
The jumbotron changes to a split screen. He's the left half of the screen, and I'm the right half.
Then he shouts, “I LOVE YOU!”
Oh.
My.
God.
“I loved ye when I made that booty call seven years ago...”
The crowd quiets down, listening.
“...and I was even more determined when ye turned me down.”
A cheer goes up, mostly men.
“But I knew I loved ye when...”
Please don't mention being in bed with me. Please don't mention the virgin thing. Please don't–
“...ye talked me out of endorsing a certain device...”
A number of women begin chanting “STRIKER! STRIKER!”
“...and saw the good in me. The deep. Ye see all the versions of me, no’ just the footie player. The whole man. I am sae grateful fer ye, Amy. I owe ye so much fer showing me the world through a different lens. Ye've given ma life more meaning than I knew possible, and ye did so just by being yerself. Make ma life whole and come give me a kiss!”
My eyes dart around the room, trying to take it all in. Carol gives me a firm shove from behind.
“This is the part where you run into his arms, kiss him, and tell him you love him back.”
“I can't.”
“Can't, or won't?”
“Can't. I'm frozen.”
“Then unfreeze.”
“I CAN'T.”
“Amy. Stop it. Stop trying to control everything. Do it.”
One step. I take one step.
Another.
A third.
By the fourth, I'm trotting; by the fifth, a group of people have pushed open the double glass doors; by the tenth, I'm flying, running fast and free. The crowd is chanting AIM-EE, or HAIM-ISH, or maybe the jersey chasers are chanting a two-syllable curse word, but I don't care, because my legs feel like all the running I've ever done in my entire life was preparing me for this moment.
I run as if my life depends on it. As if my heart relies on it.
I run as if my soul is reconnecting with a piece of itself, lost long ago, now found.
The whole point of The Big Grovel is redemption. Redemption via forgiveness and atonement.
But how does someone forgive themselves?
Which brings me to my entire point, winding though it may be: my book, Hasty, is on sale. It’s one heck of a redemption story.
If you’ve never read my Do-Over series, now’s your chance to get in there. Hasty is a different kind of book, because it starts with the heroine being arrested. In public.
Hauled away in humiliation after closing a 9-figure business deal.
Forced to fall so low she has to crawl back to her hometown and sleep in her childhood bedroom after realizing her husband pinned a whole lot of fraud on her, Hastings “Hasty” Monahan goes through her own redemption arc. She isn’t saved by rival billionaire Ian McCrory, though he’s a fantastic ally and, later - lover.
She redeems herself.
She changes.
She does the hard work.
Read (or listen to it) for yourself:
It’s more than eighty percent off, so grab it while you can and start reading.
You can get it on Audible as well, narrated by the wonderful Erin Mallon (she narrates all the books in the series):
Do you have a redemption story? Or a great Big Grovel story from your life? Were you the grovel-er or the grovel-ee? :)
I read a little while ago that second chance romance rated as the last trope on a list of many possible favorite tropes chosen from. I find this utterly fascinating because I'm obsessed with second chance romance. When I was young I never went back to someone once we broke up ( although there were requests), but being married for 29 years this August ( been together for 36 years- yeah, we're getting old) is an experiment in continual second chances. That is, if you do any of the work to still be in love with your significant other. Make no mistakes, that ebbs and flows; but it is always rewarding to find yourself in another phase of falling in love.
It all boils down to four life guidelines:
1. I knew who he was when I married him ( strengths, weaknesses, ambitions and beliefs- we had had years of intense "hard conversations "), and I have never tried to change him. I simply give him facts about what his decisions are doing to or for me. Any change is his decision.
2. Always aim to be kind- this is especially true when arguing. Cruelty courts resentment, and resentment kills love.
3. I don't enjoy confrontation. I employ humor to fix everything. That doesn't mean I'm a doormat. Being involved so long with someone who enjoys verbal repartee has taught me to sometimes be biting, but always funny.
4. I am in charge of making me happy. I don't nurture relationship changing resentment or arguments. My rule is that I only really fight about things that I know will bother me in 3 years if I don't make a stand now. That's a question I find myself asking silently often. If the answer is " no", then I look for my own solution to get me back to happy.
Apologies for the length of this comment; it just felt so within my wheelhouse.
I love a good grovel. You excel at writing them.
Unfortunately I don't have a good grovel story