Olivia grins. “I’ve heard the stories about that guy.”
I laugh, the tightness in my chest loosening the tiniest bit. I knew calling my girls was the right move, even if I do feel guilty for high jacking their Friday night. I met Gracie through my neighbor Elijah—she’s his younger sister—but the two of us really became close when I was designing the interiors for her shop. Olivia, the author of My Romp With the Rogue, has been my friend since grad school.
Eva I’ve known forever. We met when I was home one summer from college, and we’ve been inseparable ever since. She’s a pit master—a master of the barbecue pit, how cool is that?—and lives in Atlanta now. While she’s not in Charleston all that often, she does come to visit her parents every once in a while. They own a cute barbecue place out on Sullivan’s Island. Lucky for me, she’s in town this weekend.
“Armand will always be the one that got away,” I reply, sighing. “God, he was hot.”
“I thought y’all barely talked,” Eva says. “You barely spoke French, and he didn’t know a word of English.”
My smile grows wistful. “It was a magical time.”
Gracie sets an iced coffee in front of me, milk swirling into the dark liquid. It’s my usual order here at Holy City Roasters. I’m a coffee fiend—the kind that goes straight from bed to the coffee pot. I love the smell, the taste. The ritual of sitting down with the day’s first cup.
But looking down at my coffee, fragrant and ice cold, I’m hit by an unpleasant realization. I don’t know what the rules are exactly about drinking coffee when you’re pregnant. But I can’t imagine any doctor would recommend having a fourth cup of the day, especially at 8 P.M.
I feel short of breath. Like my lungs are gripped in an invisible fist. My eyes burn with tears.
Olivia runs a hand across my back. “Aw, sweetie, talk to us.”
“Do you not like the coffee?” Gracie asks, clearly distressed.
I blink, taking a quick breath through my nose, and shake my head. “Coffee looks delicious. I just—” Another breath. Best to just come out with it. “I’m pregnant. Took the tests right before I called you guys.”
Eva gasps. Olivia gapes.
A tear slips down my face, catching on my lips.
“But you told me things were quiet on the dating end lately,” Gracie says. “That you weren’t feeling your regulars.”
I tug a hand through my hair. “That is true. But there’s this guy I haven’t told y’all about.”
“Who?” Eva says. “Why haven’t you told us?”
I wrap my fingers around my coffee, the condensation cool against my palm. Look down at it. My friends would never judge me.
But I still feel a pang of shame. I’ve been fucking my boss. Not only that. Hate fucking my boss, the two of us exchanging bodily fluids but rarely conversation. We meet, we screw, we smoke a cigarette. Then we go our separate ways.
I’m all for a hot, anonymous tryst. I’m a feminist lit professor with a lady boner for romance, for crying out loud. How could I not be into a woman seeking sexual satisfaction, no matter what that satisfaction looks like?
But now that a baby is involved, the scenario feels different. This is the father of my child we’re talking about. Not some smoking hot French guy I fooled around with when I was a nineteen year old foreign exchange student. I feel like I should at least know something, anything, about the guy who knocked me up. Not for lack of trying. Whenever I ask about anything non-work related, Greyson stonewalls me.
He completely shuts me down.
So I know next to nothing about him, aside from his preference for Marlboro Lights and penchant for growly rudeness.
“He and I have a very…casual arrangement. I haven’t mentioned it to you guys because”—I lift the cup, rotate it, drop it back on the table, careful not to spill the coffee—“we work together, and we don’t want anyone to know.”
“Wait.” I feel the heat of Gracie’s stare. “Is this someone you’re working with on Luke’s barn?”
I look up. Meet her eyes. “It is. Greyson Montgomery.”
She gasps again. Louder this time.
No, not louder—it’s just Eva gasping, too.
“What?” I ask, shooting her a worried look.
“Nothing. I just, um. I dated his brother, Ford, when we were younger.”
“The Ford?” I say. “The one you pined after all through your twenties?”
Eva purses her lips and nods. “That’s him. Guy was my first everything. Including my first heartbreak.”
“Ooompf,” Gracie says. “First one stays with you, doesn’t it?”
“That one stayed with me for years,” Eva replies. She turns back to me. “Anyway. I remember Greyson. A little serious, but a nice guy. He’s protective of Ford. Really cute, too.”
I scoff. “Nice guy? Eva, Greyson is a complete asshole.”
Gracie blinks.
“I didn’t know assholes were your kink.”
“Me either. Alphaholes are totally not my trope of choice.”
Gracie grins at the romance reference. Like me, she’s been obsessed with romance lately. Specifically Olivia’s yummy historicals.
“Greyson was always straight edge, but he wasn’t a jerk,” Eva says. “At least from what I can remember. I wonder what happened.”
“No clue.” I shrug. Swallow. “We were so careful.”
Olivia reaches across the table and puts her hand on mine.
“I get that you just found out. But do you have any feelings either way?”
“About keeping it?” I sigh for what feels like the hundredth time. Try to make sense of the swirl of feelings and thoughts inside me. “Honestly, I don’t know. I’m considering all my options.”
“If I were in your shoes, I’d do the same,” Olivia replies. “You remember when I got pregnant my first year in grad school.”
“I didn’t know that,” Gracie says.
“Yup. It was with my boyfriend at the time—my first real boyfriend,” she says, nodding at Eva. “We were young. Broke. I ended up not keeping the baby. We just weren’t ready to be parents, you know? So I’m glad I had the choice.”
I sip my coffee. Let out a breath. “I have to say that now that I’m in this position, I’m relieved the option is there. I mean—” I let out another breath. “Shit, y’all. We were so careful. I don’t know how this happened. It sucks. Really, really sucks.”
“Would you consider adoption?” Eva asks.
“To be honest, I don’t think so. I get that it’s a great option for some people. But if I’m going to keep the baby, I think—at this point in my life at least—I’d want to be the one to raise him or her.”
Olivia reaches over to take my hand. “This is a big decision, Julia. I can’t imagine how heavy it must feel to you, but I recognize how hard it is. You know we’re your village, right? No matter what you decide, we’ll support you one-hundred-percent. I’ll hold your hand on the way to the clinic, same as I’ll hold your hand while you’re screaming for an epidural.”
“Always,” Gracie says. “No judgement from me.”
“If I didn’t judge you for your escapades with the French footballer, I’m certainly not going to judge you for this,” Eva says with a smile.
“Thank you, guys. Seriously. I don’t know much about having a baby, but I do know I can’t do it alone.”
“If you do decide to go the having-the-baby route, maybe you could try to find a community of moms-to-be,” Olivia adds. “I know our yoga studio up on Spring Street offers prenatal classes. Probably a great way to meet other mamas.”
A rush of heat behind my eyes.
My nose starts to run.
“Damn it,” I say, wiping my eyes with my napkin. “Why do y’all have to be so fucking awesome?”
“Because we love you and we want to see you happy,” Gracie replies.
In that moment, I know that no matter what I end up doing, I’ll be okay. All because I have these supportive, o
pen-minded, incredibly generous women in my life.
I’m lucky and privileged in more ways than I can count.
And yet I still don’t know what the right call is here.
“I recognize that this isn’t the end of the world,” I say. “Yes, it sucks. But it could be much worse. I guess…I mean, I guess I just really like my life as it is right now. I don’t feel like I’m missing anything. Would I like to be in love? Sure. Would I like to have a family? I mean, yes and no. Not with a guy like Greyson, that’s for damn sure. I’ve always wanted kids in a ‘maybe someday’ kind of way.”
Eva dips her head. “All valid points. I’ve never wanted to be a mother myself. The whole kid thing holds very little appeal to me.”
“I can get that. Now that I actually have the chance to do the kid thing, though…” My eyes smart against a fresh wave of tears. “I don’t know. I mean, am I ready to give up my freedom? Am I ready to be a single parent?”
Gracie rubs my back. “You have time to think about it. Are you going to tell Greyson?”
“Yeah. As terrible as that conversation is going to be, he deserves to know.”
“He might surprise you,” Olivia says.
“Doubtful. But I appreciate the thought.” I look at Olivia. “By the way—and sorry for the change of subject, but since I’m thinking about it—the barn will definitely be ready in time for the date you guys had in mind. How’s the wedding planning coming along?”
Olivia grins. “It’s coming. But tonight is about you. You’ll keep us updated on where your head’s at, right? And you’ll call if you need anything?”
“Of course.” I manage a tight smile. “I know I keep saying this, but thank you. For understanding. And for not judging me.”
Despite my friends’ support, my thoughts still whirl on my walk home. I may be a free spirit, but that doesn’t mean I’m reckless. French footballer aside, I am pretty intentional about the decisions I make. Especially the big ones. I always thought that if I had a baby—and that was always a big if—it’d be the result of years of careful planning. I’d bring that baby into the stable, loving home my partner and I had worked hard to build.
But maybe that’s just it. Building that home requires sacrifice. It requires being tied down.
I’m not sure I ever want to make that kind of sacrifice. My dreams are important to me. I’ve worked hard to make them come true. How many of those dreams would I have to give up to have this baby?
Then again, how many new dreams would I create if I went the other way and kept him or her? Yeah, I’d be losing a lot. But maybe there’s something to gain.
Something I haven’t thought of yet.
Chapter Five
Julia
A trip to the doctor’s office the following week confirms the results of my at-home tests.
My OB-GYN sends me on my way with a literal bagful of literature. Breastfeeding and childbirth classes. A page-long list of fish you are and aren’t allowed to eat. A pamphlet on options.
My head is spinning.
It’s a beautiful fall day, the weather sunny and mild. My amazing TA, Irene, is handling my afternoon class, so I don’t have to head back to work. I’ve always been a big walker; it’s where I do some of my best thinking. When I get home, I cue up My Romp With the Rogue on my phone—I’m on my second read because I love it so much—pop in my earbuds, and head outside.
Outside Charlotte’s bedchamber, Callum was still very much a monster. Growly. Rude. Impatient.
But in it?
In it, the man proved to be an altogether different creature.
They’d been married for weeks now, and he came to her chambers every night. And every night, it all felt thrillingly new.
Even now, buttering her toast the morning after he had her up against a wall, had her bent over her writing desk, and had her once more in the warmth of her bed, her toes curled at the memory of his ministrations.
He took charge, certainly. But he could also be tender. Generous.
Even kind.
It made Charlotte think there was a good man behind the mask.
Which begged the question—why did he hide behind it?
She nearly jumped when he appeared in the doorway. He was in breeches today, topped with a smart waistcoat that accentuated the breadth of his chest and shoulders.
She knew what he’d ask before the words left his mouth. His eagerness for an heir was obvious from the start.
“Any news?”
Charlotte shook her head. “Not yet. I shall inform you of any as soon as I have it myself.”
“And your courses?”
Normally, she’d blush at discussing such personal matters with anyone, much less a man. But with Callum, it almost felt…natural.
Easy.
“No sign of them yet.”
He fell heavily into the chair across the table from hers and reached for the toast.
“Why are you so eager?” she asked. “For an heir?”
Callum’s eyes flicked to meet hers. “It was in the marriage contract. I must have an heir in order to inherit my uncle’s land.”
“I think there’s more to it than that.” She straightened, gathering her courage. “Your butler informed me your brother was your only sibling. Your mother died when you were young, and your father spent his life in London, leaving you behind in Scotland. Exactly how lonely were you?”
He went very still. Clouds gathering in his eyes.
“We do not speak of my brother in this house,” he replied evenly. “I forbid it.”
If only Charlotte were not drawn to forbidden things.
* * *
I walk for hours. Up East Bay. Across the Ravenel Bridge and back. Walk through my thoughts, parsing through fears, hopes, histories.
I end up standing in front of a familiar, four-story facade on Church Street in the South of Broad neighborhood.
The house I grew up in during my teenage years.
Daddy and I pored over paint samples for months before deciding on the white-on-white color scheme. Our inspiration had been a house in London’s Notting Hill, which we’d photographed on one of our many trips to Europe over the years.
I take out my earbuds. My grief hits me square in the gut, leaving me breathless. I miss him. Every damn day. I was always close with my parents. But Daddy and I had a special bond. He was a well-known architect here in Charleston, and we were both obsessed with design. Specifically European design, and the travel and the history that came with it.
He was the best travel buddy, my biggest cheerleader, and my shoulder to cry on. Losing him was like losing a limb. I knew I’d never move in the world the same way again.
I grip the wrought iron gate guarding the driveway, trying to steady myself. Trying to breathe.
Squirrels dart across the lawn and climb up an old oak tree. The humid, salty smell of the ocean, just down the street, permeates everything.
I swallow the tightness in my throat. Heart racing.
What in the world am I going to do about this baby? This feels adult and scary in a way nothing else ever has. Not going away to college or getting a job or starting my own design business.
This is not at all the direction I imagined my life would take.
Then again, I’m thirty-four. I have the privileges of a great job with decent benefits, a healthy savings account I’ve worked for years to build, and an amazing support network. I’ve had plenty of time to experience the world on my own and achieve my goals. If I decide to have this kid, chances are I could provide the kind of life I want for her and for myself, too.
This pregnancy was unplanned. But in many ways, I am not unprepared.
Yes, this isn’t how I imagined my experience of motherhood would play out. Namely, I thought I’d be doing this baby thing with a great, sexy, preferably bookish guy who adored me as much as I adored him, and who was committed to being an equal partner in all things. Parenthood included.
And yes, there’s a chance Gr
eyson will want to be involved. But even if he is, can I count on him to be that equal partner? How would we co-parent when we can hardly look at each other without engaging in verbal fisticuffs (shout out to historical romance for making that word a regular part of my vocabulary)?
Bottom line: am I ready to take on single parenting? Yes, I have a village that is ready and willing to help out. But at the end of the day, it will just be me and this baby against the world. I won’t have a partner to take over diaper duty in the middle of the night after I’m exhausted from a feeding. I don’t have a parent to offer advice or just be there when I’ve had it or my nipples are bleeding or I’m out of coffee.
Doing this alone is going to be fucking hard.
The hardest thing I’ve ever done.
I’m scared.
But I’ve done enough scary things in my life to know that sometimes being frightened is a good thing. It means you’re taking a chance. Doing something that’s risky and big. You’re diving into life headfirst. Diving into experience.
As a woman of appetite—for food and liquor and the occasional cigarette, yes, but also for knowledge, for late nights and literature and feeling and family—I am all for experience.
Blinking, I look up at my parents’ house. I’m flooded by all the memories this place holds. The big stuff—graduations, birthdays, holidays—and the little ones, too. How Mom would make blueberry muffins from a box on Saturday mornings, making the whole house smell like sugar and butter. Her sitting at the counter with me, hiding her wine in a Solo cup while walking me through my long division homework. Dad playing music in the living room, the three of us dancing to Sir Elton, Springsteen, Melissa Etheridge (he went through a Lilith Fair phase in the late-nineties.)
I miss that.
The sense of belonging.
It hits me that maybe this baby is my chance at building a new family. At recreating that belonging, just with someone new.
Southern Gentleman: A Charleston Heat Novel Page 4
