We meet eyes. A beat of understanding passes between us. It’s my turn to give her hand a squeeze.
“I just don’t know how to do things halfway,” I say. “Like I said, when I do things, I jump in with both feet. Always. If I’m not going above and beyond, then I’m failing.”
“And that’s served you well in your career. But in your relationships?” Mom shrugs. “Maybe not so much. With children—you don’t have to earn their love. They just give it to you. Freely. It’s one of the most awesome things about them. But you have this misperception that you have to earn Bryce’s affection. She doesn’t care if you’re the head coach of her soccer team, or if the pizza you give her is homemade or from the freezer. She just cares that you’re there. That you’re spending time with her.”
I blink back a barrage of tears. “Makes sense.”
“And you’re wrong to believe you can’t do the juggle. You’re just trying to juggle too much. Take some things off your plate, mija. Stuff that shouldn’t be there in the first place during such a busy season in your life. The coaching position, for starters. That’s an easy one. The homemade pizza, too. If you have time for those things once you’ve turned in your book—then great. Do them then. But right now?” She purses her lips and shakes her head. “Bryce will adore you no matter what. Take it from me. I signed up for everything and anything when you kids were growing up. Troop leader, PTA president, room mom. And do you remember any of it?”
I grin. “I remember you being there, but that’s about it.”
“Exactly. And that’s all that counts. Not the million and a half cupcakes I convinced myself I had to make from scratch. You don’t have to be perfect to be a good parent, Eva. You don’t have to be perfect to deserve anyone’s love. Not Bryce’s, not Ford’s. Not your family’s. You just have to be there.”
I’m crying in earnest now. The tightness in my chest has loosened, and I’m starting to glimpse that lightness again. The kind I feel when I’m with Ford.
Ugh, Mom always gives the best advice. Even if she doesn’t take it herself all the time, she’s got a nuanced understanding of right and wrong. It’s something I’d like to incorporate into my own parenting if—if—Ford takes me back.
I remember what he told me that night at Henley’s. Trust the universe. Trust your process.
I’ve paid lip service to those ideas over the past month or so. But I haven’t actually embraced them. I’m still holding on. Still trying and pushing and hurting.
Living like this hurts. It’s sucking the joy out of what’s supposed to be joyful. Mom is right. The whole reason why I decided to be with Ford—the whole reason I signed up for parenthood—was to be happy.
I should’ve aimed for happiness. Instead, I aimed for perfection. Mostly from myself. Thinking that if I kept trying, kept doing, kept my grip firm on my life and my schedule and my relationships, I could force a happily ever after into being.
I could control my story and my ending, too. When really, so much of it was never in my control in the first place.
I do believe that making good choices (usually) leads to good things. But maybe that’s all we can do. Make our choices and hope for the best. The control freak in me hates leaving the rest up to chance. But what if? I already hear a voice whispering. What if I give this inch? What if it turns into a mile?
I hate those thoughts. I hate feeling this way.
I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Sitting like this—being still like this—makes me painfully aware of how tight and tired my entire being feels. My eyes burn. Heart feels like a clenched fist inside my chest. And my head just feels full. Not in a good way, either. It just feels heavy, scraped up and bleeding from the never-ending vortex of worry circling inside it.
I can’t go on like this.
Please, I pray. Help me let go.
I need to let go, or I’m going to lose everything that’s good in my life.
I keep breathing until my heart rate slows. A bit of space clears inside my head. Usually worry will rush into that space like water crashing down a mountainside.
But today, I make a conscious effort to keep that space clear for one heartbeat at a time. Slowly, more positive thoughts start to take shape. I need to find a solid replacement for the coaching position—it’s not just Bryce counting on me, but the rest of the team, too. That will free up not only my Saturdays but my Wednesdays, too. Bryce might be upset, but I’m doing enough with her that I think we’ll be fine. Let’s not forget she’s also got her daddy, her doting grandparents, her Uncle Grey and Aunt Julia, and a kickass nanny. All of whom go to great lengths to be with her, and play with her, and make sure she’s getting everything she needs.
Speaking of nanny—we’re lucky to have Hannah. I should ask her to help prep some of the Friday night pizza stuff, or at least run to the grocery store to pick up frozen pizzas, so I’m not so overwhelmed going into the weekends. That way, I can still do something sweet for Bryce without running myself into the ground.
I need to ask for help more. Not an easy feat for someone who’s used to taking care of everything on her own. But if I’m going to survive this step-parenthood thing, then I have to do it. Otherwise I won’t make it.
But most of all, I need to apologize to Ford and Bryce.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Ford
“Daddy, is Miss Eva still sick? Is that why she’s not here for pizza night? I have a recipe idea and I would like to tell her about it. Can you invite her over? Please? Please? Please?”
My shoulders tighten at the mention of Eva’s name. I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to hear from her. But so far, nothing. My panic grows with each day that passes.
How am I going to tell my daughter she won’t be seeing much of Miss Eva anymore? She’ll be heartbroken. Same as I’ll be.
And how in the world am I supposed to nurse not one, but two broken hearts back to health?
I seriously hope I don’t have to, because I’m not sure I’m up to the task.
I curl my palms around the handle of the pot I’m washing. Steel myself against the misery that arrows through my middle. I’ve started to wonder if I should reach out to Eva. I think about her constantly. But I want to give her space. I’m sticking to Grey’s advice this time. I’ll wait until she’s feeling better—then we can (hopefully) talk.
Taking a breath, I turn off the faucet. “Time for bed, bun.”
“But I don’t wanna go to bed!”
Aaaannd we’re off. I send up a silent prayer—dearest Lord, please deliver this child of the demon that hath possessed her today—and lift my wailing daughter out of her chair. She calms down a little during her bath, but loses her shit again during story time when I cut her off at two books instead of three. So I do my best to tuck her in while she’s in the throes of a tantrum and turn off the lights. Head downstairs with my phone in one hand and my neck in the other, rolling my head to release the tension there.
I’ve got my baby monitor cued up on my phone. Five minutes later, Bryce is still crying.
I fall heavily onto the couch. Think about making myself a cocktail, but—how sad is this?—I think I might be too damn tired to even drink it. The days just feel freakishly long right now. Makes me think of the movie Groundhog Day when Bill Murray wakes up to the same damn day every morning, over and over again.
And y’all, it’s only been three days.
Might as well be three years.
Glancing down at my phone, I see that Bryce has finally passed out. I’d do a jig if I didn’t feel like death warmed over.
My stomach plunges at the knock on my door.
My first thought is, of course, Eva.
I suddenly don’t feel so tired as I leap off the couch and head for the door. My heart pumps with excitement, even as I tell myself not to get my hopes up. Could be a neighbor. Could be the exorcist God knew I needed tonight.
Could be Eva, coming to end things—really end things—even though I don’t know why she’d
do that, considering she ended our relationship last time I saw her. But the sadist side of my imagination won’t let the idea go.
Gripping the knob in my hand, I close my eyes for a brief half-second. Then, heart in my mouth, I open it.
I feel like I’m going to actually pass out when I see Eva standing there. Wearing jeans and a white-t shirt, a tattoo peeking out of the sleeve. Hair in a ponytail, eyes swollen.
Eyes that fall on my face and well with tears, her lips parting on an intake of breath.
Feeling—so much damn feeling—filling the space between us. Crowding out every idea, every memory, every thought except the one that tells me to touch her. Soothe her. To trace the curve of her face with my fingers. The swell of her hip with my palm.
Eva lifts her arms. She’s holding a red and white thermos in one hand and a cloth grocery bag in the other. Her throat works on a swallow. She licks her lips. I wait for her to say something. Anything. Explain the cooler. Save me.
Shoot me down. Again.
“I…Ford, I fucked up,” she blurts, a tear slipping out of her eye.
Before I know what I’m doing I’m stepping forward in my bare feet and catching that tear with my thumb. She drops her arms over my shoulders and burrows into my chest, tucking her face into my neck. I feel the wet glide of her eyelashes against my skin as she closes her eyes.
The bag and thermos dangle at my nape.
My heart is doing continual somersaults inside my chest. But they’re excited somersaults. Hopeful ones.
Cupping the back of her head in my hand, I press my lips to her forehead and keep them there. “Talk to me, sweetheart.”
“I was wrong,” she says. “I’m sorry. So, so sorry, Ford. If you’ll let me, I’d like to apologize. Explain myself. I brought some whiskey sours I whipped up—”
“Of course you did,” I say “What’s in the bag?”
She steps back and pulls a couple pizza boxes out of the bag in question. “Frozen pizzas. I had time to make the cocktails, but not the pizza. Because priorities.”
“I already like where this is going.” I smile, the tension in my chest loosening. “Come in.”
I grab my phone from the couch, monitor still cued up. In the kitchen, I toss the phone onto the counter. Preheat the oven and take the pizzas out of their boxes while Eva pours cocktails from the thermos. I feel like I’m going to explode with joy just seeing her in my house again. I was really starting to believe she’d never be back. Filling the rooms in this house with her laughter. Her cooking. Her generous, wild spirit.
Handing a whiskey sour to me, she meets my eyes. “I’m sorry it took me a few days to reach out. I already made the mistake of having a serious conversation while in the throes of flu-induced mania, and I didn’t want a repeat of that lovely experience. Figured you wouldn’t, either.”
“Agreed on that point.”
“I also wanted time to gather my thoughts.” She takes a sip from her cocktail, rolling her lips between her teeth. “Figure out exactly what I wanted to say. I wouldn’t ask you for more than one chance to talk this through, and I had—have—a lot going on in my head, so…”
I manage a grin, leaning my head to the side. “What, you? Obsessing over what to say? What to do? Trying to perfect your grovel? Naw.”
She laughs. “I’m working on it.” Taking a deep breath, she sets her whiskey on the counter and nods at the stools. “Mind if we sit? I’m still not feeling one hundred percent. That flu really gave me a run for my money. How is Bryce feeling?”
Warmth invades my gut. I like where this is going. A lot.
I slide out two stools, and motion for Eva to sit in the first. She settles into it gingerly. The pain of the past week knocked her on her ass, too. We’re both bruised. Both worse for the wear.
But she’s here.
“Her fever broke a few days ago, and she’s on the up and up. Still cranky as all get out, though. In fact, an hour before you got here, she had a total meltdown about wanting to see you. And not wanting to take a bath. I love that baby, but Jesus Christ was I relieved when bedtime rolled around.”
Eva winces. “I’m sorry I missed pizza night.”
I wave her away. “Don’t be. Just talk to me, E. Please.”
She looks at me. Eyes wet again. Uncertain. She smooths her palms down the slope of her thighs.
“You were right,” she says. “I took things way too far trying to be the perfect stepmom to Bryce and the perfect girlfriend for you. I talked to my own mom, and I realized—I guess I saw that it’s not parenthood that I can’t handle. It’s trying to be a perfect parent and partner that I can’t do.”
I nod, sipping my whiskey. Nudge her leg with my knee. Immediately my body warms, heat beginning to prickle in familiar places. “I was guilty of trying to be the same. Do the same. Whatever. I just wanted us—this—to work so badly, E. I thought if I tried my absolute best, and made everything as close to perfect as possible, I could prove you made the right call giving Bryce and I a chance. I could show you that having a kid wasn’t the trap you always thought it was. I hate the thought of disappointing you, sweetheart. And that’s exactly what I was hoping to avoid by busting my ass. When really I was exhausting myself.”
Her expression softens. She reaches for my hand and threads her fingers through mine, making my skin light up with awareness.
Fuck I’ve missed this.
“You’re the sweetheart, Ford. And I think that is exactly our problem—we care so damn much that we end up running ourselves ragged trying to be the superheroes we believe the people we love deserve. Let’s stop that.”
I duck my head in a nod. “That stops right now.”
“I’m going to quit the coaching position for starters—”
“Thank the good Lord above.”
“And those frozen pizzas in there?” She tilts her head toward the ovens. “That’s going to be our Friday pizza night fare from now on.”
“Good thing my inner stoned college kid loves frozen pizza.” I lean down and run my lips over her knuckles. “I’m going to do my best to take my foot off the gas pedal, too. Greyson coming back to work should help with that. So will making some of our date nights a little more low key.”
Eva grins. “Dude. With everything we have going on right now, a chill date night sounds wonderful. I still think it’s important we get out every once in a while, just you and me—”
“Of course.”
“But on a regular basis? I am totally happy to just hang. Maybe go to bed early.”
“God, how much do you love being asleep by ten?”
“Ten?” Eva’s grin grows. “Try nine. Love nothing more these days. We could really write the book on dating in your thirties, couldn’t we?”
“Instructions for a successful relationship at thirty-two: step one, frozen pizza. Step two, sex on the couch. Step three: bed by eight-thirty.”
“Bliss.”
“Heaven.”
“God we’re lame.”
Eva shakes her head. “No we’re not. We’re just doing the adult thing—the family thing—on our own terms.”
I look at her. The soft parts inside my chest and head vibrating with delight. “I like the sound of that.”
“Ford, let’s make our own family. Let’s do it our own way. Being with you—I’ve learned that the family I create can be totally different from the one I grew up in. I’ve learned to adopt the good stuff my parents taught me and leave behind the bad. Now I see that together, we can create something different and the same. That’s our choice to make. We get to choose what stays and what goes. And I say what goes is our need to be these two perfect people living this perfect life. Because being perfect doesn’t lead to happy endings. But being myself? Giving ourselves the time and space we need to make our dreams come true? I think that will.”
“I don’t want your perfect,” I say. “I just want you. Happy. Fulfilled. I want to chase down your dreams with you, E.”
Sparks ignit
e in her eyes. “I just want you, too. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
And then she leans in and kisses me. Hand gliding onto my face, tongue gliding into my mouth. I groan at the deliciousness of her taste, the familiarity of it.
She pulls back, touching her forehead to mine. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t in my right mind—not that that is an excuse—but I’m sorry for putting you through the wringer like that. I really regret it, and I promise never to confront you when I have a 102-degree fever again.”
“I’m sorry too,” I say. “For the shouting. The things I said. That was totally out of line. I was also being kind of a hypocrite—”
“Kind of?” She arches a brow.
I scoff. “Just know I’m fully aware I’m guilty of the same shit I accused you of. I get it. And I’ll try my best to fix it.”
Eva searches my eyes. A pulse of raw need passes between us.
“We good?” she asks softly.
I nudge my nose against hers. “We’re good. But before we engage in any funny business, I need to know what went down on your blog—how your readers responded to the news that you have to push the book back.”
“They were disappointed.” Eva swallows. “Honestly, though? I was completely overwhelmed by the outpouring of understanding and support I got when I explained what happened. I was so worried about everyone abandoning me, but turns out I’m not the only one struggling to balance a career with family. It’s helped me bond with so many readers in a new way.”
Southern Heartbreaker Page 26
