Southern Seducer: A Best Friends to Lovers Romance

by Jessica Peterson

  “Annabel doesn’t understand this disease the way I do. The way we do. If she did, I wouldn’t have had to let her go. She would’ve run out of here like her hair was on fire.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “Yes, I do. She’s incredibly smart, just like you said. She knows what kind of life she wants and deserves. It isn’t a life spent taking care of someone with a degenerative brain disease.”

  “She does know what she wants. She wants to spend her life with the man she loves. And if that life includes some bumps along the way—which it inevitably will, whether you have an injury or not—then so be it. She’s walking in with eyes wide open, Beau.”

  Jesus, I want to believe Milly.

  I wanna believe so bad.

  Which is why I gotta get out of here. Temptation’s hitting me from all sides, and I’m feeling my control start to slip. I need to get home and turn off my phone, turn up some old-school Tupac, and be alone.

  Letting Annabel leave was ripping off the Band-Aid.

  Now I gotta learn to live with the wound.

  “I checked in with catering and the police department. We’re a go on both fronts.” I push back from the bar. “You need anything else from me?”

  Milly looks up at me, eyes earnest.

  “I need you to do some soul searching,” she says. “If you ever do go back to Annabel—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Never say never. Take it from a wedding planner. If I had a nickel for every time I heard, ‘Oh, so and so is my soul mate, my first, my last, my only,’ just to find out that soul mate is definitely not that person’s last or only, I’d be a rich woman.”

  “You are a rich woman.”

  The side of Milly’s mouth curls upward. “I am. So, if you ever do go back to Annabel, you’re gonna need to pull out all the stops. I’m talking full-on grovel. On your knees with diamonds in your hands and a ten-piece band playing Etta James in the background.”

  I decide not to acknowledge that with a response and climb off my chair instead. Tucking it underneath the bar, I turn and am immediately confronted by Mama.

  “John Riley.”

  She’s staring me down with disapproval written all over her face. With her brow furrowed and arms crossed, she projects a presence much larger than her petite frame would suggest.

  My stomach dips.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “I see Milly’s already given you a talking-to about how you treated our Annabel. So I’ll spare you the lecture. I’m here to let you know how disappointed I am in you, son. She’s a good girl, and you broke her heart. Now I’m sure you have your reasons, but none of ’em are good enough to justify what you’re doing. You hear me?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do. I—”

  “Your daddy wasn’t all bad at the end, you know.”

  I startle. Out of all the things Mama could’ve said, I wasn’t expecting that.

  “What does that mean?”

  “I know you’re scared of what happened to him happening to you,” she replies. “But I’m not sure you’re seeing the whole picture. You were away for so much of his illness. You only came back when things took a turn for the worse, and we got scared. You didn’t get to see him on his good days.”

  Swallowing the lump in my throat, I curl my palm around the nape of my neck. I can’t do this right now. Revisiting Daddy. The memory of him, and how one day that will be Mama and Milly’s memory of me.

  “That’s just it,” I say. “We were scared. I’m not gonna risk scaring Annabel. Even if I still have good days.”

  Mama sighs. “You’re a stubborn one. Always have been. I’m not gonna try to convince you to do one thing when you’re set on doing another. But I do agree with Milly. Think on this, son. Think real hard.”

  I nod.

  I’m desperate to get the hell out of here. I’m well aware getting drunk is no solution to my problems, but I feel like I’m about to burst. I need to let out some steam somehow, and I already tried the gym, and I already tried beating up my brother, so…

  Yeah. That leaves booze.

  I’m a piece of shit. I get it.

  Only makes me want to drink more.

  My house isn’t the comfort I thought it’d be when I get there. I miss my best friend.

  Storm clouds gather outside the windows. The light would’ve been moody and sexy when Annabel was here. But now it’s just dark and depressing.

  The house is empty, and so am I.

  My liquor cabinet, praise be, is not.

  I open a bottle of Appalachian Red because why not? I blast Tupac and Pearl Jam and angry Nirvana because it suits my mood.

  I drink, and when that doesn’t work, I try smoking a cigar.

  I’m gonna be hungover as fuck tomorrow, but what the hell do I care?

  Shivering on my back porch, the concrete floor cold against my bare feet, I let out stream after stream of smoke as night falls over the mountains.

  “I’m doing the right thing,” I say to no one.

  No one’s all I got left.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Annabel

  It’s a double whammy, being dumped and ending your maternity leave in the same week.

  One event would’ve been enough to knock me sideways.

  But both? I wanna wave a white flag and quit life for good.

  I wake up on April first, a Thursday, at three AM. It’s not like I can sleep much, anyway. Since I left Blue Mountain, I’m finding it hard to sleep or eat. I force myself to eat because, well, I’m Maisie’s sole source of nourishment. So I gag on bowls of plain Cheerios and force down grilled cheese sandwiches at night.

  Sleep, though? I can’t force myself to do that.

  Even so, your alarm going off at a time with a three handle is brutal. But I need to pump, shower, get myself ready—what the fuck am I gonna wear?—eat, and pump again, just in case, before I head into the office.

  Oh. And I need to set out all the bottles Maisie’s going to need for the day. Maybe I should take more breast milk out of the freezer? I hope she’ll take the bottle from someone new. She did well with mom and Mrs. B., but you never know.

  I find myself cursing the universe in general, and American parental leave policies in particular, as I pump on the couch, water from my wet hair dripping down my back and soaking the one dress I have that sorta-kinda fits and is sorta-kinda office appropriate. I slug coffee and I pray Maisie doesn’t wake up, and I can’t help but think this whole no-paid-leave thing we have in the States is complete and utter bullshit.

  I miss working, don’t get me wrong. In my humble opinion, being home with a baby is just as much work—hell, even more—as being in the office is. I tip my hat to stay-at-home moms. Truly.

  But I have to work, so off to work I go.

  Even though I am so not fucking ready. And I got way, way more leave than most women do. Still, at five months old, Maisie is nursing around the clock. She’s mostly sleeping through the night. My body doesn’t belong to me yet, and neither does my time.

  I’m trying to wean Maisie, slowly but surely, but I’m terrified of getting mastitis. Especially right now, when I have so much going on.

  So yeah. I’m going to have to pump four—yes, four—times during the day (note to self: don’t forget to grab extra breast pads in case I get stuck in a meeting or on a call). While I’m supposedly girl-bossing the shit out of my job. While also checking in with my nanny, who’s only watched my baby once before during a two-hour trial run (note: write her a check for the week), and wondering how the hell I’m going to make dinner (shit, I need to go grocery shopping) and do bath time in the hour I have with my daughter before she goes to bed.

  Then I have to unpack and label the breastmilk I pumped, clean the pump parts, and pack it all back up again for tomorrow. Then I guess I’ll wake up at three AM again.

  I tear up just thinking about it.

  This would be so much easier if my job were flexible, and I could work from
home full or part-time. At least until my baby is older. That way, I could take breaks throughout the day to nurse her, hold her. I could be around. But I’m quickly learning that, for a lot of women like me, being around at home and being present at work are mutually exclusive concepts.

  It’d be easier if I could rely on quality childcare that’s available to me without paying a fortune or jumping through hoops.

  But again, that’s not something that exists in the States.

  Man. Becoming a mom is kinda mobilizing me. I’m realizing just how high the deck is stacked against us. I’m incredibly privileged, and this is still the hardest thing I think I’ve ever done. I could afford to take a five-month leave. I can afford to have a woman come into my home and care for my baby. I can count on my job being there for me when I’m heading back to work.

  I know many, many families don’t enjoy these luxuries.

  But that’s just it. They shouldn’t be luxuries.

  I get a stomachache when I hand Maisie off to the nanny for the first time. I know she’s in good hands. And I know I need a break, even if that break is going to the office.

  It’s still hard.

  On my short drive to uptown, I get off my mental soapbox long enough to think about Beau.

  When I’m not thinking about Maisie, I’m thinking about him.

  My stomach clenches, and the saliva in my mouth thickens. I feel like I’m back in my first trimester, when I was always this close to vomiting up the cracker I just ate.

  I’ve tried to stay angry. I’ve tried to focus on what a dick move it was, not only letting me leave, but letting me leave without so much as a wave or a word. And not to have checked in with me to see if we got home okay? That nearly tore my heart out of my chest.

  That’s not the Beau I know and love.

  Yet I find myself dwelling on the romance of my time with him. The way he brushed his nose against mine when we kissed. How his bicep and Maisie’s head were the same size.

  The way he made me feel.

  Like I was myself again, only better for having endured what I did. A wiser, stronger mom and woman and friend. My many skins fitting over my bones just right, the way they were always supposed to.

  I run into my boss, Matt, in the parking garage elevator. We make small talk. I like Matt, he’s a good guy. But it’s early, and I’m tired, and keeping the conversation going takes tremendous effort on my end.

  Not for the first time, I wonder how the hell I’m going to get through this day.

  7:15 morning call. Traders running through their axes. Syndicate has two deals coming, both in the high grade space, both big industrial names. Meaning we have a hellaciously busy day ahead.

  Pumping is almost an escape. The mother’s room in my part of the building is austere and kind of gross. Whoever used it last left spilled milk on the little table beside the chair I’m using and didn’t clean it up.

  Makes me feel like puking. Again.

  Turning away from it, I check the Bloomberg app on my phone.

  I did not miss not opening it during my maternity leave.

  Fifty unread messages await.

  I go through them, one by one. Forwarding a client bid to a trader. Responding to our sales assistant about a ticket she’s trying to put in.

  I text the nanny and ask her how things are going. She sends me a picture of Maisie smiling in her bouncy seat, and I feel better.

  Throughout the day, I find myself thinking often about that second act I’ve pondered.

  Over the past year, my time has become enormously more precious. Now that I’m back in the office, I’m more certain than ever it’s time to move on. I don’t know what it is about having Maisie, and having depression, that’s shifted my dreams into high gear. Maybe I just want to spend more time with her.

  Maybe I’m realizing what’s truly important after my stay at Blue Mountain: family. Friends. Time spent doing things I’m passionate about with the people I love.

  Until I figure out what my next move will be, however, I have to stick with the job I have. With a family to care for, I still need an income, and I definitely still need good health insurance.

  Washing my pump parts in the cruddy little sink, I decide to be my wiser, stronger, you-got-this self here at work, too. I just have to take it one step at a time. And take whatever help is offered. The way I did when I was fly-fishing, and skeet shooting, and gnocchi making.

  I don’t need a guy to be empowered.

  I can empower myself. Today. Right now. I only need to decide to do it. And fucking do it. I can call my friends and pour my heart out to them. I can make coffee dates with them, and baby play dates, and we can have girls’ night out at our favorite restaurants in town.

  I can heal in my own small, slow way.

  Breastmilk cooler slung over my shoulder, I march back to the trading floor.

  As my therapist said, I don’t need to have the best day.

  Hell, I don’t even need to have a good day.

  But I am determined to have a day that doesn’t suck.

  I got this.

  “So,” Mom says from the sink, where she’s bathing Maisie. “How did your first day back go?”

  Because she’s awesome, and because I think she’s a little lonely without Larry around, Mom stopped by to lend an extra pair of hands.

  Pouring us each a glass of sparkling water, I say, “It started out pretty rough. When I woke up this morning, I wasn’t sure I was going to be able to do it. Make it through the day without having a total breakdown. But you know what? After I got over that initial hump, it went pretty well. Don’t get me wrong, I was exhausted. And stressed. But overall, it went better than I thought it would.”

  “Oh, Annabel, that’s great news. I’m so glad. I was worried about you.” Mom leans in and crooks her finger underneath Maisie’s chin, making her giggle. “I was worried about you, too, you little nugget.”

  “I was scared. My girlfriends warned me the first day could be tough. And it was. Juggling actual work and pumping and eating and not falling asleep at my desk—it was hard.”

  Mom frowns. “That job you have is so intense.”

  “I know. It’s what I signed up for. But honestly?” I sip my water and turn on the sweet potatoes. I’m trying to replicate Samuel’s recipe, although let’s be real, I’m not half as good at this cooking thing as he is. “The break from constant baby duty was nice. I mean, I had to pump every two and a half hours. I could’ve stretched it to three, but I was terrified of leaking through my bra, so I didn’t have huge stretches of uninterrupted time. But my day, it wasn’t constantly interrupted by a crying baby. I got to interact with adults. I got to eat my lunch in peace at my desk.”

  Mom’s frown curls into a smile. “Would you have ever imagined work would be a break?”

  “No,” I say, laughing. “But it’s true. I felt like I could breathe a little easier, being on my own. Also helps that our nanny is awesome. Maisie was pretty content when I got home earlier. Which is really saying something, because it was smack dab in the middle of her usual witching hours.”

  “Good. All good things.” Mom looks back down at Maisie. “Any word from Beau?”

  Another sip of wine. “No.”

  I texted Samuel when we got back to Charlotte. He replied with a standing invitation to Blue Mountain and a smiley face emoji.

  Other than that, I haven’t heard a peep from any Beauregard. Beau included.

  Not gonna lie, I’ve thought about reaching out to him. But I haven’t had the time. Even if I did, I’m not sure what I’d say.

  Hey, I think you’re a shit for what you did, but I miss you and hope you’re well?

  “Do you think it makes me a jerk?” I ask Mom. “Not checking in on my best friend? The guy who’s likely got a brain injury?”

  Mom shrugs. “He hasn’t checked in on you. And after what he did…”

  “I know.” I swallow. “I just miss him like crazy.”

  I was an idio
t to ever think I could keep things casual with Beau. That was a mistake on my part. I don’t regret what we did. I don’t want to take back what went down between us during those weeks, because they were some of the best of my life.

  But I do regret losing him this way. Not as a lover necessarily, although that’s awful, too.

  More than anything, I regret losing him as a friend.

  There’s a hole in my life where he used to be.

  Take today, for example. He would’ve been the first person to check in on me throughout the day. Would’ve made me laugh when I needed it.

  He’d be the first person I called after I got home to fill him in on how it all went. We’d have dinner together over the phone and we’d talk about everything and nothing. He’d ask about my boss and my clients. I’d ask about the latest happenings at his resort and his family.

  It’s weird and it’s horrible, not having him to call anymore.

  It’s my worst fear about our whole situation coming true.

  That’s what hurts the most.

  I want to wallow in my misery. But Mom is here, and the baby needs to be put to bed. Sweet potatoes are boiling over.

  This is my real life today.

  My new normal.

  So I give the potatoes a stir and ask, “How’s Larry?”

  Mom smiles again, blushing.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Beau

  “Ho-ly shit,” I breathe, climbing out of my car.

  I’m in my Sunday best. Custom-made suit. Gucci shoes, socks, and belt, because I need to take small pleasures where I can get ’em.

  I chafe a little against my shirt collar and tie. My clothes are tight in the arms and chest, loose around the waist. Still can’t eat much.

  But that doesn’t spoil the magic set out before me.

  The rain stopped two days ago. We’ve had sun ever since, these magical seventy-degree spring days that are right out of an Asheville Chamber of Commerce brochure.

  It’s late afternoon now, the light golden and warm. The lawn, neatly mowed, is set with three hundred matching white chairs. They face an enormous chuppah made of magnolia branches and what must be at least a thousand white blooms. I can smell their scent from here.