Southern Heartbreaker: A Charleston Heat Novel

by Peterson, Jessica

Bryce is asleep when I get home. The worst of the flu has passed, and the pediatrician assured us she’s no longer contagious. But her schedule is still out of whack. I ask Hannah if she can stay a little later, offering her that Bahamian yacht again. I need some whiskey. And some advice.

  An hour later, Grey opens his front door. He’s got a burp cloth tossed over one shoulder and a half-finished bottle in his hand. Baby slung expertly in the crook of his arm, like he’s been at this dad thing his whole life.

  He takes one look at me and narrows his eyes.

  “You look like shit. What happened?”

  “Hello to you too. I think you literally have shit on your shirt, by the way.”

  Grey glances down at his henley, scratching his first finger over a stain near the hem.

  “Hm. Probably.” He tilts his head. “Come in. Beer?”

  “Liquor.”

  “Lord have mercy. Must be serious—I’ll get the brown stuff. Whiskey, not poop.”

  “I’ll go scrub up. Doc said Bryce wasn’t contagious anymore, but I don’t want to risk it with the baby.”

  Grey hands me a whiskey on the rocks, and we settle into the leather chairs in his living room. Parker between us in his fancy swing-thing that quietly whooshes as it rocks him up and down. Side to side.

  I wave at him. He looks at me, eyes blue and big and serious. Just like Greyson’s.

  “The three Montgomery men,” I say, taking a slug of whiskey. It sits like a rock in my empty stomach. “No offense, but I think Parker is the best looking.”

  “Clearly. Takes after his daddy.”

  “Where’s Julia?”

  “Yoga. She got the all clear from her doctor to start exercising, so she’s been trying to get out of the house more often.”

  I arch a brow. “Has she heard from Eva?”

  “Not that I know of.” Grey sips his whiskey, cutting me a look. “Why? Something happen? Talk to me. I hate seeing you like this.”

  I swallow. Take another long pull of whiskey. Then I tell him everything. About how Eva didn’t want kids, and how she came around to the idea of considering them. About how we fell in love all over again. About her parents and the deadline for the cookbook and all the effort she put into being an involved, present person in my daughter’s life.

  By the time I’m done, shards of glass crowd my throat. I’m a little drunk thanks to Grey, who keeps refilling my empty glass with more whiskey.

  I’m more lost than ever. And more tired. Christ am I exhausted. I feel this sense of weariness I haven’t felt since running into Eva back in June at the baby shower.

  How much more do I have to push?

  How much longer do I have to keep working myself to the bone?

  “We’re just so goddamn overwhelmed all the time,” I continue. “Both of us. Eva’s finishing up her book. I’m working my ass off at Montgomery Partners. There are so many great opportunities out there right now, it’s difficult not to get involved. I enjoy the work. A lot. It’s nice being back in the saddle. But between the hours at the office and the entertaining and then Bryce and now Eva…don’t get me wrong, it’s all really, really great stuff. I just feel crushed by it all, and clearly so does she.”

  Grey nods, glancing at Parker when he lets out a little yelp.

  “Y’all have a lot going on. Like, an insane amount by any standard. It’s way too much, Ford. Maybe you can push it a bit in the short term, but in the long run…no wonder y’all ran out of gas.”

  I gulp my whiskey, fully aware that I’m guilty of the same crime I accused Eva of. Taking on too much. I’m a hypocrite, and that hurts.

  “I just want everything to be perfect,” I say, as much to myself as to my brother. “I want Bryce to have a perfect childhood. I want to be the perfect boyfriend to Eva. I want to prove myself at the firm after being on the sidelines for so long. I’m a hard worker, Grey, and I take pride in that fact—”

  “But you’ve totally, completely burned yourself out.”

  “Yup,” I say, tugging at the scruffy skin on my throat. When was the last time I trimmed my beard? Lord knows.

  “You and Eva were always alike in that way,” he replies. “Back in college, y’all were two overachiever peas in a pod. Don’t get me wrong, ambition can be a great thing—”

  “I find Eva’s very sexy.”

  “Julia’s ambition is a big turn on for me, too. But she’s much better at balancing it with real life than I am. You know, family. Friends. Rest. I’ve learned a lot about that over the past year thanks to her. Thanks to this one, too.” He tilts his head toward Parker. “I was miserable before. Now I’m not. I want the same for you, brother. I want you to be happy, too.”

  “I’m trying,” I say lamely. “Failing pretty epically, though.”

  “Look.” Grey leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’ve learned a lot since Parker’s been born. Granted, it’s only been a couple months. But we turned a major corner when he hit seven or eight weeks. Like a cloud’s suddenly lifted, you know?”

  I grin, nodding. “I remember that moment. Bryce started sleeping in seven hour stretches. It was the best feeling ever.”

  “Exactly. Baby’s sleeping. We’ve got him on a decent schedule we can kinda-sorta rely on. Julia’s feeling worlds better. Her nipples don’t feel like they’re going to fall off when she nurses him. Life is so much better than it was that first week when we brought him home.” He refills his own glass. Screws the cap back on the empty bottle. “At the time, it felt like we’d be in that special newborn hell forever. The days—and nights—were so damn long. But just when we thought we were going to break, it got better.”

  “You’re right,” I say. “It does get better. Always.”

  “If parenthood has taught me anything, it’s that everything comes in phases, and no phase lasts forever. You and Eva—you’re in a crazy busy phase right now. You’re learning the ropes at work after a three year hiatus. She just moved. She’s continuing to build her career in a challenging creative field. Y’all are trying to navigate a new relationship with a four-year-old kid in the mix—something neither of y’all have ever done before.”

  I pull back. “When you put it like that, it does sound like a fuck ton.”

  “Because it is, Ford. It won’t be this way forever. But right now, y’all are in the fire, big time. And when that’s the case, you need to simplify where you can. Recognize you’ve got a very full plate and say no. Say no to other people, and to each other. Bryce isn’t going to turn out to be a delinquent if she’s not involved in five million things. Eva isn’t going to dump your ass if date night looks like takeout and porn on the couch.”

  “That actually sounds really nice.”

  Grey nods. “Pretty sure Eva would say the same thing. Do you see what I’m getting at? Take things down a notch. Don’t put so much pressure on yourselves to make everything perfect, especially on the first try. Giving yourself the grace to slow down and fuck up is how you’ll get through this phase. Which I hope will be ending soon, by the way—I’ll be back at work in two weeks, which means I can take at least some of this shit off your plate.”

  “I hear you. I said much the same to Eva just now. Although I have to admit, coming from you—the idea seems pretty damn insightful.”

  Grey looks at me grimly. “Don’t sound so surprised. The past year has been transformative for me. Guess I want to share whatever wisdom I’ve gained. I don’t mean to compare myself to Oprah—”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He grins. “But I think she and I would get along pretty damn well now that I’ve had my ass kicked several times over the course of the past decade.”

  I let out a long, low breath. “Okay. So I’ll take my foot off the gas pedal a bit. Encourage Eva to do the same. Maybe then she’ll reconsider breaking up with me—she’ll reconsider her idea that she can’t balance work and parenthood.”

  “Right. That’s the hope, that she’ll come around.”

 
I want to believe my brother. I want to believe Eva will come around. Realize we both made mistakes and give us another shot.

  But I feel a swift kick of despair when I remember just how upset she was. Coming back from that depth of misery, of regret, is going to be no small reversal. She failed at something she cares a lot about. And like me, Eva does not do failure well.

  “What if she doesn’t?” I say quietly.

  Grey looks at me, brows curved upward. “Then we’ll deal with it. Julia talks a lot about our village—the people who have supported us over the course of her pregnancy and beyond. I want you to know that we’re part of your village. No matter what happens, we’ll help you get through it. You and Bryce. All right?”

  “All right,” I say.

  Worth a shot, anyway.

  “If I were you, I’d let her recover from the flu. Wait until she’s feeling better so y’all can have a real conversation. Come up with a game plan that sets up your schedules without running you both ragged. Make sure your expectations are clear.”

  “You really have been listening to your Oprah.”

  Grey lifts a shoulder. “Figure I’d make the most of my paternity leave and learn how to live my best life.”

  I smile at that. And figure if Grey can do it, maybe Eva and I can, too.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Eva

  By Thursday, my fever breaks. Headache dissipates. The fog that’s clouded my brain lifts.

  Despite all that, I wake up feeling worse than ever. The physical aches and pains that have plagued me over the past week are replaced by a different kind of ache. A bigger one, a more insistent one, the kind of pain that forces me to be present to it on a heartbeat-by-heartbeat basis.

  Grabbing my phone off the charger on my bedside table, I check my texts, calls, emails. Even my DMs. Who the hell do I think I am? Drake? A lovesick teenager waiting on a message from her crush?

  Still, I check them. They’re all full—texts from friends, calls from my family, DMs from fans and fellow bloggers—but the name I’m looking for isn’t there.

  I’m a total shit head for wanting to hear from Ford. I broke up with him. Told him I couldn’t see him anymore. I have no right to his time nor his attention.

  But the ache in my chest sharpens nonetheless at his silence.

  You did the right thing, I tell myself for the five hundredth time. Now that my time is my own again and I’m feeling better, I can get back to finishing my cookbook. No distractions. No excuses. No giving inches.

  It’s exactly what I want. No, what I need. Some silence and quality time with my laptop. I’m just feeling bad because the wound is so fresh. Because the guilt at having led Ford on needs time to heal. That’s all.

  But emerging from my bedroom, trashcan and box of tissues in hand, that silence hits me like a freight train. I stare at the island. The Saltines Ford brought over are still there, alongside the two remaining Gatorades. My laptop waits for me on the kitchen table, surrounded by notes scratched on napkins and envelopes. A picture Bryce drew on a sheet of construction paper, the three of us making purple and pink pizzas together.

  Tomorrow is Friday. Pizza night.

  My eyes film over. I cover them with a hand that trembles.

  For half a second, I’m hit by a wave of horrible certainty that I made the wrong choice. Because the thought of not having Friday night pizza with Bryce and Ford—the idea that I’ll be hammering away on my laptop alone instead, probably shoving some of those Saltines in my face for dinner—fills me with sadness. Dread, too.

  I feel like a piece of shit for falling down on Bryce like this. She loved pizza night.

  I was so positive and excited working on my book when I was with Ford. Yeah, I was also a little manic, trying to squeeze a million other things into my schedule. But the knowledge that he believed in me, and loved me, and loved my food and my work and my words, made the task of completing such a huge project feel manageable. Fun, even.

  But now? Now the thought of plowing through many more thousands of words feels like an impossible task. A heavy weight that I do not want to move. That I maybe can’t move.

  I feel as lost and hopeless as I did when I first got to Charleston.

  Panic rises inside my chest, squeezing my heart. Making my lungs feel half their normal size. If I’m hurting like this, I can only imagine how Ford must be feeling right now. And poor Bryce—

  I miss her. So much. Makes me feel like dying to think she might be missing me, too.

  I glance at my phone. Should I call them? Would that make things better or worse? What would I even say?

  Calm down, I tell myself, trying to get a hold of my breath. But I can’t.

  I can’t be alone right now. So I pick up the phone. Call the one person I know who’ll make me feel better.

  Who’ll be on my side, and help me figure out what I should do. Because as sure as I was two days ago when I told Ford we were done, I’m really questioning that choice now. I should’ve listened to the inner voice that told me I wasn’t in my right mind.

  Then again, maybe I was. I do believe I was right to want to prioritize my work. My gut is telling me that much. Missing my deadline was a big deal, and it’s not something that I ever want to happen again. I love what I do—well, the majority of the time—even if I kind of hate the idea of actually doing it at the moment. It’s not something I want to compromise on.

  It’s not something I should compromise on.

  But my gut isn’t so sure about the breaking-up-with-Ford-bit over it. Because I know a lot of the pressure I felt to be a good partner to Ford, and good parent to Bryce, I put on myself. And if I’m responsible for that pressure, I’m responsible for dealing with its fallout.

  How do I do that, though, without sacrificing the things I love? Without that inch turning into a mile? Is it worth the risk?

  Hearing my mom’s voice on the phone makes me start crying all over again. She shows up at my door an hour later, bearing the gifts of wine, chocolate, and a tray of Pastel Azteca.

  She wraps me in a tight hug, the familiar scent of her lotion filling my head, and I start to feel the tiniest bit better.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks after we finish eating, crumpling a napkin in her hand. I told Mom that Ford and I broke up when she came over after he left the other day. She doesn’t know the details, though.

  “It’s…complicated.”

  Mom pours us each more wine. “I’ve got time.”

  “I guess it comes down to this: I thought I could do it all. Have the career and the relationship and the kid, too. Be superwoman, basically. So I jumped in with both feet. Signed up for everything I could. The soccer coach gig, as you know. Doing this whole homemade pizza night thing. Date nights with Ford. All while wrapping up a book under a very tight deadline.” I let out a pained breath. “Shockingly, I fell on my face, and I learned real fast that I’m not cut out for that kind of juggle. It’s too much, Mom. I love Ford, and I love his daughter. But I just…I gave an inch. And like you said, you start giving inches, and suddenly they turn into miles.” I shake my head and turn away.

  “Eva.” Mom reaches for my hand and gives it a warm squeeze. “Eva, mi amor, look at me.”

  I turn back to her. Heart dipping at the furrow in her brow.

  “You are never going to make the same mistakes I did,” she says. “I know that, and I think deep down you do, too.”

  A tear slips down my cheek. “What makes you so sure of that?”

  “You’re more ambitious than I ever was. More driven and aware. And I know you, Eva. I know you love me, but I also know you’re determined to have a much different life than I do.”

  Shit, now I’m really crying. “I’m sorry, Mom.”

  “Don’t be. I won’t lie, it hurts, but I understand. I admire that about you—how you have become an author in every sense of the word. You’re authoring your own story, creating your own happy ending. I admire myself for raising such a strong,
passionate woman. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.” She wipes away my tears with her fingers. “You’ll never give so many inches that you’ll end up stuck, mija. You know better than I ever did. Missing this deadline—yes, it’s a setback. But it’s not the major blow you’re making it out to be. You’re still on course to achieve your dreams. And you will. All of them. Including your dream of ending up with a man like Ford.”

  “I do dream of that,” I say, sniffing. “But maybe I have too many dreams. Maybe they’re too big to fit into one life. And what if something big goes wrong? Something that rocks the boat way more than this flu did? What will happen to my dreams then?”

  Mom looks at me. Eyes wistful. “You’ll keep chasing them. Because your dreams are bigger than any of the bad stuff that gets thrown your way. I’m here to help you. So is your father. So is Ford. I never had that kind of support. But you do. Things will be different for you, mija. That I can promise you.”

  I feel like my heart is breaking and being put back together all at once.

  The sensation—the emotion—is overwhelming.

  I just cry. And cry some more.

  Mom patiently wipes away my tears, handing me tissues. “Remember why you decided to be with Ford in the first place. It’s because he makes you happy. But trying to do all those things, all at once? That didn’t make you happy. That made you stressed. Exhausted. You’re pushing yourself to the brink when really you need to sit and rest.”

  I arch a brow. “That’s rich, coming from the woman who hasn’t sat down in almost forty years.”

  “I know, I know. I’m guilty of pushing myself way past my limits, too. Apple,” she grins, motioning between us. “Meet tree. But I didn’t have a mother who encouraged me to be different. To do differently.” My throat aches when she smooths my hair over my shoulder. “I’m telling you that now, Eva. You’re going to run yourself into the ground if you keep trying to do so much. And I know from personal experience how much that affects your life and the people you love. Leave the Superwoman idea behind. She’s not real. But you? You and your fabulous blog and your fabulous books? Your smile when you see Ford? Those things are. And having them will require sacrifices, but some of the things you’ll have to sacrifice—like your perfectionism—is something I think you’ll be glad to see go. That’s not giving an inch. That’s gaining one. Gaining miles of space to be yourself, and be happy.”