Southern Playboy (North Carolina Highlands 4)

My gut twists with guilt. I want to be the giver Amelia always was, but no matter how hard I try, I just end up taking.

Liam is standing beside her in the backyard. He waves too, his little face red from running around all afternoon.

He’s getting good at badminton, Amelia says. He’s an athlete, just like . . . me.

I laugh, and the twist hurts a little less, but I still can’t get my feet to move down the steps into the yard. I’m stuck inside the house, shivering because the AC is cranked way up. I wave to them and ask them to help me, but they just wave back, still smiling like they can’t understand what I’m saying.

It’s because the doors are closed. They can’t hear me through the glass. I try shouting; I bang on the door, but they just shrug and turn away from me. Amelia tosses a birdie into the air and hits it toward Liam, who dashes after it, his little bare feet kicking up the grass.

They laugh and play, happy on their own.

Happy without me.

I see all the badminton stuff spread out in the yard, and I realize there isn’t an extra racquet for me to play with even if I could get out of this damn house.

Maybe Amelia and Liam don’t want me to play after all.

Amelia, who’s bent over with Liam’s little hand in hers, teaching him how to hit the birdie, pauses. Looks at me.

Don’t be an idiot, she says. And then she turns back to Liam and helps him send the birdie flying over the top of the mountain.

I wake up freezing.

Looking around, I see the covers are rumpled at the foot of the bed. For a split second, I wonder why I’m wearing boxers, and then it hits me: Coach Scott. Charleston. You haven’t changed.

Mom is here watching Liam. God, what would I do without her?

Then again, I wondered what I’d do without Amelia, but she left. I let her walk out because I’m a coward and a drunk.

I cover my face with my hand. My mouth tastes like the inside of a dumpster.

Grabbing my phone, the pain in my gut intensifies when I see two calls from Miguel but not so much as a text from Amelia.

We have to make this a clean break. I love Liam, but . . .

Fuck. I need to get up. Get moving. Start working out.

That’s what I need.

When I finally make it to the kitchen, Mom is tucking some leftovers into the fridge.

“Hi,” I croak. “How’s the little guy?”

“Definitely fussy this morning, but he ate a great lunch and just went down for his nap.” She frowns at me. I hate when she does that. “How are you?”

“Feel like shit. But it’s what I deserve, so I’m not gonna complain.”

Silence settles between us, heavy with questions neither of us are willing to ask. Are you going to apologize to Amelia? How do I stop drinking? Why are you doing this?

“I’m worried,” Mama says at last. My stomach flips.

“I am too.” I grab a glass and turn on the tap to fill it. “I think—do you mind if I get in a workout? I don’t want to keep leaving you with Liam, but I need to sweat it out. Work always clears my head. It’ll be an hour, tops.”

Mom watches me gulp the water. “You do what you need to do.”

“I’ll grab us some dinner on the way back. How do you feel about burgers? I can run to that new place downtown—Beau said they have a great kids menu.”

“Sounds good to me.”

I kiss her cheek. “I know I keep saying this, but I really am sorry.”

“Are you sorry for the right things, though?”

“What does that mean?”

“Think about it,” she says, meeting my eyes. “Just—think about it, okay? Enjoy your workout.”

It’s ninety degrees with seventy-five percent humidity. Tom wants to take the workout inside, but I refuse. I take off my shirt and tuck it into the waistband of my shorts, and I get to work in our usual field behind my house.

Tom must sense I’m in the mood for punishment because he has me start with an AMRAP—as many reps as possible—of twenty push-ups, twenty burpees, twenty sit-ups, and twenty squat jumps for twenty minutes.

Doesn’t sound like a lot of time. But when you’re hungover and your heart rate skyrockets to 180 and hangs out there from the first rep onward, it feels like an eternity.

Sweat pours down my face and drips into my eyes. The humidity presses in on me from all sides, making it difficult to breathe. My lungs burn, and so does the skin on my shoulders and back.

This is right, I tell myself as I drop into plank position. This is where I should be, working.

This sucks.

My biceps and abs are on fire as I curse through another set of twenty push-ups. My arms are shaking again.