Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

Tension permeates the air. Cut with a thick layer of resentment.

My parents have been awesome to me in their own ways. But they are definitely not awesome to each other.

“You see that?” she says quietly. “He doesn’t talk to me anymore. At all.”

“It’s rude,” I say, glancing at the bedroom door.

“It is.” She swallows again.

My stomach clenches. It’s a familiar scene, one that’s played out a hundred, a thousand times in this house. Dad being…well. Dad, I guess. Mom swallowing a need, a feeling, a curse.

How much she’s had to swallow to keep it together—to keep this family together—

No wonder she’s so unhappy. I feel bad for her. Seeing my parents interact—or, really, not interact at all—is a painful reminder of why I’ve made the choices I have.

As much as I love my parents, I don’t want to end up like them, lonely and resentful. I especially don’t want to end up trapped like my mom. Trapped in her role as mother and wife.

Trapped in an unhappy, unfulfilling relationship.

Deep down, I know it’s unfair of her to talk to me about my dad this way. It taints my relationship with him and that’s not okay. He may not be perfect, but he has done some pretty amazing things for me.

Still. This is part of the reason why I moved back to Charleston. My parents have been having problems in their marriage for a while now, and I’m worried about them. I figure that, by being close, I can maybe help smooth things over.

Help turn things around. Doesn’t hurt that I also get to see my sister Alex, who lives downtown, more often; we’ve always been close.

“I’m sorry,” I tell my mom, not sure what else to say.

She just shakes her head. “I’m proud of you, Eva. For a lot of things. But I think I’m most proud of the fact that you’ll never let anyone run you over like that. I’m stuck here. But you—I’m so glad I raised you differently. Just keep doing what you’re doing, keep chasing your dreams. Don’t give an inch. Because you give an inch, and then you give another, and then all of a sudden all those inches turn into miles.”

My throat tightens. Mom’s given me this speech a few times now. As much as I appreciate her support and all the sacrifices she’s made, hearing her say these things hurts.

Mom had a promising photography career when she met my dad. Then she had me, then Alex, and then they moved away from their families in Raleigh so dad could open Lacy’s BBQ here in Charleston. He worked punishing hours to get the restaurant up and running.

They had no money, no help, and two kids two and under. Mom cut back on her hours at the studio where she worked to look after Alex and me while Dad practically lived at the restaurant.

Didn’t help that my sister got in a lot of trouble in high school. Completely overwhelmed, Mom had to give up photography altogether to look after Alex and get her the help she needed.

That’s when things started to go south for my parents. They were relatively happy together, and then…I don’t know, I guess the stress of caring for my sister, coupled with the relentless sacrifices Mom made, took its toll. Resentment grew. Things started to fall apart.

They’ve only gotten worse as the years have passed. Alex, thank God, is thriving these days.

But my parents? Not so much.

So I do what I always do. I try to help Mom feel better while silently telling myself my story will be different from hers.

That my future won’t look like this.

“Here.” I keep my voice bright. “How about I pour us some wine? I can make us a cocktail, too. Margaritas, maybe? Do you have limes?” I raise my voice. “Dad, would you like a margarita?”

“Sounds good to me!” he calls from behind the door.

Mom looks at me and smiles, a tight, closed-lipped thing. “Sounds delicious. Have I told you how happy I am that you’re here, mija? I love it when we can all be together like this. I miss you.”

I grab a cocktail shaker, a juicer, and a cutting board. The alarm system chirps again, and this time it’s my younger sister Alex who walks through the front door. She’s in jeans and her white chef’s jacket, looking crisp and pretty as ever.

“Smells fucking amazing,” she says, toeing off her sneakers.

Mom rolls her eyes, even as her lips twitch. Every once in a while she’ll comment on Alex’s cursing, but for the most part, she’s given up trying to censor her.

I grin. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“Yup.” Flashing us a wide, white smile, she trots over to the kitchen and plants a kiss on Mom’s cheek first, then mine. “Did I hear someone say margarita? I could use a stiff one.”