Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

“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-OneEvaBy 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.