Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

I do believe that making good choices (usually) leads to good things. But maybe that’s all we can do. Make our choices and hope for the best. The control freak in me hates leaving the rest up to chance. But what if? I already hear a voice whispering. What if I give this inch? What if it turns into a mile?

I hate those thoughts. I hate feeling this way.

I close my eyes. Take a deep breath. Sitting like this—being still like this—makes me painfully aware of how tight and tired my entire being feels. My eyes burn. Heart feels like a clenched fist inside my chest. And my head just feels full. Not in a good way, either. It just feels heavy, scraped up and bleeding from the never-ending vortex of worry circling inside it.

I can’t go on like this.

Please, I pray. Help me let go.

I need to let go, or I’m going to lose everything that’s good in my life.

I keep breathing until my heart rate slows. A bit of space clears inside my head. Usually worry will rush into that space like water crashing down a mountainside.

But today, I make a conscious effort to keep that space clear for one heartbeat at a time. Slowly, more positive thoughts start to take shape. I need to find a solid replacement for the coaching position—it’s not just Bryce counting on me, but the rest of the team, too. That will free up not only my Saturdays but my Wednesdays, too. Bryce might be upset, but I’m doing enough with her that I think we’ll be fine. Let’s not forget she’s also got her daddy, her doting grandparents, her Uncle Grey and Aunt Julia, and a kickass nanny. All of whom go to great lengths to be with her, and play with her, and make sure she’s getting everything she needs.

Speaking of nanny—we’re lucky to have Hannah. I should ask her to help prep some of the Friday night pizza stuff, or at least run to the grocery store to pick up frozen pizzas, so I’m not so overwhelmed going into the weekends. That way, I can still do something sweet for Bryce without running myself into the ground.

I need to ask for help more. Not an easy feat for someone who’s used to taking care of everything on her own. But if I’m going to survive this step-parenthood thing, then I have to do it. Otherwise I won’t make it.

But most of all, I need to apologize to Ford and Bryce.Chapter Thirty-TwoFord“Daddy, is Miss Eva still sick? Is that why she’s not here for pizza night? I have a recipe idea and I would like to tell her about it. Can you invite her over? Please? Please? Please?”

My shoulders tighten at the mention of Eva’s name. I’ve been waiting on pins and needles to hear from her. But so far, nothing. My panic grows with each day that passes.

How am I going to tell my daughter she won’t be seeing much of Miss Eva anymore? She’ll be heartbroken. Same as I’ll be.

And how in the world am I supposed to nurse not one, but two broken hearts back to health?

I seriously hope I don’t have to, because I’m not sure I’m up to the task.

I curl my palms around the handle of the pot I’m washing. Steel myself against the misery that arrows through my middle. I’ve started to wonder if I should reach out to Eva. I think about her constantly. But I want to give her space. I’m sticking to Grey’s advice this time. I’ll wait until she’s feeling better—then we can (hopefully) talk.

Taking a breath, I turn off the faucet. “Time for bed, bun.”

“But I don’t wanna go to bed!”

Aaaannd we’re off. I send up a silent prayer—dearest Lord, please deliver this child of the demon that hath possessed her today—and lift my wailing daughter out of her chair. She calms down a little during her bath, but loses her shit again during story time when I cut her off at two books instead of three. So I do my best to tuck her in while she’s in the throes of a tantrum and turn off the lights. Head downstairs with my phone in one hand and my neck in the other, rolling my head to release the tension there.

I’ve got my baby monitor cued up on my phone. Five minutes later, Bryce is still crying.

I fall heavily onto the couch. Think about making myself a cocktail, but—how sad is this?—I think I might be too damn tired to even drink it. The days just feel freakishly long right now. Makes me think of the movie Groundhog Day when Bill Murray wakes up to the same damn day every morning, over and over again.

And y’all, it’s only been three days.