Southern Player (Charleston Heat 2)

“Thank y’all,” I say, folding my arms on my desk. “But I’m not really feeling up to it at the moment. Plus I’ve got about thirty eight thousand emails to reply to, so…”

Julia takes a step forward. “Email can wait. Heartbreak can’t. You’ve been putting on a brave face here at the shop. You don’t have to do that with us. Come. At the very least we’ll get you tipsy enough so that you pass out and get some sleep.”

I’m still smiling. “Y’all are such responsible friends.”

“We know.” Dylan waves me toward her. “Come. We’ll grab a bite and many cocktails.”

“Many,” Julia says.

I look at my computer. Look at them.

Let out a sigh. “All right. Thank you guys. I’ll be ready in five.”* * *Eli, being Eli, gets the three of us a table at The Pearl. Kind of a miracle, considering the place books up months in advance.

I may not have much of an appetite. But after a couple whiskey sours, courtesy of Julia, I end up eating most of my fried chicken special and a few bites of Elijah’s signature Coca-Cola sheet cake (rumor has it it’s the cake he used to seduce Olivia).

Then we head to a cute little bar across the street, where we nab some stools on the patio outside. Now that the sun has set, the heat isn’t so bad.

We sip our white wine slowly. For the most part, I just listen to Julia and Dylan chat. Comforted by their nearness. Their normalness, if that’s even a word.

A nice reminder that I was a fully functioning human before, and I’ll be one again at some point.

“You haven’t mentioned a guy in a while,” Dylan says, glancing at Julia.

Julia shrugs. “The usual suspects aren’t doing it for me anymore. So yeah, things have been kinda quiet on my end these days.”

Julia’s dad died a little less than a year ago. They were really close, and she’s been reeling a bit ever since. Totally understandable that she’s holding the world at arm’s length.

If love has taught us anything, it’s that it hurts. Badly.

“Speaking of usual suspects.” Dylan turns when a group of cute guys emerges from the bar inside. They’re clearly out for a post-work cocktail. Some of them in nice jeans, others in khakis. All in button downs in various shades of white or French blue.

I have zero desire to engage these guys. I’m in pain. Exhausted. So over men and all the bullshit that comes with them.

But I feel my hand going to my hair anyway. Smoothing it. Tucking it behind my ear.

Ugly, familiar thoughts wandering through my head. Try to look like you’re having fun. Try to be less sweaty. Try to smile more.

Try, because I am too fucking flawed as I am.

It’s like a reenactment of a bad play. I hate it, I know it’s terrible, but I’m somehow still reciting the lines.

Lines I thought I’d forgotten.

Lines I’d replaced with ones from Luke.

You’re just right.

Tell me everything.

Show me your truth.

Maybe the lines I’ve been feeding myself for years are bullshit.

But so are these. Luke was full of shit.

I believed I was so close. So close to the truth.

Turns out it was all a lie.

And now here I am, lying to myself and to the world just like I used to.

I take a deep breath. Be brave.

I don’t need Luke to access authenticity. I can do it on my own.

I can choose to bravely show up for myself.

I get to decide, remember? I’m in charge.

So I turn back to my girlfriends. Tear my hand away from my hair, letting it fester in the humidity. Ignore the guys and the heat and sip my wine. Slump in my stool because I’m tired and that’s what I feel like doing.

Dylan tells a story about all of her hair falling out when she tried to bleach it on her own a few years back. Julia has us in tears when she says she bought a blue wig when she was in New Orleans last weekend and trolled around town telling people her name was Roxy Raspberry.

By the time we get up to leave, I’m feeling the teensiest bit better. If only for a moment.

Thank God.

Thank God I have my girlfriends. Life would really suck without them.Chapter Thirty-FourLukeMax racked his brain, trying to think of ways his world overlapped with Jane’s.

She’d said he deserved better. That she couldn’t help him achieve his dreams.

Yet that was just it, wasn’t it? Yes, he had political ambitions. Yes, he hoped to climb ladders and rub elbows with Britain’s finest.

But he didn’t do all that to feed his ego, or bring glory to his family name.

He did it because he had a higher purpose in mind.

Service.

Max wanted to make the country a better place. To create a more equitable society, where things like safety and education and happiness weren’t privileges for the few but rights for the many.