Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

Stevie’s leaning against the banister, arms crossed tightly as her breath billows in a cloud around her. It’s early enough that the morning is still pale. Pale pink sky, grass pale with frost. Mountains in the distance pale blue and purple.

It’s beautiful this time of day. I’ve seen plenty of sunrises lately—one of the benefits of partying until seven AM—but nothing quite compares to catching the sun come up over the Blue Ridge Mountains.

I’ve missed my family, and I’ve missed the farm. I know my bones belong here. But I can’t stay if things aren’t different this time around.

Looking at Stevie, I’m not sure they will be.

I hold up the blanket. “Can I?”

Stevie looks over her shoulder. The breath leaves my lungs. Tears silently spill out of her big brown eyes.

“You want a family,” she says, sniffing.

I freeze. That wasn’t what I was expecting.

Draping the blanket over Stevie’s shoulders, I stand beside her, the cold air making my lungs and heart feel tight. I shiver.

“Here,” she says, taking the blanket off and wrapping it around my shoulders. She does it methodically, carefully, tears still coming as she brings the ends of the blanket together in the center of my chest, holding them tightly in her hand.

“What does my wanting a family have to do with anything?”

Stevie looks at me. “I want fun. I want freedom. Maybe this is me jumping the gun, but I feel like this thing between us is getting complicated, and I . . .” She searches my eyes. “I don’t want anyone getting hurt.”

“I think it’s a little late for that.”

She sniffles again, looking down at her hand on my chest. “Guess I have nothing to lose then.” Taking a breath, she pulls back her shoulders. “My ex and I were together for ten years, married for five—we were separated for three of those years, though. Going into our relationship, I wasn’t super young—I was twenty-nine—but I was more immature than I realized. Immature and idealistic. I believed he and I were equals. It turns out that wasn’t the case at all.”

“I don’t understand,” I say, furrowing my brow. My heart’s started to pound, like it knows the KO punch is coming.

“It’s difficult to explain.” She rolls her tongue between her lips, thinking. “It’s like marriage came with all these expectations I wasn’t anticipating. Suddenly, there was all this pressure to do wifely things—obligations, I guess, like making meals and keeping a clean house. Being the perfectionist I am, I dove right in, determined to be the best wife ever.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Sounds fucked up. Although you’d be great at anything you did, Stevie.”

She looks at me for a long minute. “You know what’s wonderful about you, Hank? I think you mean that.”

“I do.”

She looks away. “It started slowly. I cooked. I cleaned. Then I started doing all our laundry. Because I did the laundry, I organized the closets. Since I organized the closets, I organized the garage, and our calendar, and our meal planning too.”

“Did your ex not help at all?”

“Not really. He’d walk the dog every so often, but I always had to ask him to do it twelve times before he actually grabbed the leash and did it.”

I nod. “I see where the resentment comes in.”

“Don’t get me started.” She rolls her eyes. “After a year or so, I did everything. It was just easier that way. I got tired of nagging him to get off his ass and help out. Mind you, while all this was happening, I was still working full time. My ex made more money than me, though, so the fucked-up math I did in my head made sense. He brought home the bacon, and I cooked it. Even though I’d imagined my partner and I would both bring home the bacon, and we’d cook it together. But obviously, that’s not how it worked out.”

“Okay,” I say slowly, trying my best to grasp the ideas she’s throwing my way. “So if I understand this right, even though you came into marriage thinking things would be equal, it turned out they weren’t because your husband was lazy as fuck. But also because you felt pressure to always have his pipe and slippers ready when he walked through the door.”

“Yes.” Stevie closes her eyes in relief.

“Where’d that pressure come from?”

She waves her hand in the air. “Society. TV. My parents. They very much embraced traditional roles—Dad had the big job, and Mom stayed home to take care of the kids. Which isn’t a bad thing. There are ways that can be equal too, so everyone has a shot at being happy. But my parents aren’t happy. My mom worked really, really hard to be a good wife and good mother, and while she is the best mom ever, I think she never felt appreciated or valued. And then she just . . . abandoned herself at some point. Now she’s pissed about it, understandably.”