Southern Sinner (North Carolina Highlands 3)

Today, though, they just make me feel tired. Worn out.

During a lull in the action, I slip into my office and close the door behind me, leaning against it. I take my phone out of my pocket, and the familiar disappointment rolls over me like a boulder when I don’t see Stevie Carter’s name anywhere on the screen.

Is she even thinking about me?

I know deep down she can’t be feeling great, either. She didn’t come out of this thing unscathed. She’s just trying to do the right thing by keeping her distance.

I close my eyes and let my head fall back on the door.

Hope is only prolonging the torture. It’s time to give up the ghost.

Glancing down at my phone again, I pull up Stevie’s contact.

My heart thumps as I hover my thumb over the “Delete Contact” bar.

I hit it, sucking a breath through my teeth. Rage, ugly and hard, surges through my center. And then—

Then I kinda go numb.

More motions: phone in pocket. Door open. Front desk.

Maybe the numbness means I’ve moved to the next stage of grief. Thank fucking God.

I don’t want to move on to someone else. Not yet, anyway. I just want to stop feeling like shit. Clean up this mess I’ve made in the hopes the guilt will fade.

By six, things calm down considerably. As worn out as I am, the quiet is kind of a bummer because I’m due at Samuel’s in half an hour for my family’s weekly Sunday supper, and I do not want to go. I was hoping to use work as an excuse to get out of the damn thing altogether.

It looks like that isn’t going to happen. Maybe I won’t show anyway.

“What are you still doing here?” Beau asks, appearing at my elbow. He checks his watch. “Thought you were done at five.”

I keep my eyes glued on the computer screen in front of me. “Maybe I’m taking the idea of balance a step further and figuring out what schedule works best for me. Right now, that means working longer hours today and maybe fewer later this week.”

Beau nods. “I like it. Want a ride to Samuel’s? I was going to grab Maisie and Bel and head over.”

“I’m good, thanks. See you there.”

“I will see you there, right?”

I finally cut him a look. “Yeah.”

“I’m not convinced. C’mon, it’ll help you feel better. We could Zoom with Stevie? Set up Maisie’s iPad at her place at the table?”

Because Stevie’s got a place at my family’s table.

I look back down at the screen. “Stevie works weekends too,” I lie. “But I like the idea.”

“Maybe next time. Or maybe she’ll actually be here for next week’s supper. When did you say she’s coming up again?”

“Probably not for a while. She’s breaking ground on the new brewery, remember? So she’s busy.”

“Too busy to see you?”

I blow out a breath. I’m hanging on by a thread here.

“Dude, can’t you leave well enough alone?”

From the corner of my eye, I see Beau hold up his hands. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a pest. I only liked seeing you with her is all.”

I don’t reply.

“See you at Samuel’s. Oh! And bring your guitar—Maisie’s been requesting your version of ‘Wheels on the Bus’ all damn week.”

I skip supper and take the long way home, meaning I drive down the mountain and loop around Asheville. My wipers go as the rain pelts my windshield.

Listening to XXXTentacion croon about messes and fuckups and fears, I lose myself in the quiet motion of my truck. I drove my F350 to work today because of the shitty weather and because my Rolls reminds me of Stevie.

I try, and fail, not to think about how nice it’d be to fuck her by the fire tonight. I’d feed her, and we’d write another song. Then we’d go to bed, and I’d hold her all night long.

The hole in the center of my chest pulses. I’ve tried writing this week. And while I feel so fucking full it hurts, nothing comes out. With my guitar in my lap, I stare at blank pages, wondering how the words flowed so easily with Stevie.

I’m one sad sack.

It’s mostly dark when I drive back up the mountain. I can just make out the lights of the main house through the mist that’s settled over everything.

Pulling into my driveway a few minutes later, I don’t see the figure sitting on my front stoop until my headlights swoosh over it as I make the turn into the garage.

My body clenches, pulse roaring. I hit the brakes, making the truck jerk to a stop. The figure is in shadow again. Whoever it is, they’re standing now, hood up against the rain.

My first thought: Stevie.

My second: so much for giving up the ghost.

The truck’s wipers groan now that the windshield is dry, sheltered under the garage’s awning. I don’t bother turning them off. Heart hammering, I shove open the door, gravel crunching under my boots as I stalk toward the front door.