Southern Heartbreaker (Charleston Heat 4)

“You told me you’ve been reading a lot of romance lately,” Ford continues. “I admit I haven’t read romance myself, but is there anything more hopeful—more optimistic—than a love story? Aren’t, say, meet cutes a testament to the benevolent power of fate to bring two people together so they can find their happily ever after?”

I blink. “I feel like I keep saying this with you. But I haven’t thought about it like that. Thought about romance in those terms. Yeah. Yeah, I guess you’re right. Maybe I—I mean, maybe romance novels are comfort reads in the same way my mom’s cooking is comfort food.”

“So what’s wrong with letting yourself be happy, then? If you’re seeking out all this comfort, this sense of connection—makes me feel like you’ve been missing those things in your life. Makes me feel like you haven’t been all that happy lately, Eva. Why?”

The answer pops into my head. Unbidden. Making my smile disappear.

Because I can’t make my mother happy.

I am trying my best to be there for her, and fix things between her and my dad, and keep our family together. But no matter what I do, I still can’t seem to stop things from getting worse. And what right do I have to be happy if they’re not?

How can I feel good about myself when I’m failing the people I love most in this world—people who have worked their asses off and made heart-wrenching sacrifices so that I could pursue my dreams—over and over again?

I look down at my lap, swallowing. My throat and shoulders feel tight all of a sudden. I don’t want to talk about this right now. Not during the amazing, sexy, carefree day I’m having with this delicious man.

But if anyone will understand, it’s Ford. He was always such a great listener. Never judged, at least not until our breakup. Never interrupted. He just paid attention, offering a tissue, a beer, a perfectly timed joke to make me laugh right when I needed it.

Yeah, we’ve only been on two dates. I’m not even sure if I want to call them dates. But I really do feel safe with him. Safe to be myself.

Safe to confide. To be real, even when it’s not pretty.

“It’s my family,” I start.

“All not well in paradise?”

“Not by a long shot.”

I tell him everything. How I came home not only to seek out inspiration for my cookbook, but also because I knew my mom and dad weren’t doing well. How being home has been wonderful and awful, all at once. How unhappy my parents seem, and how badly they treat each other.

How the atmosphere in their house is oppressive and fraught.

It comes out in a tearful rush. A levee that breaks, like I’ve had all this… this really painful stuff building up inside me. Drowning out everything else.

Talking about it doesn’t feel good. But when it’s out, I do feel…lighter.

I needed a friend, someone to confide in, more than I realized.

“So, yeah,” I say, taking a deep breath. “I’ve basically been trying to simultaneously save my family and save my career, all at once.”

“Christ, Eva, no wonder you’re feeling overwhelmed. I’m really sorry. I love your parents. Always have. It bums me out to hear they aren’t okay. Bums me out even more to hear how much you’re hurting, and how much you’re taking on.”

I shrug. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t not help them.”

“Why do you feel like you need to save them? Your parents? Sounds like you’re especially preoccupied with saving your mom.”

“Because if I didn’t, then it’d be like…leaving her out at sea. Like, seeing her in the water, seeing her flailing, and not throwing out a life preserver.”

Ford glances at me. “She can swim, you know. She’s been doing it for decades now. She’s an adult who is perfectly capable of saving herself if she chooses. Might be messy, and she might need some help along the way. But it’s not up to you to keep her afloat forever and ever.”

“Why not?”

“Because you have to keep yourself afloat. You have your own battles to fight, Eva. And fighting hers is taking you away from your life.”

“On a rational level, what you’re saying makes sense.” My eyes are stinging. “But emotionally, I just can’t…I mean, isn’t that selfish? To just think of your own shit all the time?”

He glances at me again. “What about your sister? Does she spend any of her time fighting your parents’ battles for them?”

I blink for what feels like the hundredth time. “No. She doesn’t.”

“Because she’s too busy living her own life to try and fix someone else’s?”

“When you put it like that, it makes me sound like an asshole. Also makes me sound pathetic.”

“You’re not an asshole, and you’re definitely not pathetic. You just care. A lot.”