Pierced Hearts (Southern Charmers 1)

“You think you have all the answers, don’t you? I want to rip out the gaming system forever.”

“School doesn’t end for three weeks. That will feel like forever to a nine-year-old.”

“You’re gonna tell him. I’m sick of being the mean parent.”

“I have no problem telling him. I have no problem disciplining our kids if you’d tell me what’s going on before you’re ready to have a rip-roaring brawl in the school parking lot. You need something, or there’s a problem with our kids, you call me.”

“We don’t have time for this right now. It’s already embarrassing enough for Maya that she’s the only friend in her group with split parents. I’m not going to make it worse by arguing with you in public.”

I bite back my reply because it’s a never-ending battle with Connie when it comes to our kids and our situation. She claims it’s humiliating and traumatic, blaming me. I’ve learned to shoulder the blame. But when it comes to my children, I’ve always put them first.

“I’ll carry these.” It’s my way of shutting down the conversation.

We walk quietly into the school and find the kids grouped by grade in the auditorium. I follow Connie as she delivers the donuts to the refreshment area, which is overloaded with dozens and dozens of donuts.

She slices her eyes to me, and I don’t hide my amused grin. “Shut up,” she scowls.

“I’ll talk to the kids tonight when I pick them up for the weekend. Cole will be easy; he knows he messed up. Maya, I’ll figure it out,” I tell her when we find a section against the wall to wait for the program to begin.

“Maya is about to start middle school and is prepubescent. She’s going to be a royal pain for a while.”

I cringe at the reminder my baby girl is close to not being a baby anymore. It’s a constant battle, and I know she’s much harsher to Connie, but I’m also more relaxed in my parenting style.

I put the bags I’ve been carrying on the floor, barely glancing inside. The assembly starts, and halfway through, an all too familiar scent fills the air around me. My head jerks from one side to the other, scanning every face in the room. I tell myself it’s crazy. There’s no way it could be, but I’d know that smell anywhere in the whole damn world. It’s a tropical breeze—coconuts, lime, honey, and sea spray. And at the base is the faintest scent of Marc Jacobs perfume, a perfume I bought exactly six times in my life.

It’s the unmistakable scent of Darby Graham.

I continue to look around, grunting when Connie elbows me in the ribs with a ‘what the hell is wrong with you?’ glare. The rest of the program drags on like mud, each presentation seemingly longer than the last. When they finally announce the last fifth-grade award, my skin is crawling.

“Are you sick?” Connie has the decency to seem concerned.

“No, why?”

“I’ve seen you this jumpy four times in your life, and two of the times I was in labor.”

I don’t care enough to ask about the other two instances. And, thankfully, I’m saved when Maya comes at me from the side, crushing me with her excited screeches.

Cole joins next, and Connie positions us for pictures. The instant I crouch to the floor between my kids, that scent almost knocks me to my ass. It’s everywhere. She’s everywhere.

“Dad, you’re looking a little pale.” Cole places the back of his hand on my forehead.

“I’m good, buddy.”

“Why don’t we give your teachers their gifts so your dad can get out of this hot auditorium?” Connie gently pulls the kids away to give me air.

I yank the bags off the ground, ready to get the hell out of here.

It’s then I spy it, the black card with the iridescent blue scroll. Dots, swirls, and the perfectly slanted initials DG lay in the middle of it all.

The emblem, the brand, the unforgettable blue.

My throat burns, my head spins, and my gut rolls over so quickly the coffee from earlier threatens to come up. The memory of the first time I saw this design assaults me.

Darby’s spring break, senior year. She was lying on a lounge chair by the pool, and I was ready to pounce, to drag her back to our room until we left the next day. She started flipping through a notebook, and the picture caught my eye.

I grabbed the notebook, turned back to the page, and raised an eyebrow in question.

“It’s a sketch. I may need a brand one day,” she explained casually.

“And the blue?”

“That’s not just any blue. It’s a specialized blue. The kind of color that took layering and perfecting and is so unique it can’t be duplicated.”

“Why so perfected?”

“Because it’s the color of your eyes.”

That was it. I’d known for a while it was going to happen, but that was when I told her. She was going to marry me.