Page 7 of One Southern Summer

What if the unwritten rules and norms of social media she’d grown to understand had been replaced with new lingo and trends she’d have to learn all over again? Frowning, she stared at the image she’d just taken. Inspiration for a clever caption had vanished, replaced by another wave of self-doubt. Her relationship with social media hadn’t always been this complicated. At first, she’d had a ball connecting with people who had a passion for design and home decor. When the stakes weren’t so high, and the comments were nothing but heart-eyed emojis. But the last year had zapped her enthusiasm for living life in plain view of the public. Would she ever feel comfortable putting herself out there again? Did she even want to?

Heaving a sigh, she leaned forward and slid her phone onto the coffee table.

Julene, her youngest sister, sat crossed-legged on the striped throw rug, flipping through a magazine. In her denim shorts, red tank top and her blond hair piled in a messy bun, she resembled a high school student instead of a young woman who’d finished her junior year at Auburn.

Julene tossed the magazine aside then stood and snatched Avery’s phone. “I’ve got an idea.”

“Wait,” Avery called after her as Julene crossed the room then stepped outside onto the screened porch.

Hayes whimpered in his sleep. Avery winced and silently willed him not to wake up. At least not yet. They’d had a restless night. Poor little guy’s routine was all out of whack.

“No need to worry.” Harper shifted Hayes to her other arm and gently patted his diapered bottom with her palm. “Julene manages the social media account for a regional magazine.”

“I still want to see what she posts.” Avery craned her neck and stared out the window. She couldn’t see her sister. The lake looked amazing, though. Tree branches waved in the morning breeze and blue-green water lapped against the shoreline.

“What kind of job are you looking for?” Harper asked. “I’m sure if we spread the word, folks would line up to have you style their homes.”

“They’ll also have plenty of questions. I’m not ready to rehash all the drama.” Avery held up a folded copy of theIron City Gazettethat Greer had brought her at breakfast. “There are exactly zero Realtors advertising for assistants in the classifieds. If I don’t find something soon, I’m going to have to think outside the box.”

Camellia had morphed into one of Alabama’s most desirable midsize cities. Surely some of those shops she’d driven past when she’d come home were looking to hire.

“Isn’t Pax required to pay child support?”

“Only the minimum amount required. It’s better than nothing, I suppose.” Avery fought to keep the tremor from her voice. Addison stood only a few feet away in the kitchen, working with Mama to finish making chocolate chip pancakes. The gentle soothing lilt of Mama’s voice mingled with Addison’s determined preschool-sized proclamations—insistent that she stir the batter herself. The last thing Avery wanted was for Addison to overhear a discussion about Pax, Trey and their lack of involvement with the kids.

Harper cast a furtive glance toward the kitchen. “Have you asked Pax or Trey to increase their contribution? Or set up consistent visitation?”

Avery cringed. “Please, not now.”

Too late.

“Is my daddy coming here?” Addison skipped to the sofa and leaned on the arm, no doubt smearing pancake batter across the fabric. “Is he, Mama?”

The hope and enthusiasm in Addison’s blue eyes undid her. How many times would Avery have to rip the proverbial Band-Aid off the raw wound and tell her little girl yet again that her daddy wasn’t coming around?

“No, baby.” Hot tears pressed against Avery’s eyes as she smoothed Addison’s hair back. “I’m sorry.”

Her legs itched to run. The logical part of her mind implored her to stay and bravely face another barrage of questions, but she couldn’t. She didn’t possess the strength. Sidestepping her daughter, Avery rushed past her mother watching wide-eyed from the kitchen, pancake batter dripping from the whisk in her hand. If anyone would know what to say in this situation, it was Mama.

Because she’d lived it.

The hardwood floors felt cool against her bare feet as she slipped into the downstairs powder room and shut the door. Yanking a hand towel from the bronze-plated towel holder mounted on the wall, she slumped onto the commode and buried her face in the fluffy white terry cloth to muffle her sobs.

How was this her actual life?

The dizzying trajectory to success had started as a simple partnership selling real estate then morphed into home decorating and flipping houses. Vendors suddenly offered her free product in exchange for her social media influence. Although she enjoyed scrolling through images of spectacular homes, she didn’t want to spend that much time on social media. Especially once Addison had started walking and talking. But Pax and Trey had insisted. Convinced her she had to capitalize on the groundswell of internet popularity. Soon, the production company came calling. She and Pax had cultivated a family, a business and a successful home renovation television show. Every aspect of her life had seemed so incredibly perfect.

She’d never paused to question why Trey edged her out, gradually decorating homes and making major business decisions without her.

Eventually doingeverythingwithout her.

Maybe she hadn’t asked more questions because deep down she secretly feared that she didn’t deserve to be successful. It had been easier to bask in the glow of the nation’s approval rather than dread the day when a fickle audience might turn on her.

But now, more than a year later, she still wanted an explanation. Something more substantive than they’d offered that gut-wrenching day in the laundry room.

We fell in love, and we were waiting for the ideal time to tell you.

How could she have been so naive? And when would she officially get over their betrayal? She’d chased these questions relentlessly, unable to grasp an answer that offered lasting peace. In her weaker moments, a small part of her still secretly hoped that Pax would come back.

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