The Dogwood Days of Summer (The Southern Isles #2)

Chapter One

“M arry the man who loves you more.” The advice had stuck with Brooke Warter like a clamped-on tick since middle school. “If he loves you more, you’ll never have to worry,” her mother said. “If he loves you more, you’ll be stable your whole life.” For years, Brooke saw the concept as not only annoying but potentially dangerous. At the very least, the idea was out-of-date. Marry a man who treats you like an equal , she thought. Marry a man you don’t want to live without.

It took one terrible night to recognize that her boyfriend of seven years did not, in fact, love her more . Brooke sat in her pajamas on the iron balcony of their Savannah apartment as a hazy sun peeked above the horizon. The balcony was off the master bedroom, and she’d thought it was so romantic when they rented it. To her right was their evergreen tree in a big black pot—the first thing she bought when they moved in. She’d wrapped it in twinkle lights with visions of Gates waving to her from below, shouting at her to join him at the pool, or telling her he’d be right up. There were two chairs and a bistro table next to it, perfect for romantic wine nights and stargazing in bathrobes. None of which happened. Not even once. Instead, they forgot to water the tree, and it’d been crispy and brown for years, the lights hanging unplugged and filthy, half of them on the ground.

She’d spent the day before cleaning the living room and bathroom, making appetizers, and even creating a bespoke cocktail out of Gates’s favorite flavors—tequila, Cointreau, orange soda, and a splash of cream. She called it The Gateway and was proud of herself for thinking of it. His friends held plastic cups of that orange drink while hiding and giggling behind her overstuffed white couch and faux-marble kitchen bar, ready to pounce. “Shhhh,” she’d said, straining to listen past the aggressive thumping of her heart. “I think I hear him.” She waved to everyone. “Get down!”

There was a knock at the door, which was strange, because Gates had a key. She swung it open to a collective groan. No one was there, just a tiny brown box with the Amazon swish. She snatched it and shut the door. At least the new brown leather wallet she’d bought for him had shown up.

An hour later, no one was interested in hiding anymore, the meatballs were cold, and all of the ranch dip had been eaten. Several of his friends had tried texting and calling him, and no one had gotten an answer. Brooke was beginning to wonder if she should start calling local hospitals.

“He’s at The Whistling Pig,” someone finally said. Brooke felt her neck turn red and splotchy, and she wished she hadn’t worn a button-down blouse. What was he doing at a bar? “My brother’s working tonight,” the guy said. “He said Gates has been sitting there for hours.”

“Alone?” Brooke asked.

The guy nodded. “Maybe he had a bad day at work.”

Brooke exhaled. “Maybe he did.” He’d never done anything like that before, bad day or not. Especially on his birthday. She scanned the apartment filled with men dressed in shorts and polo shirts and women with heavy party makeup. Not one of her friends was there. They were all his closest friends, and she’d never had a meaningful conversation with any of them. Their groups of friends had never intermingled. It was like they’d kept their lives separate despite living together. Who were these people who’d known him from childhood, or college, or work, where he’d maybe, but probably not, had a bad day? “Should we all surprise him at the Pig?” she asked.

“I’ll check the vibe,” the guy said, texting.

Brooke put the meatballs in the microwave and pulled the tin foil off the fruit skewers. “We might as well eat all of this.”

“Um.” The guy shot Brooke a look of pity while all eleven guests listened intently to what he was about to say. “He doesn’t seem to be doing well. My brother says something is definitely off, like negative one hundred.”

Gates’s favorite cake—chocolate with whipped cream frosting—was still chilling in the refrigerator. Brooke pulled it out. “Then we might as well eat this too.”

By the time she cut the cake, most of the guests were either eyeballs deep in their phones or saying their goodbyes. No one was hungry, and no one wanted to stick around for Gates to come home. “Thanks for coming, y’all,” she said with too much perk. “He’s gonna be so sad that he missed his own party.” A weird noise escaped from her. It was supposed to be a carefree giggle, but it sounded more like a trapped cat. Embarrassment and disappointment had a stranglehold on her throat.

That was at six o’clock. Gates didn’t come home until well after one A.M.

He went straight to her, not even noticing the colorful balloons in the corners of the room or the melting cake on the coffee table. “I can’t be turning twenty-four and still in the same place I was in high school,” he said.

“Same place?” Brooke tried to keep the anger out of her voice.

“We’re living in an apartment, Brooke. I’m still working at the bank.”

“But we’re young. This is our work-hard era. You’re smart, Gates. You’re—”

“Stop trying to comfort me.”

“I’m just pointing out that we’re doing well. These things take time.”

“And suddenly you’re a cheerleader. You’re not Jessa, Brooke.”

“Jessa? Why are you bringing up Jessa?” She didn’t try to hide her anger that time.

“Because you’re pretending to be sweet. You’re not sweet, Brooke. You’re nice.”

She stood from the couch, fists clenched and nostrils flaring. How dare he bring her best friend into the discussion. “What in the ever-lovin’ hell is the difference between sweet and nice anyway? They’re the same .” She stomped toward the bedroom, then turned back to face him. “I had a surprise party for you tonight, and you never showed up!”

He didn’t even flinch. “I know.”

“You know ?”

“A bunch of my friends came to The Whistling Pig.”

That stung. Her guests left to find him and didn’t invite her. “Clearly, I’m not nice enough for your friends to like me.” Her face burned and her stomach hurt. Who was this man she’d spent seven years with? Who was she ? “It’s over, Gates.”

“Yes, it is.” He was solemn as he said it. But firm.

“You take the couch.” She shut the bedroom door.

There was no coming back from a day like that. She knew with clarity the next morning that her relationship with Gates would never be the same again. As the sun rose higher in the sky, she wanted to call Jessa. But in that moment, even her best friend felt like an adversary. Her hands shook as she remembered what he’d said: “Jessa is sweet. You’re nice.” She typed into her phone, What is the difference between sweet and nice?

There was nothing. But what she did find was the difference between nice and kind. Generally, niceness was superficial. It was saying you felt badly for someone when you really didn’t. It was empty words without real feelings behind them. But kindness, well, that wasn’t superficial at all. Kindness meant action. It meant bringing a casserole to a sick friend because you cared, because you wanted to help them, not because you wanted to look good or because you wanted them to like you.

That’s who Jessa was. Naturally kind or, as Gates said, sweet . It felt like such an affront. Especially when Brooke had just slaved over and paid for an entire party for him. She’d gotten all of his favorite things. Everything was to please him, not to be nice . Right?

Although she had to admit that she was hoping he would reciprocate and do something special when her birthday rolled around. So, maybe she wasn’t pure in her intentions. Maybe she was just pretending to be nice. If she was honest, she’d actually been a little resistant to buying him that darned chocolate cake, because her favorite was vanilla with buttercream frosting. She even considered pretending to forget that he liked chocolate and buying vanilla instead. Buying a cake for herself on someone else’s birthday was exactly what her mother would do. Brooke shivered at the thought. Was she like Cornelia? Was she actually bitchy underneath a veneer of niceness?

Brooke pulled her knees up to her chest, chilly in the early morning air. She couldn’t remember the last time she and Gates had kissed. Not just a hello and goodbye peck, but a real kiss. At least, without several cocktails first. The fact was, they’d been acting more like friends for a couple of years now. His sense of humor was childish, his style of dress was nerdy, and every one of his hobbies required him spending time away from her. All of it made her mad. He should want to spend as much time as possible with her. He should tell her that she was pretty more than just every once in a while. He should take her feelings into account when he made Saturday night plans without her or hung his dumb red Corvette poster in their family room without asking. He should…

She covered her eyes from the glare of the sun. Everything rang so hollow. Maybe she was the problem after all.

She had to fix her life. And she would start by forcing herself to be sweet.