Chapter 5
T wo days passed in a blur that tried very hard to look normal.
The morning after the full moon, I had driven over to Mom’s with a basket of clippers and a guilty conscience.
Sure enough, the front yard looked like it had been dipped in snow.
The blooms were outrageous, fragrant enough to make me forgive them for attracting every bee in Charleston County.
We worked side by side, me in my cutoffs, her in the wide-brim straw hat she swore made her look like Katharine Hepburn.
We talked about nothing and everything. Which is to say, she talked about the twins’ classes and whether Stephen’s new girlfriend could cook—news to me; he hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend, and when exactly had he found time to meet someone while he was out of the country?
—and I deflected any attempt to aim the conversation toward my love life.
It was the same dance we’d done for years—comfortable, familiar, safe.
The opposite of what was still buzzing under my skin.
The next day at The Nesting Place, I restocked shelves, reordered nipple balm, signed up a new doula client due in October, and helped a very pregnant woman debate the merits of a birthing ball versus a peanut ball like we were on Shark Tank.
It was the kind of work that grounded me.
That let me pretend the only messages I’d gotten lately were from suppliers and sleepy new moms sending baby photos.
I even managed to convince myself I’d dreamed the texts. That they were some bizarre, hormone-adjacent hallucination brought on by too much moonlight and not enough REM sleep.
Until the second night arrived.
And now here I was, pulling into the lot at Stephen’s birthday party with my stomach tight in that way it gets when you’re waiting for something and pretending you’re not.
My brother had gone all out this year—thirtieth birthday apparently being the milestone that unlocked his inner Gatsby.
Instead of the usual backyard barbecue, he’d rented out The Cistern at the College of Charleston.
By day it was a postcard-perfect sweep of grass and live oaks draped in Spanish moss, flanked by those pale pink columns that make every student’s graduation photo look like it belongs in a Southern Living spread.
By night—well, tonight—it was strung with a canopy of lights, jazz spilling out of rented speakers, and a bar set up under the branches.
It was beautiful. And, if I’m honest, mildly infuriating.
Because the man—if it was a man—had said two nights.
And this was night number two.
The rational part of me knew I wasn’t under house arrest. That I could go out, toast my brother, dance under the moss without missing a damn thing. The irrational part—the part that had been humming ever since those three messages lit up my phone—was convinced that if I wasn’t home, I’d miss him.
Which was ridiculous. And also entirely possible.
I sat in my car a minute longer than necessary, watching the slow drift of people in cocktail dresses and linen shirts crossing the lawn.
Stephen’s laugh carried over the music, big and unselfconscious, the same as when we were kids.
I loved him for it. I hated myself for not being able to shake the thought that somewhere—maybe even right now—someone could be walking up my front steps.
Someone who called me Lady.
I shut off the engine, grabbed my clutch, and told myself I’d stay an hour. Two, tops.
Unless my phone buzzed.
Then all bets were off.
The Cistern looked like something out of a wedding magazine.
String lights draped from oak to oak, casting soft halos over clusters of people sipping champagne from coupes.
The air was heavy with the scent of gardenias, and somewhere beneath it all, a whisper of saltwater drifted in from the harbor.
I stepped out of my car, heels clicking against the cobblestones as I crossed the courtyard.
My brother’s parties had always been a blend of charming chaos and questionable decisions, but this …
this was next level. Intentional. Almost alarmingly classy for a man who once wore a Speedo to a family barbecue “as a social experiment.”
Stephen spotted me from across the lawn and broke into a grin that could’ve been seen from space. “There she is! The favorite sibling!”
“Really?” I said when he reached me, looping his arm around my shoulders. “I won’t tell the others you said that. Are they here yet?”
He grinned, tipping his head toward the far side of the lawn.
“Darla’s already staking out the charcuterie table.
Max and Milo said they’d be fashionably late—which in twin time means just before the bar runs out of top-shelf.
And Mom’s around here somewhere. Probably charming strangers and making them feel like they’ve known her forever. ”
The mention of Francine Rogers made me smile in spite of myself.
Our mother was a force—a little meddling, a little dramatic, and somehow always the center of gravity in any room she entered.
I could picture her now, glass of wine in hand, in a flowy wrap dress that didn’t quite match the occasion but somehow still worked.
Stephen smelled faintly of whiskey and expensive cologne—both probably poured on in the past five minutes. His dark hair was styled with the kind of casual precision that screamed he’d spent forty-five minutes on it.
“You look great,” he said, giving me an approving once-over. “Where’s your date?”
I snorted. “You mean the imaginary man who tolerates moon ceremonies and debates the socio-political implications of cloth diapers? He’s home. Invisible.”
Stephen laughed, and I felt the familiar swell of sibling warmth. For all our differences, he’d always been my champion—and my biggest headache.
We made our way toward the bar, weaving through clusters of people I didn’t recognize.
Most were dressed in that Charleston cocktail uniform—linen dresses, sport coats with pocket squares, a faint sheen of humidity on their skin.
Every so often I caught snippets of conversation: hedge funds, real estate, golf trips to Kiawah.
“Who are these people?” I murmured.
“Friends, colleagues, people I owe money to,” Stephen said with a shrug.
“Charming.”
We reached the bar, where a harried bartender was muddling mint like her life depended on it. Stephen ordered us each a drink—bourbon for him, sparkling rosé for me—and then launched into introductions with a couple of guys from his gym.
As they shook my hand and started talking about their latest workout challenge, I felt that familiar slip of being slightly out of sync with the room.
Stephen fit here without trying—polished, athletic, carrying himself with the kind of easy confidence that came from living comfortably inside the mainstream.
He was the brother who knew all the right restaurants, all the right people, and had an instinct for blending in just enough to be liked everywhere he went.
Me? I was the sister who wore gauzy linen robes to bonfires and once taught a moon circle how to do pelvic floor breathing while burning sage.
I knew how to talk kombucha brewing ratios and the politics of midwifery, but here, surrounded by men who had biceps for days and likely thought doulas were a type of pasta, I felt my edges sticking out in all the wrong ways.
Sometimes, I wished I could be more like Stephen—sleek, adaptable, charming in a conventional sense. Less … weird.
But then again, weird was what kept me interesting. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I smiled and nodded at the right moments, but my attention kept drifting.
Part of me was scanning for Alicia, curious to put a face to the name I’d heard from Mom.
Another part was still … elsewhere. Half at the Cistern, half in my house, half-wondering if my phone would light up.
(Yes, that’s three halves. My brain doesn’t do math when distracted.)
And then Stephen’s girlfriend appeared.
Alicia Dempsey.
She was tall, with sleek blonde hair that caught the light and an outfit that somehow blended country club polish with Instagram influencer energy. White jumpsuit, gold sandals, a delicate chain that glimmered against sun-kissed skin. She carried herself like she’d been born at a wine tasting.
“Simone!” Stephen said, practically vibrating as he pulled her over. “This is Alicia. My girlfriend.”
Her handshake was warm, her smile easy—too easy. I don’t know what I’d expected, but something about her perfection set off my inner cynic.
“I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“Likewise,” I replied, my tone perfectly polite but probably not fooling her. “Stephen’s told me … a few things.” Which wasn’t true. He hadn’t mentioned a girlfriend at all.
Alicia laughed, and it was a pleasant sound—genuine, even. “All lies, I’m sure.”
We made small talk about the party, the venue, the weather.
She asked about The Nesting Place and actually seemed interested, nodding along as I explained the concept.
But every so often, she’d glance at Stephen in that way people do when they’re subtly checking in with their person. It wasn’t bad—just … noticeable.
I wanted to dislike her. Truly. But then she made a joke about Stephen’s obsession with craft bitters and how he now carried tiny bottles in his glove compartment “like some people carry mace,” and I laughed, in spite of myself.
Maybe she wouldn’t be terrible after all.
The night stretched on, the lights glowing warmer, the conversations loosening as the drinks flowed.
I floated between groups, catching up with a few of Stephen’s old college buddies, listening to a tipsy woman tell me about her rescue pug’s gluten intolerance, and politely dodging a man who insisted I try his “signature” dance move.
I was mid-laugh at something Alicia had said when I felt it.
That prickling.
The one you get when you know someone’s watching you.
My gaze drifted toward the far edge of the lawn, where the crowd thinned near the oak line. And there he was.
Tall. Lean. Dangerous in a way that didn’t announce itself so much as …
hum beneath the surface. His light hair was slicked back just enough to show the sharp lines of his face, and a shadow of stubble framed a mouth that was more curve than kindness.
His suit was black, the shirt open at the collar, no tie—unbothered but intentional.
And then there was the tattoo.
A large, bold piece inked across his neck.
I hadn’t clocked it at first. When he turned a certain way, or when his throat fell into shadow, it all but disappeared, but when the light hit, it stood out like a dare.
From here, I could make out a butcher’s cleaver inked like a totem—the broad blade filled with a skull, hollow eyes and bared teeth, a rose blooming at the base, and licks of flame curling along the edges.
No script, just brutal art that sent my imagination down a few questionable roads.
Stephen appeared at my elbow, following my line of sight.
“Oh,” he said, like he’d just spotted an old friend he wasn’t sure he wanted to see. “That’s Atticus.”
The name rolled through me like whiskey—warm, burning, impossible to ignore.
“Friend of yours?” I asked, keeping my tone casual.
“We go back to freshman year of college,” Stephen said, though his voice had shifted, subtle caution threading through it. “He’s … good people.”
Good people. Right. And I’m the queen of England.
I tilted my head toward Stephen, lowering my voice. “And why, exactly, have I never heard about him before? You’re usually terrible at keeping secrets—unless you’ve suddenly decided to start.”
Stephen gave me a sly little smile, the kind that said he was enjoying himself far too much. “Because you might’ve gotten ideas,” he said simply. “And I wasn’t ready for that kind of chaos.”
As if sensing us, Atticus looked over. Even from here, I could tell his eyes were blue—how bright, I couldn’t say—but they caught and held mine. No smile, no nod, just a steady, assessing look that made my pulse trip.
I should’ve looked away. Instead, I took a sip of my drink, pretending the bubbles in the rosé were the reason my breath hitched.
Stephen clapped my shoulder. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”
And just like that, we were walking across the lawn, the crowd thinning until it was just the three of us beneath the moss-draped oaks.
Up close, the tattoo was even more striking. Scary, but striking.
“Simone, this is Atticus,” Stephen said.
Atticus’s gaze flicked to Stephen, then back to me. He offered his hand, his grip firm, warm, a fraction longer than necessary.
“Simone,” he said, my name low and deliberate, like he was testing it on his tongue.
Something in my stomach tightened. And I knew—without knowing why—that my life had just shifted on its axis.