Chapter 20
SOPHIE
By late morning, the city felt like it had decided to behave.
Charleston wasn’t doing anything dramatic—no sudden storms, no oppressive heat wave, no sticky threat in the air. Just sun, warm pavement, a soft breeze off the harbor, and the particular kind of beauty that made you forget, for brief, dangerous stretches of time, that your life could hurt.
I’d finished breakfast with Beth and Natasha, laughed when Beth toasted me with “attagirl,” and nodded when Natasha lifted her coffee like we were pledging allegiance to courage.
Then they’d left me alone.
Not because they didn’t care. Because they did. Because they understood that there was a difference between being supported and being crowded.
I had dinner tonight.
With Wyatt.
And I’d already decided something I couldn’t undecide.
I was going to tell him the truth.
Not the watered-down version. Not the “I care about you” version. Not the “maybe someday” version.
The full thing.
I loved him.
And I wanted him as mine—romantically, deliberately, out loud. Not a secret yearning. Not a half-step. Not a history I kept folding and refolding until it fit inside a friendship-shaped box.
If he said no, I would cry. I would hate it. I would probably feel embarrassed for a week.
But I would survive it.
What I couldn’t survive—what I suddenly understood I couldn’t keep living with—was never knowing if he would’ve said yes if I’d been braver.
I walked to King Street with my sunglasses on and my heart doing that low, steady flutter it did when my body knew I was about to risk something real.
I wasn’t shopping because I needed a dress.
I was shopping because I needed a version of myself that didn’t flinch.
A version that didn’t apologize for wanting.
The first boutique was all linen and pastels, soft and sweet and wrong. The second was louder—sequins, cutouts, dresses that felt like they belonged in a club, not in a candlelit steakhouse where you might confess your love to the boy you’d known forever.
The third store had dark wood floors and brass accents and the kind of dresses that looked like they had secrets.
That was where I found it.
It wasn’t red—too obvious, too “look at me.” It wasn’t black—too safe, too “I can disappear if I need to.” It was deep emerald, the color of polished glass bottles and Spanish moss shadows.
Satin. Simple neckline. Bare shoulders. A slit that wasn’t aggressive, but wasn’t shy either.
When I stepped into the fitting room and slid it on, the fabric cooled my skin for a second before warming to me like it was learning the shape of my body.
I turned toward the mirror.
And there she was.
Not “Charleston Harbor Hero.”
Not “the girl who panics on bridges.”
Not “Wyatt’s childhood friend.”
Just me.
A woman with copper hair and clear eyes and a throat tight with hope she wasn’t going to pretend she didn’t have.
I stood there for a long moment, hands resting lightly on my hips, and let myself feel it.
The quiet confidence.
The femininity.
The steadiness.
Truth.
“I’ll take it,” I told the associate before my brain could start bargaining.
Outside, the sun had shifted—afternoon leaning in. People moved in and out of storefronts with iced coffees and shopping bags and no idea that I felt like I was walking toward a cliff.
But I wasn’t scared the way I’d been on the Ravenel Bridge.
This was a cliff I was choosing.
The second part of my plan was softer. Stranger. More personal.
A gift.
Not because I needed to bribe him into loving me. God. That would’ve been humiliating in a way I couldn’t tolerate.
A gift because this week—this city, this reunion, this fragile rethreading of our lives—had made something in me hungry to give him something that was true.
Wyatt carried Valentine, Texas in his bones.
He didn’t talk about it much anymore—not the way he did when we were kids, when he was all sunburn and dust and pride, when he’d swear he’d never leave and then life happened and he did.
But I could still see it in him. In the way he watched things like he didn’t fully trust them. In the way he held himself like he was always prepared to move. In the way he protected first and asked questions later.
Valentine wasn’t just a hometown.
It was the root system.
And I kept thinking about something Beth had said at Dusty’s—how Wyatt looked like a man who needed reminders that he belonged somewhere.
Not war. Not whatever shadow-life he’d built.
Somewhere simpler.
Somewhere real.
So, I found myself wandering down a quieter street in the historic district until I saw a little workshop with a hand-painted sign and the kind of window display that made you slow down.
Metalwork. Leather. Small custom pieces laid out like offerings.
Inside, the air smelled like warm metal and sawdust and skill. A man behind the counter looked up from his work. He was older, with silver in his beard and hands that looked like they’d made a thousand things that mattered.
“Afternoon,” he said.
“Hi,” I replied, suddenly nervous in a way I hadn’t expected. “I need something made. Fast.”
He studied me, then nodded once, like he could tell this wasn’t about convenience. “What kind of thing?”
“A belt buckle,” I said.
His eyebrows lifted slightly—interest, not judgment. “Texas style?”
I smiled because the answer was obvious. “Texas style.”
He gestured toward a counter and pulled out a tray of examples—simple ovals, ornate engraved pieces, buckles with filigree, buckles with clean lines and weight.
“This for a rodeo man,” he asked, “or someone who pretends he isn’t?”
I let out a small laugh. “The second.”
He nodded like that explained everything.
I picked one that was sturdy and understated—brushed metal with a darker border, the kind of buckle that didn’t need scrollwork to feel masculine.
The kind that could be worn with jeans and boots and a button-down at a place like Dusty’s, or tucked under a belt on a night when you wanted to remember where you came from.
“I want it etched,” I said. “Two words. Valentine, TX.”
His gaze sharpened. “That means something.”
“It does,” I said quietly.
He didn’t ask more. Just offered a small form, a pen, and a patient silence.
While he worked, I wandered outside and sat on a nearby bench in the shade, watching tourists drift past with shopping bags and sun hats, listening to carriage horses clip-clop down the street, feeling the day move forward.
I checked my phone once.
No messages from Wyatt.
Which was fine.
The dinner invitation stood on its own. His apology had stood on its own. And I didn’t need constant reassurance to keep walking toward this.
Still—my chest tightened, because part of me wanted to know he was okay.
I thought of his voice when he’d texted.
It isn’t you. I promise.
I care about you more than I can explain.
And I believed him.
But believing him didn’t erase what had happened at Mama P’s—his hands lowering mine, his careful distance, the way he’d looked like he was fighting himself.
He’d been romantic at Dusty’s. He’d kissed me like he meant it.
Then he’d shut it down.
Tonight would tell me whether that shut-down was temporary. Or permanent.
When I went back inside, the craftsman set a small, velvet-lined box on the counter.
He opened it.
The buckle sat there like a quiet, solid thing—heavy enough to mean something. The letters were crisp. Clean. Perfect.
VALENTINE, TX
My throat tightened.
“Can you wrap it?” I asked softly.
He nodded. “For someone you love.”
It wasn’t a question.
And I didn’t pretend.
“Yes,” I whispered. “For someone I love.”
He wrapped it carefully in brown paper and tied it with a simple black ribbon. No frills. Just intention.
By the time I got back to The Palmetto Rose, my pulse had turned into a living thing under my skin.
Beth was sitting cross-legged on her bed with her laptop open, like she’d been pretending to work while actually refreshing social media.
Natasha looked up from a book and smiled knowingly when she saw the shopping bag in my hand.
“Tell me you found the dress,” Beth said immediately.
I held up the bag.
She made a satisfied sound. “Good. Because if you show up to a fancy dinner in something you wore to brunch, I was going to riot.”
Natasha’s gaze flicked to the small wrapped box in my other hand. “And that?”
My fingers tightened around it. “A gift.”
Beth’s grin softened. “Okay. That’s really sweet.”
“It’s not sweet,” I said, and my voice came out more serious than I meant. “It’s … true.”
Natasha’s expression gentled. “You’re really doing it, tonight?”
I nodded.
Beth leaned forward slightly. “What are you going to say?”
My stomach flipped.
“I’m going to tell him I love him,” I said. “And I want to be with him. As a couple. Not whatever this half-thing is.”
Beth’s eyes widened, and for once she didn’t make a joke. “Damn.”
Natasha reached over and squeezed my hand.
I exhaled. “I’m tired of letting fear decide things.”
Beth pointed a finger at me. “Okay. But remember: if he can’t meet you there, that doesn’t make you foolish.”
“I know.”
Did I?
I thought I did.
I showered slowly, and let the water rinse away the last twenty-four hours—the bridge, the panic, the humiliation, the kiss that had ended too soon. I shaved, moisturized, and did my hair the way I used to for events that mattered back when my life was calmer.
The dress slid on like a promise.
I dabbed perfume at my throat and wrists, the scent floral and warm. I put on earrings I’d packed “just in case,” because apparently I’d been preparing for this even when I told myself I wasn’t.
When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t see someone fragile.
I saw someone ready.
I took a cab to the restaurant early, because I needed a few minutes to breathe in the space before he arrived—or to watch him arrive and read him before we sat down, depending on whether the universe decided to be kind.