Chapter 44
Kelly
I wake to a muted gray light filtering through the curtains, but it’s the relative calm that pulls me from sleep. Pulling back the curtains: outside, Harbor’s Edge is transformed—Main Street buried under layers of snow, trees bowing under the weight of it, and frozen debris scattered across the sidewalks. The scene is surreal.
I grab my phone, quickly skimming the alert from the mayor: “Please stay indoors and call emergency services if you need assistance. Fresh storms expected soon.” I flip to my weather app, and there it is—a brief lull, just a couple of hours until the next storm bears down.
My mind races. I can’t just sit here wondering what’s going on—I need to see it with my own eyes, to know if there’s any chance of saving what the storm left behind. I throw on layers, pulling my coat closed as I head into the living room.
Nora is curled up on the sofa, reading, and she lifts her head, blonde messy curls spilling over the shoulders of her oversized sweater, doing a double take when she sees me. “Kelly, where are you going?”
“I’ll be back soon,” I promise, pulling on gloves. “Just need to check on something.” Before she can protest, I’m out the door, tapping twice at the top of the stairs before walking down, pausing at the ninth, tap tap, bracing myself against the biting cold. This isn’t how I imagined starting my morning, but it will drive me crazy just sitting around wondering .
“Kelly, it’s not safe yet!” Nora’s voice follows me, but I keep walking.
There’s a part of me that’s guilty for ignoring her, but the rest is consumed by an urgent need to see for myself—to measure the damage with my own eyes.
As I step out into the chilled air, the cold hits me hard. But there’s no room for pain, no space for discomfort; only a numb determination. The festival—my festival—has become a part of me, a testament to my worth, the last chance to show Mom what I’m made of.
With each step through the thickening snow toward my car, thoughts spool and unspool. I should’ve done something sooner, reinforced the structures, requested they be moved into storage, erected temporary shelters, changed the design…. something .
Twin serpents twist in my chest, my heart racing with the cadence of my thoughts. I reach my car, touching the door nine times with the tip of my key before scrapping the snow off the windshield.
My breath comes out in visible puffs as I climb in, the key turning in the ignition, engine sputtering to life, and I’m grateful for the heat beginning to seep through the vents. As I’m about to start driving, my phone beeps, and it’s Jake telling me he’ll call soon. I don’t reply. I don’t want to lie to him, and if I tell him I’m heading to the festival grounds, he’ll just worry.
“Focus on what you can control,” I say to myself a few times as I drive, frowning at the light snow that continues to fall all around me, glad that Jake put snow chains on my tires yesterday.
I pull into the festival grounds, parking haphazardly on a patch of ground where the tires are less likely to get trapped. Through the windshield, I watch as light snow slants sideways, swept into wild currents around the towering lighthouse overhead. The white height of the lighthouse, usually so bright against the sky, is muted now, softened by the swirling haze and monochrome world all around.
Stepping out of the car, I'm met with a scene of devastation that leaves me reeling. Main Street might have been roughed up by the storm, but here at the site, it’s a battlefield, everything scattered, broken. The storm ripped through the heart of it all. I take it all in—overturned structures, torn tarps flapping in the wind, wood splintered.
“Oh my God.” Everything Jake and his team did to try and protect the work was for nothing.
The beautiful wooden archway is in pieces, covered in snow. Benches toppled. Sections of the stage smashed and broken. It’s all a sad testament to my failed ambition. God, why did I ever think I’d be able to pull this off? The best and biggest Founder’s Day Festival that the town has ever seen? We’re going to be lucky to get anything across the line at this stage.
A wave of panic crashes over me, the pressure mounting with each gust of wind that flings snow across the wreckage. I stop and put my gloved hands on my hips, while my breath clouds in front of me.
I start counting the overturned and broken installations instead, numbering each one like it could somehow lessen the disaster. But there are too many to count and my thoughts start racing all over again.
You didn’t plan for this , Mom’s voice echoes in my mind, clear and stern. Plan for all contingencies. I can almost see her frowning, her disappointment pressing down on my shoulders.
Even Jake—he believes in me, but how long until he sees the truth? That I can’t handle this, that I’m not as strong as he thinks. Fear blazes inside me, consuming. I’m failing all over again—failing her, failing myself, and failing everyone who put their trust in me.
I clench my fists and tell myself to breathe, but my mind is racing, spiraling, dropping in a chasm with no bottom.
The air is too thin, my breaths too shallow. I’m drowning right here, in the open.
For a long, cold moment, I let myself just stand there, but then I see Mom’s face again, telling me to pick myself up, shake myself off, and start all over again. The only difference between winners and losers, is that losers give up. Maybe it’s too late to fix it all, but I can still save something. I can still try .
“Okay, Kelly, one thing at a time.”
I start with the closest structure—a portion of the main stage lying on its side, one corner splintered and sharp, as if something had torn right through it.
I press my shoulder against it, shoving with all my might, but the structure refuses to budge, its weight dead and unyielding. Helplessness twists in me, sharp and relentless. I’m staring at a reflection of my own life—something that once stood strong, now barely holding together, and a bitter laugh escapes, swallowed up by the wind’s relentless howl.
“Get a grip. You’re a Charleston. Self-pity is not helpful right now.”
The wind cuts through my gloves, my hands aching as I reach down to grip another broken piece. Each one I manage to turn upright is both a small triumph and a reminder of defeat, because no matter how much I right these fallen pieces, too much has been damaged. There’s no way this festival will ever look like what I’d envisioned, what the mayor expected.
What I’d hoped for.
So I could finally make her memory proud.
The sky is darkening fast, thick clouds gathering low and heavy, a warning that the storms are coming back. My breath catches, and despite everything, a pang for Jake hits me. I try to summon that calm confidence he gets when pressure builds. He sees me as someone strong, capable, someone with a plan, someone who knows how to make things happen.
He has this idea of who I am: the straight-A student. The successful event planner. Kelly Fucking Charleston.
I straighten. Square my shoulders. I’m not done yet.