Chapter Three
TALLY
After two days of shoving my entire, pathetic life into two overstuffed suitcases, packing Nancy Reagan’s extensive and frankly unnecessary wardrobe, and convincing Dig that no, he absolutely did not need to bring his tap shoes in case of a “dance-mergency,” we crammed into Jordan’s rental car and started the long, reluctant drive to Georgia.
As we crawled through bumper-to-bumper traffic out of Brooklyn, I watched my city disappear in the side mirror—the pizza shops, the bodega cats, the subway grates that used to feel like freedom. Now they just looked like bad decisions with good lighting.
I wouldn’t be whole by the time I reached my brother. And still, all I wanted was for someone to be proud of me. To actually see into that part of me that had potential and help me dig it out from wherever I’d buried it.
My brother used to be the one to do that for me. But I knew what was waiting at the end of that car ride. Beneath the witty banter would be the same old reminder: Doyle was perfect without trying, and I wasn’t.
We’d moved to New York together from Newnan, Georgia, shortly after Doyle graduated high school. We made promises. Big sibling dreams of being two kids taking on the city. We were supposed to grow together. Be there for each other.
Instead, he tucked himself into a wine shop job and found Jordan. They fell in love, realized their dreams didn’t include me, and left for Savannah to open Cheese, Please!—a wine-and-cheese shop that probably smelled like a Napa Valley resort and smug perfection.
Meanwhile, I stayed. I failed. And I kept hoping he’d come back for me.
Leaving New York felt like losing the last shred of the life I thought I was supposed to have. It felt like quitting.
Arriving in Georgia felt like standing on the edge of the unknown. None of the worldly travel, the wild, artsy parties, or the hundreds of gigs I’d taken over the years could’ve prepared me for this—
Not just living under my brother’s roof, but stepping into the biggest adventure of all: motherhood.
Dig, my best friend-slash-former roommate-slash-chaos twin, spent most of the ride buried in social media, planning his first trip to Savannah with the intensity of someone mapping out a three-week tour of Europe.
By the time we hit Georgia soil, he had scheduled brunch reservations, ghost tours, a horse-and-buggy ride, and, by some miracle, had three dates lined up.
He was more excited than I was to be back in my home state, though I’m pretty sure his enthusiasm had everything to do with skipping his dinner shifts at Errico’s and escaping the city for a few days.
I didn’t mind the plotting or the scheming. I was glad he was there.
And then there was me. Unshowered, vaguely queasy, clutching an ancient poodle who smelled like a hot subway seat, rolling up to the front of my brother’s luxury penthouse like I’d been personally evicted from the plot of my own coming-of-age story—despite the fact that I’d already face-planted into my thirties.
“God, I have never been happier to see a front door,” Dig groaned, slumping against the wall.
Nancy Reagan, tucked under my arm like a sweaty handbag, let out a huff that sounded eerily like agreement.
“We’re not even inside yet,” I told them, nodding toward the wall of gleaming elevators. “This is just the fancy-pants lobby.”
The entrance way smelled like expensive laundry detergent and new money and looked like the kind of place where you weren’t allowed to speak above a whisper or sweat in public.
The floors were marble, the lighting was flattering, and the concierge gave me a polite nod that screamed You don’t belong here, but I’m paid to be nice.
This wasn’t the dream Doyle and I had cooked up. That one had a shoebox apartment, burnt coffee, and a shared dream we chased from opposite ends of a borrowed couch. Not this.
“Hey y’all,” the concierge sang out, jumping up to grab some of our bags. “Mr. Aden, how was your trip? Looks like you came home with a few more items than you did when you left.”
Dig scoffed next to me and scanned his shiny name tag. “Hoyt, is it? Hi Hoyt. We’re the Adens’ emotional baggage, we’ll be staying for a while.”
A warm, friendly smile rose over his face, and he reached out to grab my hand. “You must be Tallulah, then. The Adens have told me so much about you.”
“Ha, don’t hold that against me, please.”
Hoyt met my gaze, then his line of sight flicked to Jordan. “I never would, Ms. Aden. That’s not my style.”
The elevator dinged, and we all shuffled inside, Hoyt hitting the button for the penthouse, and we bypassed a few floors on the way.
“On the first floor, we have an art studio and gallery run by a friend of Mr. and Mr. Aden. And, of course, Cheese, Please!. On floors two and three are offices. Four has some apartments, and the entirety of floor five is your destination, the penthouse.”
The elevator doors slid open, and I was inside of Doyle’s impeccably manicured world.
He appeared from the terrace holding a wine glass, wearing crisply ironed linen pants and a button-down so white it made my teeth ache.
“Tallulah,” he said, sweeping in to kiss both of my cheeks.
At arm’s length, he studied me. There wasn’t judgment there, but a quiet ribbon of concern. My brother didn’t know who, or what, would be walking into this apartment. I suspected, from his line of sight, that I was far less disheveled than he was expecting.
Nancy barked once, then twice, before launching herself into a tiny tornado of excitement. “Will you pick her up before she pees on your Restoration Hardware rug?” I asked.
“Right, yes.” He scooped her up in time for her to lick his entire face. “Hi, Nance. You look... hydrated. Great.”
Wine in one hand, dog in the other, he gestured around like he was presenting a prize on a game show. “Welcome home, sis. How are you feeling?”
“She hasn’t thrown up in at least forty-five minutes,” Jordan said dryly as he walked in behind us, carrying our luggage.
Behind him, Dig staggered in under the combined weight of my second suitcase, the poodle’s fashion trunk, and my giant salt lamp, which he cradled like a baby Jesus in a nativity scene full of poor decisions.
“Do not drop that,” I hissed.
“I would sooner drop you,” he said, breathless, struggling to get the door closed behind him with his elbow. “Why is it shaped like this? Is this lamp possessed? It feels possessed.”
Nancy let out a strangled wheeze, wriggling out of Doyle’s arms, and immediately began her usual reconnaissance mission, her claws clicking across the marble floor in search of anything edible or forbidden.
The penthouse was pristine. White walls.
White furniture. Expensive lighting that made even my frizzy travel hair look editorial.
It was like walking into a magazine spread about couples who start their own wine labels and name their children after yoga poses.
And there we were—me, Dig, a forty-pound salt rock, and a dog that looked like a dust bunny with legs.
Doyle leaned in for another quick, unaffectionate hug.
He pulled back enough to assess me once again, in disbelief that I’d landed in Georgia in one piece.
His eyes flitted from the salt lamp wedged under Dig’s arm, to Nancy, who had sneezed directly onto the leg of his couch, to the suspiciously duct-taped handle of my suitcase, covered in stickers from my travels.
Then his gaze landed back on me.
Something passed across his face, quick and flickering, before he caught himself and smiled, like he remembered that under my dry-shampooed hair and almost-put-together ensemble, I was still the sister he used to know. “Well, the good news is you made it.”
“Barely,” I said, shrugging off my bag. “Have you ever traveled a long distance with Dig? I had to suffer through eight hours of an a cappella version of Hamilton when Jordan refused to connect his Bluetooth to the car.” I tossed my messenger bag onto the island.
It split open, spilling receipts, ChapStick caps, and what might have been a half-eaten granola bar onto the counter. My camera tumbled out next.
Dig deposited the salt lamp onto the immaculate kitchen island with a thud that made all three of us flinch. “She insisted it come with us. For balance or witchcraft. It wasn’t clear.”
“It’s grounding,” I said, slipping out of my Birkenstocks, depositing them swiftly by the back door in a pile where there was no pile of shoes.
“Besides, it gives off good light for indoor photos if the sun refuses to play along. Trick I picked up in Scotland. From, yeah… she was probably a witch.” I lifted my camera from the table and scanned the penthouse through the lens.
“We should plug it in over there, by the TV stand.”
Jordan visibly winced.
Doyle’s smile stretched too tight, his flawless life wrapped around him like armor. And there I was, dragging the ghosts of situationships past, impulse buys, and a dog who smelled like corn chips into his clean snow globe.
And suddenly, I hated how tired I was. Like I’d already overstayed a welcome I hadn’t even used yet.
“Can we get you anything?” Doyle asked. “Food? Drink? Skincare?” He pointed vaguely toward the bathroom. “I picked up some essentials for you. Jordan said you didn’t exactly have a routine.”
I shrugged off the jab, snapping a quick photo of my brother leaning on the counter. “I need to take Nancy out. Do you want to come with me? Maybe we can catch up?”
Doyle’s face flickered. “Can’t. We’ve got a thing tonight, remember?”
“You said you’d be here tonight,” I replied dryly.
“I left chicken and quinoa in the fridge,” he said, ignoring me and patting my arm. “And ginger ale. But easy on the bubbles.”
I blinked. “Should I come with you? To your thing? I can change.”
Doyle and Jordan exchanged a married-people look. One that said, You should handle this one, and Jordan stepped in. “You should rest. We’ll get you settled in Savannah soon enough.”
Dig let out a low whistle. “Oof.”
I didn’t reply. I nodded and kept busy looking for the good light in the penthouse through my camera.
The undeniable sting, however, was there.
But I did what I’d always done and shrugged it off, keeping myself busy under the guise of a woman who desperately didn’t want anyone to see how much she was hurting.
After they left, I changed into a sundress, dabbed on some unnecessarily expensive lipstick Doyle had set out for me, and tried—really tried—to feel like a person.
Like someone worth bringing along. And, more importantly, like someone who had reset the timer on the last time she had gotten sick. Ten minutes.
I ran my fingers through my curls, stepped into my sandals, looked in the mirror, and told myself, You’re not the sad girl in the movie. You’re the one who figures it out.
Nancy wagged her tail like she bought it.
Dig and I took the elevator down to the lobby, and he jabbered on about his weekend plans. I nodded along, but my stomach was twisting. Once he left, I’d be solo with a poodle and my well-meaning, overly bearing brothers. Not exactly the dream scenario.
Hoyt waved us toward the back alley and nodded toward a nearby square for Nancy’s walk. “Avoid the front of the shop,” he said, grimacing. “Your brother’s hosting a wine tasting tonight. You don’t want to accidentally crash into his friends—you’ll want a proper introduction.”
I shot Dig a look that begged him not to open his big mouth—wide-eyed panic and silent pleading in full effect.
But, well… Dig did what he always does.
“So he wants to hide this insanely gorgeous woman from his stupid friends? Seems like maybe his friends are the ones who should have the honor of gracing my best friend’s otherworldly presence.
” He gave a little shimmy, flicked imaginary hair from his shoulders, and I could do nothing but slap on a smile and herd him toward the back entrance.
We stepped into the sticky Savannah night, the air thick with gardenia and the heat of my own embarrassment, blinking against the sting of tears in my eyes.
Dig fell into step beside me, unusually quiet for someone who normally narrated everything from sidewalk cracks to passing clouds. I suspected his silence wasn’t just a pause—it was calculated. Protective. Watching, waiting to see if anyone dared to jump out of the shadows and mess with me.
“Can we agree that this is really shitty?” I asked when we hit the edge of the alley and stepped onto the street.
Dig nodded. “We can agree on that, yes. But, aside from what I said back there, I do think you all need some time to adjust.”
“Are you actually in agreement with my brother?” I scoffed.
He turned to me and took my hands in his, his face unreadable to the naked eye—but I knew that look. Even though he’d put someone through a wall for me, there was still a thread of pity there. “I found a hotel a few blocks away. I need to check in. You good?”
I let out a small, bitter laugh. “Peachy.”
Because what else could I say? That I already felt like a smudged fingerprint on my brother’s immaculate life. That walking through his world made me feel like I’d never done anything right in my entire life.
He bumped his shoulder against mine. “Let’s get one thing straight, love. You’re not the discarded sister in this Southern soap opera.”
I arched a brow. “No?”
He smirked. “No. You, my love, are the plot twist.”