Chapter Eight
TALLY
Iwas halfway through a list of things I needed. So far, it included exactly one item: “The will to live.” Not super helpful, but at least I was setting the bar low.
I leaned back on the ridiculously plush couch. One of those expensive, designer monstrosities that felt more like a cloud than furniture and definitely did not need a crusty poodle turning circles on it. I let out a breath so long and shaky it felt like my bones deflated right along with it.
I’d been taking pictures for as long as I could remember. My camera hung around my neck like armor, steadying me when nothing else did. It made me feel real. Seen. Like I had purpose, even if I wasn’t the one being captured.
In high school, I was president of the photography club and worked on the yearbook.
Entered every contest I could find, from the ones printed in the back of glossy magazines to the dusty state fairgrounds where judges smelled like menthols and funnel cake.
I built a portfolio full of ribbon-winners, the kind of work teachers said would take me far.
And they were right. I got into some of the best photography programs in New York. Full scholarship. A golden ticket.
But I didn’t go.
I’d been waiting for Doyle to graduate so we could move together, the two of us taking on the city we’d imagined in endless conversations and late-night dreams. When the time came, my admissions had expired, but I didn’t bother to reapply.
My brother and I had finally made it to New York together, and we could conjure up a new dream—a different one we could hold onto together.
And when that didn’t work, and Doyle eventually found his own path lit by the embers of a love I’d never known, I set off on my own, chasing a meaningful life the way other people chased love.
Weddings in Tuscany, street food in Bangkok, fireworks over Tokyo—proof I could build a life through my lens.
And then, in Australia, I met a boy with salt in his hair and a laugh that made me forget what I was running from.
We fell fast, burned bright, and when he eventually left, because they always do, I told myself it was just another picture that didn’t develop.
That’s how it always went—catching love, never keeping it.
It had been a little over two weeks since I’d landed in Savannah, and I was already unraveling.
Unsettled. Embarrassed. Exhausted—not only from the pregnancy, but from that deeper level of tired that settles in your chest and makes everything feel too loud, too bright, too much. The what-have-I-done sort of tired.
The kind that comes from trusting the wrong person. Again. From mistaking chemistry for connection and ending up with a nine-month reminder. The fallout? All mine to bear alone.
The world may have chewed me up and spit me out, but at least it usually had the decency to let me disappear. Wherever I landed, I could blend in—no reputations to manage. No family watching.
But here in Savannah, everything felt exposed. Like a magnifying glass hovered over me, every choice examined, every step too loud. I knew it was only a matter of time before I screwed it all up again.
Magnolia had been texting nonstop, practically buzzing about me meeting Eunice Wilder. Apparently, the Daughters of Savannah Civic Society needed someone to take photos for their social media and newsletter, and Eunice had started looking right before I got into town. Total coincidence. Obviously.
It sounded great in theory. But I had no editing supplies. No workspace. And at that exact moment, not even the will to live, according to the checklist in front of me. I was mentally drained, anxious, and already spiraling about the idea of disappointing a woman I’d never even met.
Nancy twitched in her sleep beside me, a soft little snore escaping her as the sunlight caught the wiry curls on her head.
Her body curled toward mine, trusting, unbothered.
She didn’t seem to care that I had no idea what I was doing.
She didn’t question whether I deserved her. She was here, warm and real and mine.
And God, I envied her for it.
I looked down at the pen in my hand, still hovering above the notebook, my fingers twitching with the familiar ache of wanting to get it right and knowing I probably wouldn’t.
What did it mean to belong somewhere? To wake up and actually recognize your own life. To feel anchored instead of adrift. Maybe it wasn’t about the place at all, but about finding someone who made the chaos quieter by existing.
I had always been a girl in motion. A girl with a suitcase half-packed.
A girl who didn’t hang art on the walls because it felt like a lie to pretend she was staying.
I moved through cities and apartments and people like wind through trees.
Felt for a second, then gone. There was never any time to grow roots when you were already halfway to the next exit.
And now? Now there was a tiny, flickering life inside me. One that didn’t get a choice about whether I stayed or ran. One that was already counting on me to be someone I’d never been before. Anchored, stable, enough.
I wasn’t failing myself anymore. I had the very real possibility of failing someone who hadn’t even arrived yet. Because deep down, in that raw place I didn’t let anyone touch, I didn’t want to run this time, I wanted to try. But I didn’t know how.
Some people had families. They had mothers to guide them when they were bringing new life into the world. Mothers who mailed parenting books and knitted tiny sweaters and called three times a day to say, You’ve got this.
Mine didn’t even know where on this planet I was. She didn’t even know I was pregnant. And if she did… I didn’t want to think about it.
The truth was, my mother had a way of turning everything into a reflection of herself. My choices weren’t mine. They were statements about her. Embarrassments. Proof that she had sacrificed everything and still ended up with a daughter who couldn’t hold it together for longer than a calendar month.
She would have called this moment—me, alone on someone else’s couch with a crusty dog and an even crustier reputation—a cry for attention. Or worse, a pattern. As if I enjoyed the constant feeling of barely staying afloat. As if chaos made me feel alive instead of exhausted.
I folded my arms across my middle and sat with the weight of it. The silence. The pressure. The absence of someone who should have cared enough to check in. To ask if I was okay.
But she didn’t. And I knew she wouldn’t.
I pushed myself deeper into the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling, hoping it might hold answers I hadn’t thought to ask yet.
Nancy stirred beside me, lifting her head with a quiet huff, confused by my antics.
I didn’t move. I sat there for a moment, eyes fixed on the one-lined list I’d written, wishing the rest would somehow appear on paper.
Then I folded it in half, slid it under the throw pillow, and tried to pretend it wasn’t there.
Maybe I wouldn’t go to this meeting with Eunice.
Magnolia would get over it. Eunice didn’t know me, not really.
I could say I wasn’t feeling well, which everyone would believe at this point, given the history.
Or I could say I’d double-booked. I could say anything, really, because if I didn’t show up, there’d be no photos.
And if there were no photos, there’d be nothing for me to ruin.
That was the part no one ever said out loud—the way not trying sometimes felt safer than trying and failing.
If I backed out before anyone got their hopes up, I couldn’t disappoint them.
Couldn’t confirm whatever quiet suspicions they might already have about me being a mess, or a flake, or someone who wasn’t quite cut out for the life she claimed she wanted.
Being invisible was safer. It was also lonelier.
The front door creaked open, and Jordan stepped inside, holding two iced coffees. His eyes found mine with a quiet steadiness. It wasn’t pity. He knew better than that. It was a softness, like he could sense I was coming apart and didn’t want to press on the bruise.
“I come bearing gifts,” he said, crossing the room and offering one of the cups. “One sad, soulless decaf for you. One proper caffeine bomb for me.”
I took it, half touched, half offended. “Decaf? Are you trying to make me suffer more than I already am?”
Jordan settled into the armchair across from me. “It’s called protecting the baby. Or, more specifically, protecting Doyle from having to deal with both you and a caffeine crash at the same time.”
I groaned but sipped. “Fair.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “I also come with a mission.”
“A mission?”
“A Cheese, Please! emergency,” Jordan announced, already sounding exasperated.
“The walk-in needs restocking, the wine display looks like a raccoon blew through it, and your brother has buried himself in spreadsheets and quarterly projections like he’s running a Fortune 500 company instead of a glorified snack boutique. So that leaves me. And—lucky you—you.”
I blinked. “You want my help?”
He gave me a look. “You’ve got a few hours until you meet with Mrs. Wilder. Unless you’d rather keep letting your dog psychoanalyze your existential spiral from the couch.”
Before I could argue, he added, “Also, if you’re up for it, I was hoping you might take a few pictures.
Some product shots for the website, maybe a few behind-the-scenes things for socials.
We’re way overdue for an update, and everything you’ve posted online has looked.
.. I don’t know, cool. Like, actually cool. ”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
“I mean, only if you want to,” he added quickly. “It’s not a job-job. I mean, of course, we will pay you. I thought you might want something to do that didn’t involve… whatever this is that you’re doing now. Which is what, exactly?”