Chapter Eight #2
I shrugged and glanced down at myself—an old t-shirt and linen pants that hadn’t seen daylight since I arrived. No stains, no leftover breakfast crust. Functional. Maybe even employable.
I took another long sip of the decaf. “Okay. I’ll help.”
Jordan smiled. “Thank you.”
I paused. “But only because I’m wearing real pants.”
His grin widened. “Hey, we take progress where we can get it.”
And for the first time in a while, a flicker of purpose stirred. Small, fragile, but real.
It was a start.
***
Cheese, Please! was bright and welcoming, filled with the warm scent of fresh bread, aged cheddar, and an herby note I couldn’t quite place. It was annoyingly charming, like a Pinterest board had come to life and decided to run a cheese and wine empire.
Muted golds and soft greens wrapped around the space like a hug, and hand-lettered chalkboard signs pointed the way toward truffle brie and house-made jam.
A floor-to-ceiling cooler hummed quietly along the wall, stocked with crisp white wine and those little jars of pickled things I could never afford but always craved.
I’d seen a few of their posts floating around on social media. Jordan had a solid eye for branding, but he wasn’t wrong. The photos didn’t quite match the vibe. The space itself was effortlessly cool, but the images fell short.
Still, stepping through the door now hit me in a way I didn’t expect. It wasn’t jealousy, and it wasn’t regret. It was pride. Real, breath-catching pride.
My brother used to eat peanut butter straight from the jar and swear he was destined to be the next Anthony Bourdain.
Now he was part-owner of a place that looked like it belonged in a glossy spread about hidden Southern gems. And Jordan, with his soft-sweater warmth and love of the perfect blend of tannins and age of grapes, had helped turn the vision into this beautiful, tangible reality.
A smile crept in before I could stop it. My eyes probably said more than I meant them to, but I didn’t bother hiding it. For once, it felt good to be proud, even if it wasn’t mine. Even if I was standing on the edge of it all, looking in.
I held onto that feeling for as long as I could. Long enough to forget that Doyle had left me behind in New York without a second thought. Enough to quiet the part of me that still felt a little abandoned. For a few minutes, awe was louder than bitterness. And that felt akin to progress.
Jordan handed me an apron—hunter green with a tiny wedge of gold, metallic cheese, and the words Cheese, Please!
stitched across the front. I tied it around my waist and tried not to let my hormones tackle me to the ground.
It was just an apron. But it felt like more.
A tiny signal that I wasn’t just floating. That maybe I had a place here.
I followed him behind the counter, rolling up my sleeves with the confidence of someone who might know what she was doing.
And somehow, I did. I stocked the fridge, sorted crackers by expiration date, and lined up glass jars of imported olives with labels I couldn’t pronounce but instinctively respected.
Jordan didn’t hover. He let me work and trusted me to get it done.
It was simple, repetitive, a quiet rhythm that let my brain go soft around the edges. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed using my hands and my brain, moving around without the weight of judgment pressing on my shoulders.
I’d held so many odd jobs over the last few years that none of this felt particularly intimidating.
I’d been a yoga instructor, a cashier, a wedding planning assistant, a hairdresser—sort of, but that’s a long story—a mortician, and a beekeeper.
Also, a waitress. A really bad one. And in between all of that, I kept trying to make photography stick.
I’d book a few weddings, snap some engagement shoots, and once even did a full-day elopement marathon in Central Park with twenty-nine couples and one extremely aggressive squirrel.
No matter how chaotic things got, holding a camera gave me a sense of purpose.
It was the one thing that made me feel capable, useful.
But the feeling never lasted. The money was inconsistent, the pressure crept in, and eventually I’d fold.
I’d take the next job that came along and convince myself it was only for now, a placeholder until I figured it all out.
The problem was that I never gave myself the grace of loving the craft of photography enough to try and make it a career. I took it too seriously and would quit before I could fail.
“You’re good at this,” Jordan said, tossing me a bar towel to wipe down the counter. “Are you sure your résumé doesn’t say ‘cheesemonger in a past life‘?”
I snorted, catching the towel one-handed. “I’m adding it now. Right between ‘beekeeper’ and ‘bridesmaid wrangler.’”
My résumé flashed through my mind—a dozen half-finished jobs, none lasting longer than a year.
I’d need to find a real, consistent job in Savannah.
But who was going to hire someone whose longest stint at anything barely lasted longer than a podcast episode?
And then to show up visibly pregnant on top of that? Lord, I was about to spiral.
I grabbed my camera and slung it around my neck, trying to settle my nerves by focusing on the one thing I still, somewhat, trusted myself to do.
The light in the shop was shockingly good.
Warm, directional, and soft enough to work with.
I started circling, testing a few angles, checking how the shadows fell across the shelves and counter.
I adjusted the light sensitivity, bumped my aperture enough to blur the background, and zeroed in on a cluster of jars that looked more artisanal than anything I could afford.
Near the front, a round display table made from a reclaimed wine barrel caught the afternoon light just right—practically begging for a shot.
I moved a wedge of cheese an inch, angled the wine glass, dropped a tiny bowl of pickles in for balance.
Then I crouched, framing the shot so the curve of wood and glass did all the work.
Click.
I adjusted a smidge to the left and took another.
Click.
I was so focused, I didn’t hear Jordan approach until he spoke. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re doing, but it looks cool as hell.”
I glanced up at him, half-laughing. “Oh, you know, trying to make fermented grapes look sexy.”
He looked at the setup, then nudged the barrel with the toe of his shoe. “Charlie actually made this table. It was the first commissioned piece we bought from him when we opened.”
I looked at it again, noticing the clean weld lines and the slight asymmetry in the woodgrain.
The intricate detail in the smooth edges reminded me of him lurking in the shadows the night we met, a sander in hand and a crooked smile on his lips.
Was he really that annoyed with me that night, or did I miss the part where maybe he was kind of charming in a grouchy sort of way?
“Of course he did,” I murmured.
Jordan didn’t press, only handed me a folded dish towel. “You’ve got pickle juice on your elbow, Ansel Adams.”
The bell over the front door jingled, and Jordan’s posture stiffened slightly, enough to make me pause.
My brother strode in, sunglasses still perched on his nose like he hadn’t fully committed to being indoors. His gaze swept the room, already carrying that air of what did I walk into. Then he saw me, and his eyes narrowed like Jordan had asked a possum to restock the shelves.
“What are you doing down here?” he asked, voice laced with that signature cocktail of judgment and disbelief.
“Helping,” I said, holding up a wheel of Gouda as if it proved my point.
His mouth curved—not quite a smile, not quite approval. “Oh, photography again? Adorable.”
Jordan made a noise low in his throat and stepped between us before I could come up with a response that wasn’t laced with profanity.
“She’s taking shots for the website,” he said calmly. “And actually doing a damn good job, if you’re curious.”
Doyle’s sunglasses slid down enough to reveal the quick flick of his eyes over me. “Sure. Great. Just… don’t knock over the display.” He moved behind the counter, gruff but not entirely dismissive.
I swallowed whatever comeback was building in my throat and quietly set the Gouda back on the counter, trying not to let my hands shake.
I grabbed a damp rag and started wiping down the tasting table, focusing on the sticky wine rings like they were the most important thing in the world.
I could pretend his words didn’t sting, but they did because he wasn’t wrong.
I had picked up photography again. Just like I’d picked it up the last time.
And the time before that. I just never managed to hold on.
I was rearranging the sample cups when Doyle pushed his sunglasses up onto his head and gave me a once-over, his brows lifting at the apron. “Since when do you ‘help,’ Tallulah?” His tone wasn’t cruel, just skeptical—like he was trying to figure out if this was a bit or a breakthrough.
Jordan coughed in the background, clearly not eager to referee the Aden sibling apocalypse this was on the verge of becoming. He scurried to the back of the shop, refusing to make eye contact with either of us.
My brother’s expression caught my eye as I lowered my camera and adjusted the strap around my neck.
The dynamic between us had changed since I’d been in Savannah.
His usual cadence and banter with me—typically a little judgmental but mostly playful—had curdled into a shade shy of animosity. Almost like he saw me as a burden.
“Remember, my darling brother,” I touted, leaning against the repurposed wine barrel. “You’re the one who invited me into your lair. Or was this all an elaborate plan to make me feel more like shit than I already do?”