Chapter Thirteen
TALLY
Iwas officially lumbering through the awkward, swollen stretch of my second trimester, with Christmas crashing toward us and the slow-building, mutually assured emotional implosion between my brother and me ticking closer by the day.
Most of the time, we held it together—if we weren’t home at the same time, or speaking, or occupying the same general airspace.
Some days, even the knowledge that the other existed felt like a personal affront.
I kept trying to pinpoint the moment it all shifted, when the thread between us frayed and the space grew quiet in a way that wasn’t peaceful anymore.
We used to be close. Even when I was still across the globe, we checked in.
We’d send stupid memes. Called when the world felt heavy or stupid or too much.
And now, I was sleeping two doors down in his meticulously polished penthouse, and somehow I had never felt more like a guest in my own family.
I missed him. Not only in the nostalgic, wish-it-were-different way.
I missed him with the deep ache of someone who remembers what it felt like to be understood without having to explain anything.
We used to move through the world like a two-person team, taking turns as the mess and the fixer, always knowing the other would show up when it mattered.
And somewhere along the way, without meaning to, Doyle became the one who kept everything running—who paid his bills on time, who held the line, who became the steady one I pretended to be.
I missed being the big sister who could take care of things.
I missed being his soft place to land. And lately, it felt like I had become a problem he didn’t quite know how to solve, a presence he tolerated out of obligation.
But aside from all that, Savannah was settling into my bones, the way a blanket does when it’s been washed a hundred times and always smells faintly like home.
I’d started carrying my camera everywhere, picking up odd gigs when I wasn’t at Cheese, Please!
or managing the Daughters of Savannah Civic Society’s social media feed.
I’d just about finished planning Hoyt and Charlotte’s elopement—we nailed down a cake, a florist, and, by some miracle, Pastor Dave Donnelly, a newcomer trying to establish himself as Savannah’s latest pop-up minister.
I’d met him at one of Eunice’s business mix and mingles, courtesy of Magnolia’s not-so-subtle matchmaking shove.
But with no actual, steady job in range, I’d been happy getting what work I could and putting away some money for my own space.
Avoiding the penthouse had become somewhat of a full-time job in and of itself. But eventually, I had to go home. And, when I did, the fireworks were inevitable. Not the fun kind. No, these were full-blown, nuclear-grade blowups—the kind only the Aden siblings could truly ignite.
“I just don’t understand what you have against kale,” Doyle huffed, stabbing at his own quinoa-and-sadness bowl.
“It’s full of micronutrients. It’s good for your skin, which—frankly—doesn’t look like you’re taking care of no matter how many serums and creams I throw your way.
But why am I even talking? You’re not listening. ”
Across from us, Jordan didn’t say a word, but I saw the way he sat up straighter. His spine stiffened in that barely-there way it always did when Doyle started to spiral. He didn’t interfere—he never did—but his silence carried its own kind of tension.
“I just don’t like it,” I said, my voice low and flat. I rubbed a hand over my stomach. “I don’t have to justify anything to you, Doyle. It’s rabbit food. I’d rather have a burger.”
“Technically,” Jordan said under his breath, “That’s a salmon burger.”
Doyle gave him a pointed look, then turned back to me with a little exhale, trying to stay calm. Pretending, as always, that he was the reasonable one. “Tally, you said you wanted to eat better for the baby. So yeah, when I make you a healthy dinner, I expect you to—”
“Expect me to what?” I cut in, setting my fork down with a quiet clink. “Eat it and say thank you even though it tastes like compost and makes me nauseous?”
Doyle blinked at me, clearly surprised I was pushing back. “No, I expect you to take some basic care of yourself. And your baby. Jesus, Tally, it’s not like I’m asking you to run a marathon.”
“I didn’t ask you to make me lunch.”
“You didn’t have to. You’re staying here for free, taking up space like you always do and expecting the world to bend around your preferences.”
My whole body went still.
“You asked me to come,” I said, quiet but unwavering. “You told me to come stay with you. And I thought it would be like it always was. We’d hang out and talk and laugh, and you’d still be my best friend even if everything else felt like it was falling apart.”
Doyle’s mouth pressed into a hard line.
“But instead,” I went on, pushing the words out even though my throat was burning, “You’ve been keeping me at arm’s length since the minute I got here. Avoiding me unless it’s to criticize whatever I’m doing or not doing. I don’t even know what I did wrong.”
His jaw worked like he wanted to argue, but couldn’t quite find the right words.
“You’ve been walking around like I’m an inconvenience, like I’m embarrassing you, and I don’t get it, Doyle, I don’t.” My voice cracked, and I hated that it did, but I didn’t stop. “You hated Mom. You hated how she judged us. How nothing we did was ever good enough. And now you’re just like her.”
His eyes snapped to mine.
“You stand in front of me, preaching about vitamins and discipline, acting like you’re so much better than me, and for what? You’re exactly what she was—cold and righteous and impossible to please.”
Doyle slammed his fork down. “You don’t get to say that.”
“Why not? It’s true. You can’t even look at me without that face. That face that says I’ve already disappointed you and I haven’t even opened my mouth yet.”
“Well, maybe being like Mom isn’t perfect,” he said, voice sharp with frustration, “But at least I’m not repeating the same mistakes on a loop.”
I scoffed. “I mean, to be fair, getting knocked up is kind of a new thing for me.”
Jordan let out a quick huff, but my brother didn’t so much as blink.
There was a long, awful beat of silence. Then Doyle dragged both hands down his face. Some of the fire had already drained out of him.
“You want to know why I’m distant?” he said, his voice lower now, the edge cracking.
“Because I’m tired. I’m tired of being the one who keeps it all together.
I’m tired of watching you make the same choices and then act like you’re shocked when it falls apart.
You want support? Great. But support doesn’t mean coddling.
It doesn’t mean pretending you’re not the one holding the matches. ”
I stood too. I didn’t even realize I’d shoved the chair back until it bumped the ledge behind me.
“I’m not asking you to coddle me,” I said. “I’m asking you to see me. Not as a problem. Not as a failure. Just… me. Your sister.”
He shook his head. “I don’t even know who that is anymore.”
“Well, maybe if you stopped judging me long enough to actually talk to me, you’d find out.”
Doyle didn’t say another word. He stepped back from the table too quickly and stormed off the veranda without bothering to clean up his half-finished bowl of quinoa or the trail of judgment he’d left in his wake.
The penthouse swallowed him up a second later, the sound of a door closing somewhere inside cutting off the last of his exit.
Jordan stayed behind long enough to glance in my direction, the slightest flicker of apology in his eyes, although whether it was for Doyle’s behavior or for not saying more, I couldn’t quite tell.
He didn’t speak as he reached across the table and gently stacked our bowls, as if cleaning up could somehow sweep away the damage left behind.
Then he followed after my brother, quiet as ever, and I was alone again.
I stepped to the edge of the railing and looked out at the river.
The late afternoon sun was slipping low over the rooftops, painting the sky in soft, washed-out colors that didn’t quite manage to feel comforting.
The breeze rolled in from the water, cool and clean, carrying the distant murmur of traffic and tourists below.
I sank back into one of the chairs, every part of me heavier than it had been earlier. No tears, just that stubborn lump in my throat and the tightness in my chest from all the words I kept swallowing to keep the peace.
And then, beneath the weight of my hand, a tiny shift. A flutter. A soft, sure movement from inside me, like the baby was reminding me they were still there. Another nudge, firmer this time, and I stilled completely, both hands now resting over the small swell of my stomach.
I wasn’t alone, not really.
But God, it sure felt that way.
***
Unable to shake the pressure of the conversation with my brother, I slipped out the front door and wandered away from the penthouse, hoping the fresh air would do what deep breaths and counting to ten hadn’t managed to pull off.
I didn’t have a plan, only a vague urge to keep moving, to feel the ground under my feet and put a little distance between myself and the words still echoing in my head.
And while I was at it, I decided to treat myself to something hot, greasy, and about as prenatal-approved as a margarita.
The walk-up window at McDonald’s called to me like a beacon of poor choices, and I stood under the yellow glow of the menu board ordering a large fry and a large orange soda—the kind that probably glows in the dark—glancing over my shoulder every few seconds like Doyle might pop out of the hedges and tackle the bag out of my hands.
I strolled from square to square, the bag growing greasier the longer I went without opening it. I’d been hoping for a quiet bench, but eating alone felt too pathetic.