Chapter Thirteen #2
I needed a friend. Someone who wouldn’t judge me for stress-eating fast food or falling apart over a kale salad. Someone who might actually understand.
My feet carried me toward O’Malley’s.
The bar sat tucked on a corner just off the main drag, weathered brick and a hand-painted sign that looked like it had survived a few hurricanes.
A single light glowed in the window. Through the glass, I could make out the long mahogany bar, the rows of bottles catching the dim light, and a familiar figure moving behind the counter.
Charlie.
I hesitated at the door, suddenly second-guessing myself. But before I could back out, he looked up and caught my eye through the window.
Too late now.
I pushed the door open, and the smell hit me immediately—old wood, lemon oil, and something faintly hoppy that had probably seeped into the floorboards decades ago.
Charlie straightened from where he’d been wiping down the bar, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He wore a faded O’Malley’s t-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms dusted in what looked like sawdust and paint spackle.
“We’re closed. Don’t open for another hour,” he said, but there was no bite to it. His eyes scanned my face, then dropped to the McDonald’s bag in my hand. “Though I’m guessing you’re not here for a drink.”
“I was looking for Magnolia,” I admitted, hovering near the door like I might bolt at any second. “Is she around?”
“Dress fitting,” he said, tossing the towel onto the bar. “I’m covering. Lucky me.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “I can go—”
“Don’t.” He gestured to one of the barstools. “Sit. You look like you need it.”
I hesitated, then crossed to the bar and climbed onto a stool, setting my contraband on the polished wood. The bag crinkled obscenely loud in the quiet.
Charlie eyed the McDonald’s logo, one brow lifting. “That from the walk-up on Broughton?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re eating it alone in a closed bar because...?”
“Because my brother is a judgmental ass who thinks kale will solve all my problems,” I said, pulling out a fry and biting into it with more aggression than necessary. “And I needed to eat something that wouldn’t make me want to cry.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. He pulled out his phone, tapped at it a few times, then set it down.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Ordering reinforcements,” he said. “Those fries aren’t gonna cut it.”
“I didn’t come here for you to feed me.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I was gonna eat anyway. Might as well have company.”
I took another fry, slower this time, and let the silence stretch. The bar felt different now—quiet, but with that pre-show buzz, the sense that any minute it’d all come back to life.
Charlie grabbed a glass and went to work, pouring grenadine and soda, stacking in extra cherries and orange slices before sliding the drink my way. “It’s the only mocktail I know how to make,” he said with a shrug.
I took the skewer of cherries and wrapped my lips around them, popping each one off in slow succession. Sweet syrup clung to my fingers, the taste bright and sticky as I caught the last trace with my tongue.
Charlie leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching me with a look I couldn’t read.
“So,” he said finally. “Kale?”
I let out a bitter laugh. “Kale. Quinoa. Micronutrients. Apparently, I’m not taking care of myself or my baby, according to Doyle’s expert opinion.”
“Ah.”
“And when I said I didn’t want to eat it, he told me I was taking up space and expecting the world to bend around my preferences.
” I stabbed another fry into the corner of the bag, hunting for rogue salt.
“He invited me here, Charlie. He told me to come. And now I’m some kind of burden he’s stuck with. ”
Charlie didn’t say anything right away. He only listened intently, letting me get it all out.
“I told him he’s just like our mom,” I admitted, quieter now. “Cold and righteous and impossible to please. And he didn’t even deny it.”
“That probably hit him hard,” Charlie said carefully.
“Good.” I popped another fry into my mouth. The mix of salt and grenadine was sinful enough to pull a quiet moan from my throat. “Maybe he needs to hear it.”
A knock came at the door, and Charlie pushed off the counter to grab the takeout. He came back with a Treylor Park bag, setting it between us and pulling out fried chicken sliders, extra pickles, and a side of mac and cheese that looked obscene in the best way.
“Here,” he said, sliding the sliders toward me. “Real food.”
I stared at the bag. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
The first bite hit me square in the soul. I closed my eyes, savoring the warm, vinegary crunch, and when I opened them again, Charlie was watching me with something that looked almost like amusement.
“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” I said, mouth full.
“God, no,” he deadpanned.
I snorted despite myself, licking hot sauce off my thumb. “Why are you always so nice to me? Even when I’m a mess?”
Charlie leaned forward, forearms bracing against the bar. “Maybe because I get it.”
“Get what?”
“What it’s like to love someone who doesn’t know how to let you in.” He paused, gaze dropping to the sliders. “My sister’s getting married to Dane Wilder. Lee’s brother.”
I blinked. “Yeah, I’d heard rumors. That’s... complicated.”
“She thinks it’s the only way to save this place,” he said, gesturing around the bar. “That if she marries him, he’ll sign over his part of the family trust and O’Malley’s stays in our family. She really believes it’s her only option.”
“And you’re just... letting her?”
His jaw tightened. “I’m not letting her do anything. She’s a grown woman. She makes her own calls.” He looked at me then, eyes steady. “But I’m standing by, ready for whatever she needs, whenever she needs it. That doesn’t mean I don’t tell her how I feel. And sometimes she hates hearing it.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
He inched closer, gaze sweeping my face. “Because when you’re stuck in the middle of one of life’s messes, it’s hard to see straight. And sometimes the people who sound the most critical are the ones trying hardest to look out for you. Even if they don’t always get it right.”
I set down the slider, suddenly not hungry anymore. “So you’re saying Doyle’s being an ass because he cares?”
“I’m saying he’s scared,” Charlie said. “And fear makes people do shitty things. Doesn’t make it okay. But it might explain why he’s holding on so tight.”
I wrapped my fingers around the edge of the bar, grease still slick on my skin. “I came here thinking we’d fall back into a rhythm. That we’d be siblings again. But he’s keeping me at arm’s length, like he’s embarrassed to be seen with me.”
“I’ve known Doyle a long time,” Charlie said.
“He’s not always great at handling things he doesn’t understand.
He’s used to being the responsible one, and sometimes that makes him hold on too tight or push harder than he should.
” He paused. “He reminds me a lot of myself sometimes. Especially the way I am with Magnolia.”
“From what I’ve seen,” I said, trying not to laugh, “you and Magnolia are nothing like Doyle and me.”
“We can be,” he admitted. “Right now, she’s making a decision I don’t understand, and I don’t know how to support it. I slip up. I let my fear show. I go about it the wrong way.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his expression made my chest ache.
“But I’m trying,” he said. “And maybe that’s what Doyle’s doing too. Trying. Failing. But trying.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Living there. Pretending it’s fine when it’s not.”
“Then don’t,” Charlie said simply. “You don’t owe him perfect. You don’t owe him easy. You just owe him the truth.”
A breeze swept in from somewhere—maybe the back door was cracked—and I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “Not just for tonight. For all of it. For blowing into town like a hurricane. For ruining your artwork. For not knowing how to take a compliment.”
Charlie shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for trying to start over or being afraid. We’re all scared of something.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me,” he said, voice low. “I’m terrified of watching my sister marry the wrong guy.
Of standing by while she makes a choice I can’t undo.
Of not saying enough or saying too much.
” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I show up anyway. Because that’s what you do for the people you love. ”
I stared at him, this man who kept showing up when I least expected it and most needed it, and felt something shift in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For the food. For listening. For not making me feel like an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he said. “You’re just human. And that’s allowed.”
We sat there in the quiet of O’Malley’s, the weight of the day finally starting to lift, and for the first time since the fight with Doyle, I didn’t feel quite so alone.