Chapter Fourteen
CHARLIE
“Oooh, chicken and waffles,” Magnolia said, her eyes lighting up as she peeked into the takeout bag on the counter. She dropped a dog-eared bridal magazine on the bar and curled one leg beneath her on the stool she kept parked by the to-go window.
“Yep. Fried chicken,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dish rag. “Even though your best friend makes it way better than anyone else in this city. And waffles to bat down what you described over the phone as I quote, ‘seasonal sads.’”
She hopped off the stool. “I don’t know if you can technically get seasonal depression in the South,” she said, pulling open the bag and inhaling dramatically, “but if you can, I definitely have it. So I want to eat like I’m gearing up for hibernation.”
I leaned against the bar and rubbed the back of my neck, eyeing her with suspicion.
“You sure you’re not like… regular depressed?
Because last I checked, you’re engaged to a guy who gets hammered and sends you Shakespearean-level passive-aggressive texts at midnight because he can’t handle your sass. ”
Magnolia rustled around inside the takeout bag. “Where’s yours?” she asked, frowning over her shoulder. “I thought we were eating together.”
I gripped the edge of the bar, eyes on my boots. “Wasn’t all that hungry.”
Through a mouthful of waffle, she let out a muffled snort. “Don’t be judgy, Charlie. You might not have the seasonal sads like I do, but you’ve definitely had a scowl on your face since I walked in here.”
I shrugged and made my way behind the bar, reaching for a highball glass and the good bourbon I kept tucked away from the regular shelves.
There was a comfort in moving behind the bar again and stepping into the familiar rhythm of it, even if only to fix a drink, that settled into my chest like muscle memory.
The lights strung across the ceiling, the garland half-heartedly taped to the taps, and the handmade snowflake ornaments leftover from the Historical Holiday Tour added a layer of nostalgia that hit harder than I expected.
In a breath, the comfort unraveled, exposing what had always been waiting beneath it.
Grief.
Maybe it was the holidays and how much our momma used to love Christmas, the way she’d string lights across every square inch of our porch on Tybee Island as if she were trying to signal low-flying aircraft.
Or maybe it was the drink in my hand, mixed exactly the way Uncle Cole taught me—muddled maraschino cherry, one oversized cube, stirred slow, never shaken.
A ritual I hadn’t even realized I still followed, like tradition passed down in the blood.
Either way, grief was tugging at me, wrapping itself around the soft parts of my heart I usually kept locked away.
Maybe it was the cold front moving in. Maybe it was the sadness that always showed up when the lights dimmed and the music got merry and the quiet crept in, no matter how crowded the room was.
Or maybe it was the conversation I’d had earlier tonight with a very pregnant woman who’d shown up at this bar looking like she was barely holding it together.
The more I talked to her, the more I realized she wasn’t just beautiful—she was raw, honest in ways most people weren’t, and trying her damn best.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Testing the waters, I took a slow sip, let the silence stretch, then asked, “Have you talked to Tally lately?”
Magnolia didn’t answer right away. She took another bite of waffle, chewing slowly, one eyebrow raised, like she knew damn well I wasn’t asking just to make conversation. After a long pause, she swallowed and leveled a look at me.
“Why are you asking me this?”
I shook my head. “She stopped by earlier,” I said, too carefully. “Seemed like she was having a rough night.”
Magnolia narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, she texted me. Said you fed her and let her vent about Doyle. That was rather nice of you.”
I didn’t answer. I kept busy behind the bar, stirring the cocktail I’d already finished and wiping the countertop—anything to avoid eye contact.
“So,” I tried again, casually—too casually, probably—” do you think she’s planning on staying in Savannah? Or does she have… I don’t know. Another plan?”
Magnolia froze mid-bite.
Then, in one fluid, furious motion, she hopped off the barstool, which scraped back so hard it smacked the counter with a clang that echoed through the room.
“Charlie, no. Absolutely not. You cannot start developing a freaking crush on Doyle’s extremely pregnant, highly emotional, very much-in-transition sister. I forbid it.”
I scoffed. “You’re marrying Dane for a business deal, basically. And you’re worried about me?” I carefully handed her the drink I’d just made, in case she decided to start swinging. “But to answer your extremely dramatic question—no. I am not developing a crush on Doyle’s sister.”
She wasn’t Doyle’s sister, not to me. Her name was Tallulah River Aden. And I’d long since blown past the developmental phase of anything. I was already in freefall. No guardrails. No plan. Falling, and too far gone to stop.
The moments we carved out together—the quiet stretches, the easy back-and-forth that belonged only to us—got under my skin. Even if she thought I’d ghosted her. Even if I told myself I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance.
What sat between us now wasn’t loud or obvious. It felt like finally being where I was supposed to be.
And this was wildly, ridiculously out of character for me.
Because I was the dependable one. The golden retriever of a brother and a friend, the guy everyone counted on when the wheels came off.
I picked up the late-night phone calls, drove across town without asking why, showed up with a toolbox or a shoulder when somebody needed it.
The one people leaned on—not because I begged for the job, but because I’d proven, over and over, that I wouldn’t let them fall.
I’d built my whole identity around being solid. Predictable. The one who held it together.
And then she blew in, Hurricane Tally with her wild curls and sharp comebacks. Those sundresses she kept wearing, no matter the weather, that clung to every new curve. Eyes that caught too much and offered back almost nothing.
She didn’t even have to speak for me to lose my senses. She was a contradiction in every direction. And it was no wonder she somehow got under my skin.
“Hey. Earth to my big brother. Can we shift focus to the wedding, please? That is, if you’re done spacing out and definitely not thinking about the woman you, of course, don’t have a crush on.”
Magnolia was watching me now, eyebrows lifted in that way she did when she was trying to be playful but also keeping score, waiting for me to say something. To be useful. To be steady. To be the version of me she depended on without ever having to ask.
But she didn’t really see me. None of them did. Not the part of me unraveling in the quiet moments. Not the version that lay awake most nights, wondering what it would take to feel whole instead of held together by expectation and obligation.
They saw the guy with the checklist. The fixer. The anchor. But never the weight I was dragging to stay upright.
“Of course we can, Mags.”
She lit up at that, her shoulders relaxing as she pulled out a notebook from under the bar, already in motion, already onto the next thing.
“I was thinking of a bourbon-based cocktail for the signature drink,” she said, tapping her pen against the page. “And maybe passed appetizers—festive, but not… I don’t know, heart-shaped meatballs or anything.”
I nodded along. Let her fill the space with plans and details that made her feel in control.
And I slipped back into the role I knew best. The steady one. The strong one. The one who could pretend, for a bit longer, that everything was fine.