Chapter Twenty-One
TALLY
From the kitchen, Dig called out, “Girl dinner!” before sauntering around the corner in one of Jordan’s giant, probably very expensive, plush robes. Jordan tensed by the door.
“And Charlie,” Doyle added in a loud whisper, gesturing toward the man standing like a reluctant bodyguard near the living room. “Whatever she says or does, do not hold it against Jordan or me. We love you. I won’t let her ruin that for us.”
Charlie stood between Doyle and me, his wide, flannel-covered back toward me. I took in his height, the way his long, copper-brushed hair curled slightly around his earlobes. Cedar and something warm wafted toward me and I took a step in his direction before I caught myself.
“Remind me again why Dig can’t stay with me?” I asked, a little too casually. “We did fine in New York, just the two of us, since you abandoned us for wine and money and good looks. No offense, Jordan.”
Jordan lifted one shoulder, already fighting a grin. “None taken.”
Doyle, ever the dramatist, shoved poor Nancy Reagan out of the way to reach for his Louis Vuitton carry-on, then squared his shoulders like he was about to march into battle.
“Tallulah, you were living in a fifth-floor walk-up that smelled like lo mein and broken dreams. And might I remind you,” he added, his voice climbing as he flung a hand in the general direction of my stomach, “you are now with child and have no plan, no roadmap, and not a single clue how to raise a human.”
Dig sashayed across the glossy hardwood floor and threw his leg up in a Rockette’s-style kick. “He’s not wrong, Tally.”
I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms. “Thanks for the support.”
Dig smirked. “Anytime, doll. That’s what family’s for.”
I crossed to Jordan and wrapped my arms around him. “Please call me if you need anything, even if it’s just to vent. Especially if Doyle makes this trip all about him.”
“You wouldn’t hit a pregnant lady, would you, Doyle?” Dig asked, snacking on an olive from his martini. God, I would’ve sold a kidney for that drink.
My gaze flicked to Charlie, who stood a few feet away, arms loose at his sides, watching the circus unfold with a look I couldn’t quite read. Not amused, not annoyed—just... there. Noticing everything. Including me.
Dig tossed back the rest of his cocktail and grabbed his overnight bag, slinging it over one shoulder before sauntering over to press a kiss to my cheek.
“I have to go back to New York, Tal,” he said, holding my hand like he was about to deliver a eulogy.
“We talked about this. Shifts at Errico’s, a callback for Clam Number Three in The Little Mermaid reimagining, and a situationship I can’t let get too stale.
You know I require at least three viable options at all times. ”
Charlie laughed—low and surprised, like it caught him off guard.
“All right, Clam-Boy,” Doyle said, already heading for the door. “If you’re piggybacking on our Uber, we need to go. Tally, please don’t burn my house—or the city—down.”
I crossed the room and kissed my brother’s cheek. “A girl sets the town gazebo on fire one time...”
“Bye, y’all,” Charlie said, stepping to my side while the three of them argued and stumbled their way into the elevator, bags dragging behind them.
Dig turned, clicked an imaginary camera at us, and blew me an air kiss as I slammed the door shut.
“Tallulah!” my brother’s voice echoed from the descending elevator.
I exhaled, leaning against the door, pressing my palm to my stomach.
“You okay?” Charlie asked, voice low and rough.
I nodded, even though I wasn’t totally sure.
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “All right. Well. Guess we’d better figure out how this is gonna work.”
I swallowed hard. “Well, I thought I could soften you up a little by baking you a treat. Wait here.”
Charlie’s eyebrows shot up, but he stayed put, murmuring to Nancy as she pranced around on the marble, proud as only poodles can be when getting attention.
I opened the oven and pulled out the blueberry bake, an exact, well, okay…
that’s ambitious of me. It was supposed to be a replica of the ribbon-winning Blueberry Boyfriend Bake my grandmother, Nonie, had perfected over the years.
But without a recipe, I was winging it, and when I set it on the stove it deflated like a balloon.
But while Jordan, Doyle, and Dig were packing, I needed to keep my hands and mind busy, and though I’d maybe baked twice in my whole life, if you count oven-ready pizzas as baking, I wanted to show Charlie that I was appreciative of him and his time.
I grabbed the potholders and took a deep breath. Maybe it tasted better than it looked? I turned the corner from the kitchen into the living room and ran smack into Charlie.
“Are you okay? Wha–” he started, then yelped when the hot dish nicked his forearm. He cursed, good and loud, more from surprise than pain.
“Oh my God!” I squealed as the dish slid from my grip and exploded across the floor in a purple tide.
Charlie glanced from his arm to the bruised-blue splatter across the pristine white floor and loveseat, then to my face. When our eyes met, the scowl he’d been wearing eased.
He moved without hesitation, closing the steps between us and steering me away from the mess as gently as possible. “You look like you did before you passed out,” he said. “Can you make it to the couch?”
I, indeed, could not make it to the couch.
***
By the time I came to, I looked like Violet Beauregarde, if she went twelve rounds with Betty Crocker and Betty took the gold.
My limbs were trembling, my clothes clung damp to my skin from the cold sweat that washed over me, and the stupid blueberry blast. I couldn’t tell if the chill running down my spine was from the cold tile or the creeping realization that perhaps I did need a babysitter after all.
“Come on now, darlin’, you’re okay,” Charlie whispered, his rough hands stroking my forehead and cheeks. “One of the nurses from the OB’s office is on the line, she’s asking if you still feel dizzy?”
I shook my head and craned my neck to assess the damage. There was blueberry goo everywhere, including all over Nancy since she was snouting around and mashing it into the ground and her chocolate-brown fur.
“Fuck me,” I muttered, trying to sit up.
Charlie made a sound into the phone that was half laugh, half fond exasperation.
“No, ma’am, that was not an invitation,” he said, then promised the nurse he’d take me to the ER if anything like that happened again and he’d try to keep me off my feet until my appointment.
“I need to clean myself up,” I sighed, looking down at myself.
Charlie helped me to the bathroom, and I tried my best to get it together.
The doctor had assured me that this is normal, that it happens, but to take it easy.
Probably stress baking over my best friend leaving, my brother’s anal attitude, and my brother-in-law in pain over his mother was not the route to go.
But I never knew how to sit still. That was always the way it went with me.
Charlie was crouched in the living room when I emerged, mop in hand, sleeves rolled past his elbows, hair in full rebellion like he’d been dragging his fingers through it for the past half hour. He looked up long enough to register I was there, then went back to scrubbing and muttering to himself.
I lingered in the doorway longer than I meant to, shame and exhaustion tripping over each other.
I’d done worse. I’d been worse. But seeing him there—flannel, boots, and all that quiet, easy helpfulness—undid a knot in me I hadn’t known was there.
For a second, I didn’t want to be brave.
I wanted to let myself be small, and let someone else carry the weight for once.
And that scared me more than it should have.
“I’m sorry,” I said, voice barely bigger than a breath.
Charlie rose to his feet, brushing his palms on his jeans. He kept his gaze down, and I was grateful for it.
“I’m gonna run down and grab a few things from the studio. Will you be all right?”
I nodded, but this time I meant it. My limbs still felt untrustworthy, my stomach was a minefield, and I could hear the echo of my brother’s worry and annoyance in every corner of this too-big penthouse.
But Charlie had helped me without judgment, with that quiet steadiness that didn’t demand anything.
And for reasons I didn’t want to dig too deeply into, that made me feel safer than I’d felt in months.
“Please park your behind on the couch and do not move,” Charlie said, heading for the door. “So help me God if I come back up here and you’re anywhere near the kitchen, your ass is grass, Aden.”
I let out the most pathetic laugh as I pressed a hand to my belly, not for comfort, but for clarity. Trying to remind myself what this was all for. Who I was doing it for.
“I’m trying,” I whispered. “I really am.”
Nancy let out a long, theatrical sigh and rested her blueberry-covered chin on my knee, like she could sense how close I was to crumbling.
I tilted my head back against the back of the couch, letting the silence settle around me.
Somewhere under the fatigue and the nausea and the ever-present panic, I could still hear the girl I used to be.
The one who dreamed in Technicolor. Who believed in late-night dancing, open windows, and hands that held on when things got hard.
Who traveled and searched the world for what she believed could save her, the perfect life—the perfect love.
She didn’t feel close. But she wasn’t gone.
There was still a part of me that wanted to fight for her.
Maybe not with fists raised and a battle cry but with more patience.
The kind of strength that came from staying.
From trying again. From refusing to let go of the idea that there was a place for me in this world.
A space that didn’t ask me to shrink or perform or apologize.
A place I’d walk into and recognize—not by its shape or its sound, but by the way it settled in my chest but the way it felt when I finally let myself belong.
A place that felt a lot like home.