Chapter Twenty-Two
CHARLIE
Itossed a pair of jeans into my duffle bag, followed by two of the cleanest t-shirts I could find in my laundry rotation, then paused, hand hovering over the drawer.
It was supposed to be one night. That was the plan.
Long enough to make sure Tally didn’t pass out, crack her head open, and bleed all over the pristine penthouse floors.
Then, I’d head back to my studio, my apartment, my routine.
Check in on her from time to time. Easy.
But instead I was packing like I was moving in. The longer I stood there, the more ridiculous it felt. Tally was an adult, and she probably didn’t want me hovering.
But, God help me, I wanted to be.
I shut the drawer a little harder than necessary and dragged a hand down my face.
I sighed and turned my attention to my art supplies, twisting the caps on a few acrylics to make sure they wouldn’t dry out overnight.
The movement felt mechanical—if I kept my hands busy, my brain wouldn’t spiral into all the places it was clearly trying to go.
I stacked the jars neatly along the edge of the worktable, lined up my brushes, and adjusted the lamp even though it didn’t need adjusting—still too much noise rattling around in my head.
My phone buzzed across the table, sliding an inch on the wood before stopping. Sutton’s face lit up the screen, grinning like a maniac, her River Rats cap on backward like she was the damn mayor of minor league baseball.
I smirked and tapped answer, propping the phone up against a stack of sketchbooks.
“Charlie Pruitt’s Babysitter’s Club, at your service.”
“Nice,” Sutton said, the sound of chopping echoing in the background. “You two are moving in together already? I knew I saw sparks flying.”
I rolled my eyes and reached for the phone like I might physically throttle her through it. “I’m not moving in with her. It’s just for the night. She’s not feeling great. Again.”
“Uh-huh.” She didn’t even try to hide the smugness in her voice as she looked up from her prep work. “So why do you look like you’re packing for a cross-country road trip?”
I exhaled hard through my nose. “What if I need extra socks?”
“While you’re four floors away from your own apartment?”
I paused, really unsure of what I was even doing in the first place. “What if there’s a sock-mergency, and suddenly we need eight pairs of socks?”
“Mm, valid,” Sutton said. “This is, after all, from the guy who once reorganized my entire pantry, half-drunk, at two in the morning because you ‘saw the beginnings of a system failure.’”
I ignored that and reached for the zipper on my duffel instead. “She really isn’t feeling well, and even though the doctor assured us it was normal, I don’t want to take chances and end up on Doyle’s shit list in case something happens to her and I’m out drinking with you idiots.”
There was a pause. The sound of chopping stopped.
When Sutton leaned closer to the camera, I could already feel it coming, the slow, surgical look she got when she was about to rip you open and lay all your tender insides out on the table.
“Charlie,” she said, sing-songing like she was revving up for a takedown. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
She grinned, all teeth. “The furrowed brow. The pacing. The whole emotionally constipated dad-from-a-90s-sitcom vibe. Pretending there is anything more fun in this life than going out to the bars with me and Lee. It’s giving ‘nervous about catching feelings.’”
“Jesus, Sutton—”
“I’m just saying,” she interrupted, holding her hands up in faux surrender. “If you were feeling a little… warm and fuzzy about Savannah’s newest houseguest, you should probably know something. I didn’t want to tell you the other day because I wasn’t sure, but…”
I paused, one foot on the edge of the rug, waiting.
“She’s seeing someone.”
I blinked. “What?”
“She is,” Sutton said, clearly loving every second. “Ryan and I saw her at Savannah Coffee Roasters last week. Some guy was with her—very cozy. Hand on the bump. You know. Real doting father-to-be vibes.”
My jaw tensed. “Why would I care about that?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” she said, all fake innocence. “Maybe because you packed like you’re moving in with her and haven’t unclenched your jaw since she rolled into town? Or maybe it was the phrase… ‘The doctor told us it was normal’?”
I didn’t respond.
Because the image of Tally with some other guy had lodged itself somewhere deep in my chest, pressing into a spot I hadn’t known was sore until she touched it.
Had Nick stayed in town, hiding in the shadows, even after I told him to fuck off? She would have told me, right? Had she met someone since moving here? Or maybe I was wrong. Perhaps she’d been texting someone this whole time, slipping off to call him when she thought no one was paying attention.
The only guy in her orbit was Dig—who preferred men, musicals, and moisturizers in that order—so I hadn’t worried.
Not that it mattered. Not that I was keeping tabs. Not that I—
“You’re mad,” Sutton said, her eyes gleaming now. “Oh my God. You’re mad.”
“I’m not mad,” I snapped, a little too fast.
Sutton clutched her chest like she’d been gifted the greatest Christmas present of all time. “He’s mad! He’s mad! I mean, can’t say I blame you, Charlie. She is glowy.”
“I’m going to hang up now,” I muttered, reaching for the phone.
“At least you don’t have to pack condoms!”
Click.
I stared at the black screen, Sutton’s laughter still echoing faintly through the speaker.
***
The penthouse was quiet when I let myself in, the kind of heavy stillness that made you feel like you were trespassing, even when you’d been invited.
Well—invited might’ve been a stretch.
Nancy scuttled past my feet with a half-hearted yap, then changed her mind and decided she hated walking more than she hated me, so she collapsed in a judgmental heap by the door.
I set my duffel bag down near the entry, careful not to wake her—Tally, not the dog.
She was curled up on the couch in the living room, one arm slung under her cheek, the other protectively tucked over her bump. The TV was on low, some cooking show humming in the background, and the flickering light from the screen painted her in warm golds and soft shadows.
I stood there for a second, taking her in, silently hoping she hadn’t caught any sudden, kitchen-ambitious ideas from the TV.
That should’ve been my cue to leave. To head straight for the unoccupied guest room, unpack, and act normal.
But instead, I walked deeper into the living room, grabbed the throw blanket off the arm of the couch, and gently draped it over her.
She stirred, her face scrunching like she was about to wake up, but then she sighed and settled deeper into the cushions.
Cradling her bump as if it were the only thing tethering her to the earth.
I stepped back, scrubbing a hand down my face.
This wasn’t my job. I wasn’t her anything. I was the guy her brother guilted into keeping an eye on her, a guy who hadn’t even wanted to take this on in the first place. And now?
Now I couldn’t stop looking.
The kitchen was a mess—mostly in that lived-in way that made it look like someone had been having an ordinary day, and partially because it looked like a toddler had gotten into a fight with a Kitchenaid.
The fridge was cracked open enough to cast a sliver of light on the counter, where a jar of olives sat empty beside a spoon and a half-drunk bottle of ginger ale.
“Girl dinner,” I muttered, shaking my head.
I cleaned it all up without thinking. I ran the dishes under hot water, wiped down the counter, and shut the fridge. But every few minutes, I found myself glancing back toward the couch.
Was she really seeing someone? Sutton wasn’t above a dramatic retelling, but that tone in her voice—that smug little “gotcha”—had rattled me. I wasn’t quite sure what to do with it. It wasn’t jealousy. It couldn’t be.
But the thought of her with someone else, getting cozy, or whatever the hell Sutton had said, somehow set my blood boiling.
And, of course, it wasn’t implausible. She was a beautiful woman in a new city who was glowing in a way I’d never seen someone glow before, and everyone who stepped into her orbit felt the magnetic pull of being in her presence.
Even if, as far as we all knew, she was just passing through.
Maybe whoever this guy was would be the reason she stayed. And maybe if I couldn’t have her, I’d still get to keep her around in some way.
I poured myself a bourbon over one giant cube and slid open the lanai doors, stepping into the cool night like it might slap the confusion out of me.
Nancy dragged herself after me, nails ticking across the tile before she collapsed again, this time at my feet like some grumpy little nanny making sure I didn’t wander into the living room and wake her charge.
I leaned on the railing, sipping my drink as the sky deepened from peach to plum, the city below glowing as it stretched to wake itself up for the long night ahead.
The river bended lazily in the distance, wide and winding, slow as molasses, carrying with it the weight of a hundred stories.
Laughter floated up from the cobblestones, tourists chasing ghosts, to-go cups in hand, unaware they were walking through some place sacred.
Savannah didn’t rush you. She curled her fingers around your wrist, whispered low and lazy in your ear, and taught you how to stay still.
How to listen. How to love a city for the way it breathes.
I pulled out my phone and dialed Magnolia. She answered on the third ring, her voice bright and clipped like she was mid-wedding task.
“Charlie Pruitt. If this is another speech about Dane or the wedding, I swear to—“
“It’s not.” I cut her off before she could get going. “It’s about Tally.”
There was a pause, the kind that always showed up right after I said the wrong thing.
“What about her?” Magnolia asked, a little softer now.
“So she is seeing someone, isn’t she?”