Chapter Twenty-Two #2
More silence. Then a sound, almost a laugh—but not quite.
“Why?”
“No reason.” I looked out across the balcony, down at the city, at the rooftops and windows lit up in quiet defiance, like the world didn’t know I was up here bleeding out. “Just wondering what I’m walking into.”
She was quiet for a beat longer.
“I don’t know, Charlie. But I think you’ve already walked into it.”
I sighed, taking another long pull of my drink. “I just don’t want to get hurt, Mags.” It was the only time I’d admit it out loud, and I would admit out loud to my sister, and my sister alone. “Nothing’s even happened yet, and I feel like the girl’s already broken my heart.”
“You know, Charlie,” Magnolia started, sounding like she was settling in. If I had to guess, she was curling up by the to-go window, waiting for someone, anyone, to stop by. “Maybe you’ll get hurt. Maybe you won’t. But you know what I guarantee will happen?”
Leaning back onto the ledge, I turned my body to face the lanai door. The soft, warm glow of the TV spilled over the couch and across Tally’s sleeping body. “What’s that?” I asked, voice like gravel.
“You will have done something for yourself, for once, and you could let that be enough.”
I didn’t have a response for that, so I took another sip, scratched behind Nancy’s ears, and let the silence stretch between us like a line I didn’t know if I wanted to cross.
***
She slept most of the night on the couch, buried under the blanket I’d pulled over her, Nancy wedged behind her knees. I should’ve gone to the guest bedroom. Could’ve stretched out, gotten actual rest. But I didn’t. I stayed on the too-small loveseat across from her, stiff and wide awake.
It started as concern. She hadn’t looked well. But at some point, the excuse thinned, and I was left with the truth: I didn’t want to leave her alone. Not in case she needed water or a trash can. But because I didn’t want to be anywhere else.
Arms crossed, eyes closed, I refused to give the thought space.
It didn’t matter what I wanted. She had enough on her plate.
She didn’t need someone else hovering. Still, I stayed.
Her chest rose and fell with each breath, one arm tucked around her stomach, the other folded beneath her cheek.
There was peace in the room—the kind that only shows up when someone feels safe—and I couldn’t look away.
By the time I drifted off, ten or fifteen minutes at most, the city outside had settled into that middle of the night softness. What pulled me back wasn’t the sound of traffic or the ache in my back. It was her.
I opened my eyes and found her standing in front of me.
One half of her face caught the faint glow from the streetlamp, the other shadowed in the quiet.
Her arms were crossed, but there was no fire in her expression.
She didn’t look angry or annoyed. She looked tired in a different way. Guarded, but open.
“You’re snoring.” She nudged me gently, voice low.
I rubbed a hand across my face and tried to sit up without making it worse. The throw blanket slid into my lap. My shirt was twisted. My neck ached. But she was watching me.
“What are you doing out here?” she asked.
I glanced toward the kitchen and then back at her. I didn’t have a good answer. I hadn’t meant to stay out here all night. I hadn’t planned anything, but I couldn’t lie.
“You looked comfortable.”
She stepped closer. Her sleeves were pushed up to her elbows, her eyes steady. She reached for my hand, and I let her take it without hesitation. Her fingers curled around mine. There was warmth in her grip, quiet certainty. She guided my hand to her stomach, held it there, and waited.
Then something stirred beneath my palm.
The first flutter was faint, a shift under the skin. I stopped breathing. My heart jumped once, then steadied. The next kick was stronger—a small, insistent pulse pressing against my hand, proof that something real was taking shape beneath the surface.
I brought my other hand up, placing it beside the first. Her skin was warm. Her breathing was shallow. I didn’t move. I couldn’t.
Her eyes found mine, and neither of us looked away. There was no smirk. No shield. No sarcastic remark held at the ready. Only this moment, suspended in stillness, the air thick with questions neither of us knew how to ask.
She kept her hand on mine, light and steady, as the baby moved beneath it. The silence wasn’t awkward or stretched thin. It was full. Her expression softened. Her shoulders dropped. A small curve touched the corner of her mouth, so fleeting I wasn’t sure I hadn’t imagined it.
Then it happened.
Her gaze shot past me, and the color drained from her face. Whatever calm she’d found a moment ago shattered in an instant.
“Oh my god,” she whispered. The sound was softer now, threaded with something wary.
I yanked my hands away and turned toward the hallway, not sure if there was a knife-wielding serial killer on the loose, a ghost materializing from thin air, or, worse, her brother hiding in the shadows, waiting to catch us in the act.
But no. It was far worse.
Nancy Reagan stood frozen at the edge of the carpet.
Then, without fanfare or shame, she dropped her rear end to the floor and began scooting across the living room with unhurried determination.
That damn dog was dragging her poodle butt across Doyle and Jordan’s snow-white, terrifyingly expensive rug with the slow, methodical grace of a creature who knew exactly what she was doing.
And just like that, the spell was broken.