Chapter Twenty-Four
TALLY
Nancy Reagan gave me side-eye from her perch on the unmade bed, her snout pressed dramatically into the comforter.
“Oh, don’t start,” I muttered, brushing mascara across my lashes and trying not to stab myself in the eye. “You’re still my baby. I just happen to be carrying another one.”
She huffed.
“I mean it.” I dropped the mascara wand and crossed the room, crouching beside the bed to scratch behind her ears. “No one’s replacing you. You’ll always be my crusty firstborn.”
Her only response was a suspicious little grunt, but her head tilted enough to lean into the affection. I took it as a win.
I stood again, eyeing myself in the mirror.
The dress I’d picked out was nothing special, just soft, floral cotton with a little stretch, but I looked…
good. Not in a glowing, ethereal, earth-mama way.
But in a me way. There was a roundness to my stomach that no longer felt strange or wrong, and my skin had settled into something closer to dewy than haunted.
I’d never tell him this, but perhaps Doyle was right with his suggestion that I adopt a skincare routine.
And maybe it was the dress. Or the sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden.
Or it was the way Charlie had looked at me the night before while we moved around the kitchen, tired from a long day in the studio, both of us too worn out to talk much but still sharing small glances—his smirk, the quiet flicker in his eyes, the kind of look that made me feel like we were figuring this out together, even if neither of us knew what this was.
But I was more confident and a little steadier in my skin.
In the days since Doyle and Jordan left for California, Charlie and I had fallen into an almost-rhythm.
It wasn’t seamless, but it held. There were stretches of stillness, edges that didn’t quite line up, but somehow it still worked—two people coexisting in a borrowed penthouse with a judgmental poodle and too many unspoken thoughts.
Mornings started slow, with both of us on the lanai.
Charlie nursed his coffee in silence, gaze distant, while I picked at a bagel or whatever carb didn’t turn my stomach that day.
Nancy Reagan made her rounds, eyeing squirrels like they owed her money.
Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we wouldn’t.
Either way, it didn’t feel uncomfortable or forced. Just... settled.
After breakfast, he’d disappear into the kitchen, wiping down every surface obsessively, and I’d drag my laptop to the couch and pretend to make progress on my life.
I wasn’t only scrolling photography boards.
I was chasing something murkier. I emailed magazine editors who never wrote back, stalked photo studios in nearby cities, and hunted down internships I was technically overqualified for, but still, no bites.
My inbox became a graveyard of polite declines—or worse, nothing at all.
Starting over in a creative field was a lot like screaming into the void and hoping someone handed you a camera and a detailed plan.
Still, I tried. Every morning. Because if I didn’t, then what?
After that, we’d ride the elevator down in silence, me clutching my water bottle, Charlie clutching whatever shred of sanity he appeared to have left, Nancy Reagan trotting contentedly between us as if she’d appointed herself chaperone, sniffing at the corners of the elevator, making Charlie jumpy.
The short walk from the lobby to his studio—barely twenty steps—became a strange kind of ritual.
Not romantic. Not even really warm, but quietly consistent.
We hadn’t had any other honest, deep conversations. And we hadn’t talked at all about that first night, when I let his hands rest on my swollen belly, feeling the life inside me stir in time with the wild, uneven rhythm of my own heart pressed so close to his.
But lately, he’d gone quiet again—focused.
The commissioned piece for Lee had him in overdrive, and I didn’t blame him—it was massive, complicated work, and he only had a short window to finish it.
So sometimes, I stayed out of his way. I’d wander the streets for hours, ducking into shops, nursing iced teas on shaded benches, letting Savannah unfold in pieces.
Sometimes I’d walk. Sometimes I’d climb into Franny Jo’s carriage like a visiting dignitary and let her narrate the city in her sing-song voice, full of half-truths and tall tales.
Every day taught me a little more—about the city, about Charlie, about how it’s possible to drift and still start finding your footing.
At night, I’d retreat to my room like I was supposed to.
But more often than not, I’d find myself sneaking out in the middle of the night, the soft patter of my steps drowned out by the hush of the penthouse.
I’d steal a glance at him—curled up on that ridiculous loveseat, arms crossed, brow still furrowed, waiting for the next emergency.
Even asleep, Charlie Pruitt looked like he was bracing for impact.
What was supposed to be one night had turned into night after night after night…
I tried not to read too much into it. I told myself he was being his typical, dutiful self.
Or, maybe, that the penthouse was a little nicer than the studio, and he was enjoying the luxury of Doyle’s refined tastes.
But some traitorous voice in the back of my mind—the same one that liked to whisper impossible things when the lights were low and I was too tired to fight it—kept nudging at me.
Telling me maybe he was still here… for me.
I was still brushing the thought away when I heard his voice echo from across the penthouse, gentle but impatient.
“You ready or what?”
He was pacing again. I could picture it—the tight line of his jaw, the way his arms would cross then drop again when he couldn’t settle. I smoothed a hand over my stomach and called back, “Coming!”
Today was a follow-up appointment. A check-in on the little life growing inside me. And maybe the closest I’d come to meeting them, even if it were only through a screen and some fuzzy, grey outlines—a FaceTime with my future.
Charlie was waiting at the elevator. He didn’t speak as we rode it down, only nodded and walked ahead, opening the truck door for me. He shut it gently, careful and reserved in that way he always was when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
Sliding into the driver’s side, he fastened his seatbelt with a frustrated sigh. He didn’t look at me, but there it was—the edge. Not anger, exactly. More like a pot starting to boil.
“Everything okay?” I asked.
He started the truck, one arm slung over the seat as he backed up. His forearm brushed my neck—warm, rough, close enough to short-circuit a few brain cells. Not nausea. Not nerves. Just trouble.
The cab of the truck smelled like paint thinner and old beer—maybe pine sap or sawdust if you leaned in hard enough—and the dash was cluttered with Charlie’s brand of lived-in disorder.
There was a photo taped to the vanity mirror.
The five of them—Charlie, Magnolia, Lee, Sutton, and Dane—grinning in mismatched formalwear, probably from some high school dance or prom they’d stormed together.
I leaned in slightly to get a better look at the grainy photo. “Sutton looks the same.”
He glanced at the picture, then returned his eyes to the road, a tight smirk pulling at one corner of his mouth. “Probably because no one’s ever stuck around long enough to suck the life out of her.”
I didn’t laugh. Something about the way he said it felt pointed, even if it wasn’t directed at me.
We rolled over the cobblestones in silence for a moment. The truck groaned softly beneath us, the windows fogging slightly from the heat inside versus the chilled December air outside.
“Did something happen?” I asked, carefully. “With your sister? Or Lee?”
He adjusted the gear stick, flicked on his blinker even though no one was around, then shrugged.
“Nothing specific. Just... everything.” His voice dropped lower.
“Dane’s in Atlanta, tied up in court until after the new year.
And Lee’s using the opportunity to—what?
Win her back? Even though he’s got some maybe-girlfriend here who just left to go back to Nashville for the holidays that he seems to have already forgotten about. ”
He shook his head. “I don’t know what anyone’s doing anymore. Magnolia won’t tell me anything. Sutton’s being weird. And Lee—” he broke off with a grunt, rubbing his hand over his mouth. “I don’t know. I feel like everyone’s playing a game and I don’t get the rules.”
I listened, hands folded in my lap. I hadn’t heard him say this much in days. Maybe ever. And there was a thread of disappointment or disorientation in his voice that tugged at me.
“You’re a good friend, Charlie,” I said softly, laying my hand over his where it rested on the shift stick. I meant it as comfort, nothing more. But the contact sparked the inevitable embers flickering between us and he looked over at me, eyes shadowed and unreadable.
Then, as quickly as I’d reached for him, I pulled my hand back. I turned my face toward the window, pretending to be interested in the brick buildings rolling past us.