Chapter Thirty-Five
TALLY
The penthouse was too quiet. And it wasn’t the kind where it felt peaceful and you could curl up and watch old Christmas movies on the couch. It felt punishing.
I’d spent the last ten minutes pacing barefoot across the cold marble floors, one hand on my lower back and the other gripping a half-empty glass of ginger ale, pretending not to care that I hadn’t been invited to a brunch that happened hours ago.
I didn’t even know who I was mad at. Doyle, for not inviting me? Myself, for assuming I’d be included? Or Charlie. Maybe, especially, Charlie.
I’d spent the day with Dig, and while that helped ease the pain slightly, I was now up burning the midnight oil and wearing a tread into the floors from all of my incessant pacing. And no matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t stop the thoughts from wandering back to Charlie.
I reread the text again. And again. And again.
CHARLIE: The only thing missing from brunch is a beautiful woman who doesn’t know how to bake but sure does know how to kiss. You should come, but leave the baked goods at home…
I stared at it until the screen dimmed, then set the phone back down. Cute. Honest. Maybe even sweet. But it had come too late. Hours too late.
If I meant something to him—if I really mattered—I wouldn’t have had to wait for an afterthought text.
He’d made me feel welcome, warm, wanted.
He let me into his space, fed me, took care of me, gave me the most soul-altering sex of my life—and now here I was, alone on Christmas Eve in the world’s most beige penthouse, the sparkle from my festive Bedazzling fading into the corners.
Unclaimed. Forgotten. Too much and not enough at the same time.
I kept pacing, arms crossed tight over my chest. The tree we’d decorated together sparkled mockingly in the corner—droopy branches, handmade ornaments, a fever dream of tinsel and oyster shells.
The whole place smelled like real pine, nutmeg, and the sweet whiff of cookies Charlie had baked and left out on the counter. It should’ve felt cozy. Magical, even.
Instead, it felt like a stage I’d already been booed off of. And, of course, my brother was in the front row, booing the loudest of them all.
Snippets of the fight with Doyle kept flicking through my head, the way you can’t stop pressing on a bruise.
His voice rising, mine matching it, both of us circling the same tired points: why I hadn’t been invited to brunch.
How I’d “turned the penthouse into a Christmas craft-store explosion.” How my “messes” weren’t cute anymore.
And then, the part that stung the most—watching him pull out his phone, muttering about calling our mother.
He hadn’t, of course, it was a vague threat. But what he did say, the part stuck on loop like a broken record, was louder than anything else in my head:
“You know what, Tally. Momma and Daddy would be better off handling this than Jordan and me right now. We’ve got too much going on, and at this point, you need more support than we can give.”
I’d laughed it off at the time, tossed out a snarky comment like armor. But the echo of it followed me now, every word making me question my place here all over again.
What if this wasn’t where I belonged? What if this was another wrong detour on the map I’d been drawing wrong for years? I had no idea.
I drifted toward the window and pressed a hand to the glass, staring out across the river.
Everything was still and peaceful as Savannah rested her head, waiting for Santa to arrive and the bright possibility only Christmas morning brings.
But there it was, crashing into me like a wave—the old, familiar itch to pack a bag and run.
To get in front of the rejection before it hits me.
Only this time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go…
or if it was a habit. The reflex of a girl who’d spent her life leaving before she was left.
Before I started a business, it failed. Before I built a home here for the baby, and regretted it.
Before Charlie saw all of me—the real me—and decided he couldn’t love the fragmented pieces.
All I knew was that I desperately, unabashedly wanted someone to ask me to stay.
My breath fogged the glass as I leaned closer, forehead pressed against the cool pane.
I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching the world move quietly without me.
Beyond these walls, families gathered. Lights sparkled across the water.
And here I was, waiting for someone—anyone—to say it: Don’t go.
When no one did, I turned away from the window.
I padded toward the kitchen, bare feet brushing against the cold tile.
There was still a trace of glitter on the counter from the ornaments Charlie had made, and my stomach gave a tiny, hopeful twist at the thought of him.
Not the version who held me in his arms and whispered sweet, racy promises in my ear, but the man underneath it all.
The one that he tried too hard to keep buried inside.
Not the reliable guy with the tattoos and the muscles and the sister he felt like he needed to save.
The one who was talented, an artist with his hands on the canvas and on my body, which he painted with kisses and whispers and faint traces of his fingers that knew exactly where to touch and what to do.
The one who, if I really sat back and thought about it, wasn’t ever trying to save me.
Since the first moment he met me, he’d been trying to coexist alongside me.
I glanced toward the elevator.
Then I changed my mind.
Instead, I slipped through the back door and tiptoed down the narrow service stairwell, one hand on my belly and the other skimming the railing. My body knew the way before my brain caught up, like it had already decided where I needed to be.
I didn’t knock when I reached the studio; instead, I eased the door open and slipped inside. The lamp on his worktable cast a low, golden glow across the room, softening the edges of everything it touched.
Charlie Pruitt stood barefoot and shirtless, tattoos winding over his skin like art upon art, a pair of worn jeans slung low on his hips.
His dark auburn curls were damp and unruly, as if he’d just run a hand through them in thought—or frustration.
A massive sheet of sketch paper was taped to the far wall, and his fingers, smudged with charcoal, moved quick and sure across its surface.
The Waving Girl.
My throat tightened.
“You know, for someone so bad at breaking and entering,” Charlie said without turning, his voice a soft rasp, “You sure make a habit of it.”
He turned then, setting the charcoal down on the stool beside him. The lamplight caught the edge of his jaw and the curve of his mouth. His eyes landed on me—standing barefoot by the door, in nothing but one of his t-shirts he’d left upstairs.
The softness in his expression melted away, replaced by a heavier heat that settled between us. He took a step closer, slow enough for the boards beneath him to protest.
His eyes traced the length of me, lingering, returning to my face with a kind of hunger he didn’t bother to hide. His jaw tensed, the only betrayal of what he was trying not to say.
“Lucky for you,” he said, voice lower then, rougher, “I’ve stopped locking the door.”
I didn’t speak. I couldn’t. My chest was too tight, my heart thudding loud enough I swore it echoed off the studio walls.
Maybe I didn’t need him to ask me to stay.
Perhaps the words would never find their way to my heart.
But maybe our hands would once again say all the things we’d left unsaid between us.
He crossed the room with careful steps, eyes locked on mine, searching for hesitation.
There wasn’t any, not tonight.
I reached for him first, pressing my hands to his chest, warm and solid under my palms. And then he kissed me.
It wasn’t tentative or slow this time. It was desperate. Familiar. Deep. A kiss that knew everything we’d been through to get here and didn’t give a damn about anything but this.
His hands gripped my waist, pulling me against him, and my fingers curled into his shoulders, anchoring myself there, in the only place I wanted to be.
When he pulled back, his breath caught. “Tell me you’re sure. Tell me you want this. You want me again.”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything,” I whispered.
His mouth found mine once more, softer now, more reverent, and then we were moving. He guided me back toward the hallway where I knew his narrow bed sat tucked behind the curtain, our bodies brushing furniture and canvases as we went, our lips never leaving one another’s.
I tugged at the waistband of his jeans, and he peeled the shirt from my body, a slow lift of the fabric that inched carefully across my body, sending sparks of desire coursing through my veins.
We fell into the mattress in a tangle of limbs and want, the whole world narrowing down to the weight of his body, the heat of his skin, the way his hand found my belly, eyes searching mine with a hold that felt dangerously close to hope.
That this moment—this fragile, impossible moment between the two of us and the shadow of the three we could become—changed things.
And it did. God, it did. I knew I’d carry it with me long after the sheets cooled, long after his voice faded from the quiet corners of my memory. This wasn’t just another night. It was an ache I’d feel forever. A mark I’d never be free of, even if I tried.
We moved in sync this time. No rush. No frantic edge. Only that quiet, consuming tenderness that made every kiss, every whispered breath of my name, feel like both a promise and a farewell.
There was no doubt anymore. I loved him. Completely. Recklessly. Irrevocably.
And maybe that was the problem. Love wasn’t enough to anchor me to this shore.
We stayed tangled, skin slick and breathing uneven, the room so still it felt like even the Christmas lights outside were holding their glow for us. He didn’t speak, and neither did I. We didn’t need to.
He’d fallen asleep with one arm tucked under his head and the other curled around me, his hand resting over my belly in a way that wasn’t protective but possessive, like he already saw the two of us as his to claim.
I wanted to stay in that moment. Goddamnit, I wanted to. To let myself believe I’d finally landed somewhere solid. That this bed, this man, this city could be mine.
But my mind wouldn’t stop. It never did. Doyle’s words still rang in my ears—too loud, too messy, too much for him and Jordan to manage. He’d as good as told me to go home, to let our parents “handle” me. And maybe he was right.
On my doorstep were three things that would alter the course of my life.
A child who deserved a mother who could give them stability without flinching.
A business, still nothing more than scribbled plans and favors from strangers.
And a man—this man—who I knew would lay his life down for me and this baby without a second thought.
But what if I couldn’t be the woman who stayed? What if I broke under the weight of all three?
Because that’s where I always got it wrong, things would land in my hands and, instead of holding on, I’d open my palm, watch them scatter, and call it fate. I’d tell myself I was better off. Safer. Alone.
Lying there, wrapped in the warmth of everything I swore I wanted, that old reflex stirred—the instinct to run before anyone could change their mind about me. To leave before rejection had the chance to arrive.
Only this time, it wasn’t me running.
This time, I was being asked to go.
And the cruelest part?
Even knowing that, a part of me still wanted to stay.
My gaze drifted over the inked lines on his skin—Magnolia’s flower curling across his shoulder, a guitar pressed gently against it, a tiny chef’s knife tucked in for Sutton, roots and clocks filling the spaces, bright paint splashed through it all.
His family, his history, his art—stitched into him, carried with him every day.
I lay there, syncing each breath with his, my heart aching in time with his chest. He’d given me more than I ever expected—kindness, softness, a place to land.
But Charlie Pruitt never belonged to me alone.
He belonged to his sister, to this city, to everyone he’d ever held together when it would’ve been easier to let it all fall apart.
I loved him too much to be the thing that finally broke him.
And yet leaving felt impossible.
My fingers traced his arm, memorizing the scar by his elbow, the twitch of his pinky as he drifted deeper, the strength that steadied me in ways I didn’t even know I needed. I wanted him with everything I had. But wanting wasn’t the same as staying. Not for me. Not yet.
I slipped from the bed, breath caught when he reached for me in his sleep, hand curling into the space I’d left behind. It almost undid me.
At the doorway, I turned back, my fingers curled tight around the frame. Everything in me screamed to stay. To climb back into bed beside him. To stop running. To stop giving up on myself.
He didn’t stir, only lay there with his hand still resting in the space I’d left behind. A wet laugh rose in my throat. “Of course you’d sleep through my dramatic exit, you giant oak of a man.”
I closed my eyes and whispered softly, “Goodbye, Charlie Pruitt. Thank you for loving the broken, jagged pieces of me.”
And I knew then, in the deepest part of me, that I’d spend my life on the bank of my own river—not the girl who waved to bring others joy, but the one the world romanticized.
The woman forever flagging down passing ships, hoping one of them might finally bring the man she loved back to shore to carry her home.