Chapter Thirty-Nine
TALLY
It was freezing in Newnan, the kind of cold that bit through your gloves and stung your lungs a little when you breathed in too fast.
I wasn’t sure what I was doing in town, other than trying not to go completely stir-crazy in my parents’ mausoleum of a house.
The McMansion, as Dig had so lovingly dubbed it years ago, had too many rooms and not enough warmth.
My bedroom might’ve been a tomb to my youth, but nothing else in that house made me feel like I belonged. Not anymore. Maybe not ever.
I passed the square and slowed, the giant glittering New Year’s display still half up in the plaza.
Most of the folks were at work, or enjoying the last few, blissful days of their holiday break, but a young couple sat huddled on a bench, wrapped in matching scarves, bouncing a squishy, wide-eyed baby on their knees.
Every time the baby squealed, they’d look at each other and laugh, really, truly laugh, like being parents was the funniest, best thing that had ever happened to them.
And I stood there like a creeper, watching.
It hit me harder than I expected. Not jealousy. Not even regret. But a sharp ache for what I’d never really had, but still wanted the chance to make right.
I bought a hot chocolate from the café on the corner, even though it was more whipped cream than anything, and wandered toward the gazebo at the far end of the park.
It had been rebuilt since the infamous ride-on mower incident of my youth, and the freshly painted white wood gleamed against the gray sky.
I sat carefully on the bench, both hands wrapped around my cup, the warm cardboard pressed to my ribs.
Nancy Reagan curled up at my feet, her fluffy head on my boots.
“Okay, baby Aden,” I said softly, pressing a palm over the curve of my belly. “Here’s the deal.”
My breath came out in a little cloud. The wind rushed past the gazebo, rattling the tiny lights still strung up from the holidays.
“I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. But I’m gonna figure it out.
Not because of your dad, or your grandparents, or whatever the universe thinks it’s got planned for us.
” I blinked up at the sky. “Because of you. Because you deserve to be somebody’s everything.
And I’m gonna be that person. Messy, dramatic, broke. .. but yours. Always yours.”
A tear slid down my cheek, but I didn’t wipe it away.
“I’m gonna be the kind of mom who dances in the kitchen with you.
Who reads every book you love, even the weird ones with the scratchy textures.
Who teaches you how to be soft and brave and loud and kind.
And when you fall—because you will—I’ll be right there, steadying you.
Just like I’m trying to steady myself now. ”
I paused, pressing the cup to my lips. It tasted like fake cocoa powder. But it was warm.
“I love you already, kid. That’s the thing no one ever tells you. You fall in love with someone who hasn’t even arrived yet. And it changes everything.”
Nancy let out a huff, as if she agreed.
“I don’t need a man to do this. I don’t need a plan. I just need you. And we’re gonna be okay.”
I leaned back, letting the quiet settle in, the sound of distant traffic and the sleepy hum of the town brushing against my ears. The baby gave a little kick under my hand.
I reached for my phone and opened the search bar, my thumb hovering midair like it needed permission to hope again.
Elopement planning in Georgia.
It felt a little ridiculous—like searching for lightning in a bottle while standing in the middle of a thunderstorm—but I scrolled anyway.
There were a few photographers in Atlanta, an officiant service based two counties over, and even a traveling pop-up chapel out of Macon that looked like it hadn’t updated its website since 2014.
None of it matched what I’d started to build in Savannah.
There were no bar owners or cake-baking friends, no studio lights or vintage squares strung with fairy lights—but that didn’t mean I couldn’t find a version of it here.
Something quieter, maybe. Something mine.
The seed was small, but it was there, pushing against something solid, something that might finally hold.
Down the path, the baby squealed again, and both parents laughed without hesitation—loud and open and full of love that didn’t care who heard it. I stood for a minute longer watching them, letting the moment soften me.
Then, before I could second-guess myself, I stepped out of the gazebo and called over, “Mind if I take y’all‘s photo?”
The woman blinked at me in surprise, then offered a smile that made me feel like maybe I wasn’t a stranger after all. “Sure!”
I pulled my camera, which I carried like a lifeline, from my bag and began to shoot. The way the light curved around their shoulders, how the baby’s tiny hand clung to the edge of his dad’s coat, how the mother’s eyes never left her child for more than a second at a time.
It was love, right there in the middle of an ordinary day. Messy and loud and completely unposed. But real. Beautiful.
We exchanged information. I promised to edit the photos and send them along, and they thanked me like I’d captured a memory instead of a few snapshots.
I kept walking after that, making my way back through the square with Nancy Reagan trotting beside me. The town was still quiet, tucked somewhere between New Year’s haze and January’s slow unraveling.
A florist with a half-lit window. A bakery that smelled like warm vanilla. A dusty bridal shop with a paper sign taped crookedly to the glass. I paused at each one—not because they held answers, but because they felt like possibilities.
Outside the old courthouse, I stopped to take a few shots of the building’s weathered charm. A couple stood nearby, trying to take a selfie with trembling hands, all bundled up and laughing about the angle.
I waited until they lowered their phones, then stepped forward.
“Want me to take one for you?” I asked. “I can edit it a bit and send it back to you—if you don’t mind helping me out with a few practice poses.”
The woman’s eyes lit up. “We just got engaged!”
A spark kicked up in my chest—unexpected, but welcome after weeks of feeling flat. “Congratulations,” I said, smiling for real this time. “If you like what you see, I’d love to do a full engagement session. On the house.”
They nodded, already posing again, and I adjusted my settings, letting the camera do what it always did best—focus on what mattered.
Because here’s the thing about photography—and Lord knows I’ve been chasing the light with a lens in my hand since I was a kid—there’s beauty in the moments no one’s trying to make perfect. There’s magic in the small stuff. The ordinary. The overlooked.
A couple on a bench. A baby’s laugh. A memory slipping through your fingers long enough to make you ache for it.
A fleeting moment with someone who was only in your life for a heartbeat, but somehow changed everything.
There’s even joy tucked inside the grief of losing someone you love—because at the end of the day, the simple, aching truth is this: you got to love.
And loving Charlie Pruitt—however fleeting, however tangled in grief—was the most beautiful thing I’d ever done.
***
By the time I got home, the joy I’d felt earlier had started to wear thin.
Dig had called to check in, his voice still echoing in my ears—asking if I’d heard anything from Savannah.
I hadn’t.
And the silence was starting to feel like an answer. One I didn’t want.
I hung up and stared at the ceiling of my childhood bedroom, one hand resting on the gentle rise of my stomach.
Nancy Reagan was curled up beside me, already snoring like the world wasn’t quietly shifting underneath us.
I wanted to believe it was all in my head—that the space between me and the people in Savannah was just geography, not something more profound.
But when you’ve been left before, it doesn’t take much time to start calling it abandonment.
I needed to get out of that room, so I grabbed my laptop to work on the edits of the photos I’d taken earlier, hoping the change of scenery would snap me out of the funk I was feeling.
Downstairs, the house was too quiet in that eerie, tiptoeing way it always was.
Like it was holding its breath, waiting for someone to explode.
My mother was still at City Hall, bossing people into resolutions they never asked for, which meant I had a window of peace.
All I wanted was a snack, maybe a glass of my dad’s overly sweet iced tea, and five minutes where I didn’t feel like a stranger in my own life.
I found him in the kitchen, his back to me, rummaging through the fridge.
“Please tell me there’s leftover banana pudding,” I said.
He looked up, startled, then smiled that soft, worn-out smile of his. “I think you polished it off.”
“Sounds about right. Sorry, I startled you.”
“Just not used to sharing the house much anymore. Your momma’s always out and about.” He grabbed a pitcher and poured two glasses of tea. “You look tired.”
”I am tired.” I took my tea to the table, setting my things down. “But I feel good today. I’ve been working on some photography stuff. I got to shoot a few photos—wanna see?”
We sat at the kitchen table—me on the left like always, as if muscle memory had carried me right back to the only spot that ever felt like mine in this house.
Dad leaned over my shoulder, watching me scroll through the shots, tweaking the warmth, editing out parking signs, stray elbows, anything that pulled focus from the people I wanted to highlight.
“These are great,” he said, rubbing my shoulder. “You’ve always had an eye. I’m surprised you never pursued this full-time.”
I shrugged. “Not for lack of trying, but maybe I should’ve tried harder. I guess I needed someone to believe in me before I could start betting on myself.”
He sat across from me, folding his hands. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you. Ever since that fight you and your momma had the other day…”
I didn’t say anything.
“You know, we always laid a gentle hand on your brother,” he said carefully. “Because we knew the world might be cruel to him, just for being who he is. We tried to armor him with love—so much that if anyone ever tried to hurt him with their words, it would bounce right off.”
I let out a dry laugh. “Yeah. Great plan. You just created a self-righteous little tyrant.”
He chuckled, then nodded, the smile falling away. “You… you never needed that kind of handholding, Tallulah. You came into this world strong. Fierce. Unapologetic.”
I looked at him. “Is that the truth? Or just a nice way to explain away neglect?” He didn’t flinch.
“What you felt in this house, growing up… it wasn’t okay. I can see that now. But that doesn’t mean you were supposed to float through life without purpose.”
“That doesn’t excuse the years I felt like y’all were ignoring me.
And it sure as hell doesn’t excuse Momma chipping away at me until I barely recognized who I was.
” My voice didn’t shake. “I only got tough because I had to. Because this house demanded it. And that’s not a legacy I plan to pass on. ”
I eased to my feet, balancing my laptop in one hand, the other instinctively settling over my belly.
“You might be trying to apologize right now, Daddy—and maybe some part of me hears it. But you don’t need to.
You should be proud of me. Not because I’ve got a fancy job or a penthouse view—because I don’t.
But because I know who I am now. And I’m proud as hell of the woman sitting in this kitchen. ”
Later that night, the house was still quiet aside from the low hum of the TV downstairs when my father knocked softly, his head poking through the doorway like he didn’t want to risk too much.
“I’m not interested in continuing this conversation,” I muttered, not looking up from my phone. “I said what I said.”
Daddy chuckled, easing into the room and sitting on the edge of my bed. “As you always do, Tallulah.” He motioned toward the hallway. “I brought some things down from the attic. You might not believe it, but your momma saved all your baby clothes. Said maybe one day you’d want them for your own.”
I held his gaze for a moment, then carefully pushed myself off the bed and followed him out. Boxes were lined up in the hallway, some half-open, full of soft blankets, tiny shoes, and hand-me-down toys. All arranged so neatly it nearly broke me.
“There’s a crib and a rocking chair, too. Still up there,” he added. “And, well... we’ve got plenty of room, if you needed it.”
The hope in his voice landed like a punch. It was the first time I’d seen it—how much he wanted to be someone I could count on. And maybe he didn’t know how to say it outright, but he was trying. Trying in the only way he knew how.
Was it too late for me to accept that? Too late to believe I was still worthy of someone showing up?
“Can I think about it?” I asked, lifting a mint green sweater from the top of one box. It was soft and hand-knit, with tiny booties to match. I rested it on my stomach. “I think this might be just your size, kid,” I whispered.
Daddy reached out and patted my back. “No rush. Take your time.” He started down the hallway, then paused. “Was your momma’s idea, by the way.”
I recoiled like the sweater had grown fangs. “Ew, no. Never mind then.”
He grinned. “Thought that might ruin it for you.”
Before he disappeared around the corner, he looked back. “You know... I don’t know much. But I figure if someone shows up—” he gestured toward the boxes, ”—trying to be better, trying to do right... maybe you meet them where they are. Maybe you get to know the version of them they’re trying to be.”
I stared at him, unsure if we were still talking about him or me or even Momma anymore.
Then he added, with a smile so dry it could start a fire, “And I’m guessing you haven’t driven a John Deere into a gazebo lately, bottle of whiskey in one hand, Spice Girls blasting full volume?”
I coughed out a laugh. “Can’t say that I have.”
“Right,” he said. “Well, then. Goodnight, Tallulah.”