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 backinto 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.
Chapter Thirty-Six
CHARLIE
BythetimeImade it back to River Street, the sky had turned that soft, inky blue that only showed up when the world was still hungover from too much wine and too much hope the night before.
I pushed open the lobby door, juggling coffees and tote bags full of gifts. I hadn’t planned on spending my Christmas Day in the penthouse, but I couldn’t help myself. I didn’t have much, Lord knows I never did, but I’d raided the bar at O’Malley’s and snagged a couple nice bottles of bourbon for Jordan and Doyle, a dram of that peach liqueur I knew Dig liked, and Magnolia’s bougiest unopened can of maraschino cherries for my girl.
The piece for Magnolia had been delivered hours before the sun came up. Lee had stayed behind, setting up his guitar with some grand plan to play downstairs under the dim glow of the stage lights, hoping the sound would drift up the stairs and pull my sister down to see what was going on. One last attempt to win her back under the guise of a grand gesture. The one thing Lee was forever good at.
I wished him luck as I slipped out, watching him fiddle with the lights and retune his guitar, muttering to himself about everything needing to be perfect.
But Magnolia didn’t need perfection. She only needed him. Not that either of those two idiots knew that yet.
I should’ve stayed behind to help. Should’ve hung around, kept him company, steadied his nerves. But my thoughts kept drifting back to the one place I couldn’t seem to stop circling. The one person who had unpacked her mess in my heart and, I’d hoped, would take up permanent residence there.
She hadn’t been there when I woke up. I’d reached for her instinctively, hand skimming across cool sheets and nothing else. At first, I told myself she probably couldn’t sleep, that she might’ve wandered up to the penthouse for her morning prenatal vitamins. Or maybe she wanted to sneak back up before Doyle woke up and scolded her. Or, worse, Nancy woke up and thought she was abandoned.
“Morning, Hoyt,” I said with a jolly wave.
Hoyt met my unusual reaction with a half-hearted laugh. “You certainly look chipper this morning, Mr. Pruitt.”
I hit the button for the elevator and shrugged. “Christmas magic, maybe. Has Tally been down to walk Nancy yet this morning?”
Hoyt frowned and lowered his eyes, pretending to fiddle with the notes on his desk. “Not yet, sir. Still a little early for Miss Aden and Miss Reagan.”
“Fair enough. Merry Christmas, Hoyt. Tell the same to Charlotte, please.”
As the elevator doors glided shut, I heard Hoyt call out, “Merry Christmas to you, too, Charlie.”
I shook off the odd tone in his voice and the fact that, for the first time in years since he’d worked the door, he’d used my first name. Tried to ignore the gnawing in my gut, that steady, relentless warning that nothing about this was right.
