Doyle’s voice wavered. “You were the only one who believed in her. In her elopement business dreams, and in her photography. Even in her ability to really knock this motherhood thing out of the park. She told me last night, when I found her crying in thebathroom. She said, ‘Charlie looks at me like he sees who I could be… not who I’ve been.’ And I didn’t have a damn thing to say, because I knew she was right.”
My hands balled into fists.
“Maybe,” I muttered, “She just needed someone to believe in her so completely, so deeply, that she finally dared to believe in herself.”
“And it should’ve been me,” Doyle whispered. “But goddamnit, I’m so glad it was you.”
I looked around the office—at the shattered things. The color that was draining out of my own sister’s life. The way I was doing nothing to stop it. The way I was watching her walk away from the things she loved, too.
“You should’ve invited her to brunch,” I said.
“So should you.”
He wasn’t wrong. And that made it worse.
“I’m sorry, Charlie,” he said after a long pause, his voice cracking again. “The hotheaded, hot mess side of me really took the reins. I guess I’m more like my sister than I thought.”
That made me smile—just a little.
Sutton knocked once and let herself in, eyeing the wreckage like a detective at a crime scene. Doyle took the cue to slip out, quietly excusing himself from the emotional fallout we’d dragged into the light.
I’d forgive him, of course. Not that day, or maybe not the next, but that’s what friends do. If someone trusts you enough to show you who they are at their lowest, that’s true bravery. And that’s not something to step over. That’s when you grab their hand and help pull them back up.
And I had a feeling Doyle would need that soon—when the weight of pushing his sister out the door finally settled in.
“Wow,” she said, stepping over a busted picture frame. “Didn’t think you’d actually knock Doyle around, but honestly, everything’s surprising me lately.”
I motioned to the scattered glass and mangled bridal magazines. “Wasn’t me. If I’d done it, he’d have a black eye on that unnaturally pretty face of his.”
We shared a dry laugh—exhausted, brittle at the edges.
“Fucking Dane,” she muttered, crouching to collect a chunk of torn cardstock that used to be part of a centerpiece design.
“Fucking Dane, indeed.”
She stood and leaned against the desk, her eyes flicking across my face, taking inventory of the damage there, too.
“You know,” she said carefully, “Magnolia’s not the only one who’s hurting.”
I didn’t respond.
Sutton folded her arms, letting the silence stretch a little. “Charlie, you’ve been the dependable one since we were kids. Steady as hell. Always fixing everyone else’s mess before you even look at your own.”
My eyes stung, but I didn’t blink.
She stepped a little closer. “But what do you need? Right now. Not your sister, not your friends—you.”
I shook my head. “Does it matter?”
“It does,” she said, quiet but firm. “We all just heard you give Doyle hell for not being there for Tally, and now Magnolia’s sitting at the bar, probably replaying whatever happened in here while listening to the world’s saddest Christmas album on repeat. You wanna be everyone’s anchor, but eventually even anchors rust out.”
She didn’t say it to hurt me. She said it because she meant it.
“And maybe… maybe Tally didn’t leave because she was running for once in her life,” Sutton added. “Maybe she left because she didn’t want to get in your way. Of being exactlywho you’ve always been. The guy she knew you wouldn’t give up being. The guy who stays behind.”
My throat felt too tight to answer.
She leaned over the desk, careful to avoid the spray of glass peppering the desktop, and touched my arm lightly. “Your sister needs you right now. But so does someone else. And the question is… who doyouneed?”
