I sent back a middle finger emoji. He replied with a bicep and a tiny boxing glove.
“Okay,” I told the river. “I’ve got me.”
The wind flipped my scarf into my face. I tightened it and lifted the camera again. The water. The lights. The long bruise of sky. Somewhere behind it all, men were making choices that would ripple through my life without ever asking first.
I could choose this. I pressed the shutter and felt, for the first time all day, like I hadn’t been left behind. The camera clicked again. And again. And again.
Chapter Twelve
CHARLIE
Thestudiosmelledlikesawdust and peppermint. Not because I’d suddenly caught the Christmas spirit, but because someone had commissioned a piece made out of candy canes and vintage tinsel, and now the smell had settled in like a tenant who’d moved in for the season.
It did add a little festive flair, I suppose. And, the good news was,Iwas paying rent thanks to the uptick in custom holiday orders.
A crooked little Christmas tree slouched in the corner, half-lit and lopsided, as if it had run out of ambition sometime around December 1st. Sutton had decorated it with string lights andwhat looked suspiciously like paperclip ornaments—leftovers from a staff meeting at LaMonte’s, the catering company where she worked.
“You know,” Sutton said, flopping onto the stool by the worktable, “when Magnolia sent that group text about picking a maid of honor dress in ‘a shade that evokes oyster shells at dawn,’ I almost threw my phone into the river.”
Lee didn’t look up from the box of old photographs he was sifting through. “At this point, I’m convinced she’s marrying him to spite us all.”
I carefully positioned a photo of Magnolia, Lee, and Dane—fitting, given the conversation—right above the curve of her ear.
The piece had been Lee’s idea. A large-scale portrait of Magnolia, based on a candid I’d taken on my phone one lazy afternoon in Forsyth Park. From a distance, it looked simple—her, laughing, mid-reach for her cocktail. But up close, it told a different story. The entire thing was built from tiny, mosaic-like snapshots: family photos, Savannah landmarks, old memories from O’Malley’s. And threaded through it all were handwritten lyrics pulled from Lee’s albums. Every word he’d ever written about her, stitched together with glue and grief.
I huffed out a laugh. “Well, you gave it your best shot, buddy. Valiant effort.”
It had been a few months since Lee came back to Savannah from Nashville. He’d tried, really tried, to win my sister back in one of those grand, let-me-prove-everyone-wrong moments. But Magnolia had decided to accept Dane Wilder’s proposal instead—asshole, esquire.
Lee held up a small photo. Magnolia and Uncle Cole stood in front of O’Malley’s, smiling like the worst of the world hadn’t touched them yet. His own smile flickered, then disappeared before it had the chance to settle. He handed me the picture without saying a word.
He sifted through the box again and pulled out another. This one showed him and Magnolia, eyes locked, that unmistakable closeness between them. It was the kind of look people only ever gave each other when they thought they had forever. Back when they were best friends who fell hard, when we all believed nothing could come between them.
“It’s not over till it’s over,buddy,” Lee snapped as he passed me the next one.
I chuckled under my breath and turned toward the floor-to-ceiling windows. Outside, Savannah was dressed for the season, strung with lights that wound through the trees and wreaths clipped to every lamppost in tidy, ornamental rows. Tourists meandered along River Street in a slow-moving tide, wide-eyed and uncertain, as if trying to make sense of all the holiday sparkle. The river behind them stirred restlessly, slate gray and rippling beneath the surface, as if it were one strong gust away from breaking loose.
It matched the energy in the room.
I hadn’t seen Tally in weeks. Not since Doyle dragged her out of the gala like a child who’d misbehaved. The shame on her face was burned into my brain—permanent. I’d made myself available in all the usual places, hoping we might happen to cross paths. But either she was avoiding all of us… or avoiding me.
“We should go do something fun,” I said, and two sets of eyes snapped to me like I’d suggested robbing a bank.
Sutton crossed her arms. “Hate to break it to you, Charlie, but thisisyour idea of fun.”
***
Sutton’s tinsel crown was starting to shed.
Which would’ve been fine if she wasn’t actively trying to reattach it using nail glue she found at the bottom of her purse and the condensation from her cocktail glass to “thin it out”.
“You’re going to permanently glue that to your forehead,” I said flatly, brushing glitter off my sweater for the third time.
“It’s called commitment, Charles,” she replied, tipping her drink back with all the confidence of a woman dressed like a Christmas Tree who had clearly never known shame. “I am so glad I kept this sweater dress,” she said, marveling at the oversized green garb decorated like a balsam fir.
Lee, wearing a velvet green blazer and a Santa hat that saidLet’s Get Elfed Up, slid another round onto the high-top table with a flourish. “One more for the road?”
“I swear to God,” I muttered, but I took the drink anyway.
