But God, it sure felt that way.
***
Unable to shake the pressure of the conversation with my brother, I slipped out the front door and wandered away from the penthouse, hoping the fresh air would do what deep breaths and counting to ten hadn’t managed to pull off. I didn’t have a plan, only a vague urge to keep moving, to feel the ground under my feet and put a little distance between myself and the words still echoing in my head.
And while I was at it, I decided to treat myself to something hot, greasy, and about as prenatal-approved as a margarita. The walk-up window at McDonald’s called to me like a beacon of poor choices, and I stood under the yellow glow of the menu board ordering a large fry and a large orange soda—the kind that probably glows in the dark—glancing over my shoulder every few seconds like Doyle might pop out of the hedges and tackle the bag out of my hands.
I strolled from square to square, the bag growing greasier the longer I went without opening it. I’d been hoping for a quiet bench, but eating alone felt too pathetic.
I needed a friend. Someone who wouldn’t judge me for stress-eating fast food or falling apart over a kale salad. Someone who might actually understand.
My feet carried me toward O’Malley’s.
The bar sat tucked on a corner just off the main drag, weathered brick and a hand-painted sign that looked like it had survived a few hurricanes. A single light glowed in the window. Through the glass, I could make out the long mahogany bar, the rows of bottles catching the dim light, and a familiar figure moving behind the counter.
Charlie.
I hesitated at the door, suddenly second-guessing myself. But before I could back out, he looked up and caught my eye through the window.
Too late now.
I pushed the door open, and the smell hit me immediately—old wood, lemon oil, and something faintly hoppy that had probably seeped into the floorboards decades ago.
Charlie straightened from where he’d been wiping down the bar, a dish towel slung over his shoulder. He wore a faded O’Malley’s t-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up to his elbows, forearms dusted in what looked like sawdust and paint spackle.
“We’re closed. Don’t open for another hour,” he said, but there was no bite to it. His eyes scanned my face, then dropped to the McDonald’s bag in my hand. “Though I’m guessing you’re not here for a drink.”
“I was looking for Magnolia,” I admitted, hovering near the door like I might bolt at any second. “Is she around?”
“Dress fitting,” he said, tossing the towel onto the bar. “I’m covering. Lucky me.”
I shifted my weight, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “I can go—”
“Don’t.” He gestured to one of the barstools. “Sit. You look like you need it.”
I hesitated, then crossed to the bar and climbed onto a stool, setting my contraband on the polished wood. The bag crinkled obscenely loud in the quiet.
Charlie eyed the McDonald’s logo, one brow lifting. “That from the walk-up on Broughton?”
“Maybe.”
“And you’re eating it alone in a closed bar because...?”
“Because my brother is a judgmental ass who thinks kale will solve all my problems,” I said, pulling out a fry and biting into it with more aggression than necessary. “And I needed to eat something that wouldn’t make me want to cry.”
Charlie’s mouth twitched. Not quite a smile, but close. He pulled out his phone, tapped at it a few times, then set it down.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Ordering reinforcements,” he said. “Those fries aren’t gonna cut it.”
“I didn’t come here for you to feed me.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugged. “I was gonna eat anyway. Might as well have company.”
I took another fry, slower this time, and let the silence stretch. The bar felt different now—quiet, but with that pre-show buzz, the sense that any minute it’d all come back to life.
Charlie grabbed a glass and went to work, pouring grenadine and soda, stacking in extra cherries and orange slices before sliding the drink my way. “It’s the only mocktail I know how to make,” he said with a shrug.
