“I’ve known Doyle a long time,” Charlie said. “He’s not always great at handling things he doesn’t understand. He’s used to being the responsible one, and sometimes that makes him hold on too tight or push harder than he should.” He paused. “He reminds me a lot of myself sometimes. Especially the way I am with Magnolia.”
“From what I’ve seen,” I said, trying not to laugh, “you and Magnolia are nothing like Doyle and me.”
“We can be,” he admitted. “Right now, she’s making a decision I don’t understand, and I don’t know how to support it. I slip up. I let my fear show. I go about it the wrong way.”
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something in his expression made my chest ache.
“But I’m trying,” he said. “And maybe that’s what Doyle’s doing too. Trying. Failing. But trying.”
I let out a shaky breath. “I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Living there. Pretending it’s fine when it’s not.”
“Then don’t,” Charlie said simply. “You don’t owe him perfect. You don’t owe him easy. You just owe him the truth.”
A breeze swept in from somewhere—maybe the back door was cracked—and I wrapped my arms around myself, suddenly cold.
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly. “Not just for tonight. For all of it. For blowing into town like a hurricane. For ruining your artwork. For not knowing how to take a compliment.”
Charlie shook his head. “You don’t need to apologize for trying to start over or being afraid. We’re all scared of something.”
“Even you?”
“Especially me,” he said, voice low. “I’m terrified of watching my sister marry the wrong guy. Of standing by while she makes a choice I can’t undo. Of not saying enough or saying too much.” He dragged a hand through his hair. “But I show up anyway. Because that’s what you do for the people you love.”
I stared at him, this man who kept showing up when I least expected it and most needed it, and felt something shift in my chest.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “For the food. For listening. For not making me feel like an idiot.”
“You’re not an idiot,” he said. “You’re just human. And that’s allowed.”
We sat there in the quiet of O’Malley’s, the weight of the day finally starting to lift, and for the first time since the fight with Doyle, I didn’t feel quite so alone.
Chapter Fourteen
CHARLIE
“Oooh,chickenandwaffles,”Magnolia said, her eyes lighting up as she peeked into the takeout bag on the counter. She dropped a dog-eared bridal magazine on the bar and curled one leg beneath her on the stool she kept parked by the to-go window.
“Yep. Fried chicken,” I muttered, wiping my hands on a dish rag. “Even though your best friend makes it way better than anyone else in this city. And waffles to bat down what you described over the phone as I quote, ‘seasonal sads.’”
She hopped off the stool. “I don’t know if you can technically get seasonal depression in the South,” she said, pulling open thebag and inhaling dramatically, “but if you can, I definitely have it. So I want to eat like I’m gearing up for hibernation.”
I leaned against the bar and rubbed the back of my neck, eyeing her with suspicion. “You sure you’re not like… regular depressed? Because last I checked, you’re engaged to a guy who gets hammered and sends you Shakespearean-level passive-aggressive texts at midnight because he can’t handle your sass.”
Magnolia rustled around inside the takeout bag. “Where’s yours?” she asked, frowning over her shoulder. “I thought we were eating together.”
I gripped the edge of the bar, eyes on my boots. “Wasn’t all that hungry.”
Through a mouthful of waffle, she let out a muffled snort. “Don’t be judgy, Charlie. You might not have the seasonal sads like I do, but you’ve definitely had a scowl on your face since I walked in here.”
I shrugged and made my way behind the bar, reaching for a highball glass and the good bourbon I kept tucked away from the regular shelves. There was a comfort in moving behind the bar again and stepping into the familiar rhythm of it, even if only to fix a drink, that settled into my chest like muscle memory. The lights strung across the ceiling, the garland half-heartedly taped to the taps, and the handmade snowflake ornaments leftover from the Historical Holiday Tour added a layer of nostalgia that hit harder than I expected.
In a breath, the comfort unraveled, exposing what had always been waiting beneath it.
Grief.
Maybe it was the holidays and how much our momma used to love Christmas, the way she’d string lights across every square inch of our porch on Tybee Island as if she were trying to signal low-flying aircraft. Or maybe it was the drink in my hand, mixed exactly the way Uncle Cole taught me—muddled maraschinocherry, one oversized cube, stirred slow, never shaken. A ritual I hadn’t even realized I still followed, like tradition passed down in the blood.
Either way, grief was tugging at me, wrapping itself around the soft parts of my heart I usually kept locked away.
