Maybe it was the cold front moving in. Maybe it was the sadness that always showed up when the lights dimmed and the music got merry and the quiet crept in, no matter how crowded the room was.
Or maybe it was the conversation I’d had earlier tonight with a very pregnant woman who’d shown up at this bar looking like she was barely holding it together. The more I talked to her, the more I realized she wasn’t just beautiful—she was raw, honest in ways most people weren’t, and trying her damn best.
And I couldn’t stop thinking about her.
Testing the waters, I took a slow sip, let the silence stretch, then asked, “Have you talked to Tally lately?”
Magnolia didn’t answer right away. She took another bite of waffle, chewing slowly, one eyebrow raised, like she knew damn well I wasn’t asking just to make conversation. After a long pause, she swallowed and leveled a look at me.
“Why are you asking me this?”
I shook my head. “She stopped by earlier,” I said, too carefully. “Seemed like she was having a rough night.”
Magnolia narrowed her eyes. “Yeah, she texted me. Said you fed her and let her vent about Doyle. That was rather nice of you.”
I didn’t answer. I kept busy behind the bar, stirring the cocktail I’d already finished and wiping the countertop—anything to avoid eye contact.
“So,” I tried again, casually—too casually, probably—” do you think she’s planning on staying in Savannah? Or does she have… I don’t know. Another plan?”
Magnolia froze mid-bite.
Then, in one fluid, furious motion, she hopped off the barstool, which scraped back so hard it smacked the counter with a clang that echoed through the room.
“Charlie, no. Absolutely not. You cannot start developing a freaking crush on Doyle’s extremely pregnant, highly emotional, very much-in-transition sister. I forbid it.”
I scoffed. “You’re marrying Dane for a business deal, basically. Andyou’reworried aboutme?” I carefully handed her the drink I’d just made, in case she decided to start swinging. “But to answer your extremely dramatic question—no. I am notdevelopinga crush on Doyle’s sister.”
She wasn’t Doyle’s sister, not to me. Her name was Tallulah River Aden. And I’d long since blown past the developmental phase of anything. I was already in freefall. No guardrails. No plan. Falling, and too far gone to stop.
The moments we carved out together—the quiet stretches, the easy back-and-forth that belonged only to us—got under my skin. Even if she thought I’d ghosted her. Even if I told myself I was doing the right thing by keeping my distance.
What sat between us now wasn’t loud or obvious. It felt like finally being where I was supposed to be.
And this was wildly, ridiculously out of character for me.
Because I was the dependable one. The golden retriever of a brother and a friend, the guy everyone counted on when the wheels came off. I picked up the late-night phone calls, drove across town without asking why, showed up with a toolbox or a shoulder when somebody needed it. The one people leaned on—not because I begged for the job, but because I’d proven, over and over, that I wouldn’t let them fall.
I’d built my whole identity around being solid. Predictable. The one who held it together.
And then she blew in, Hurricane Tally with her wild curls and sharp comebacks. Those sundresses she kept wearing, no matter the weather, that clung to every new curve. Eyes that caught too much and offered back almost nothing.
She didn’t even have to speak for me to lose my senses. She was a contradiction in every direction. And it was no wonder she somehow got under my skin.
“Hey. Earth to my big brother. Can we shift focus to the wedding, please? That is, if you’re done spacing out and definitely not thinking about the woman you, of course, don’t have a crush on.”
Magnolia was watching me now, eyebrows lifted in that way she did when she was trying to be playful but also keeping score, waiting for me to say something. To be useful. To be steady. To be the version of me she depended on without ever having to ask.
But she didn’t really see me. None of them did. Not the part of me unraveling in the quiet moments. Not the version that lay awake most nights, wondering what it would take to feel whole instead of held together by expectation and obligation.
They saw the guy with the checklist. The fixer. The anchor. But never the weight I was dragging to stay upright.
“Of course we can, Mags.”
She lit up at that, her shoulders relaxing as she pulled out a notebook from under the bar, already in motion, already onto the next thing.
“I was thinking of a bourbon-based cocktail for the signature drink,” she said, tapping her pen against the page. “And maybe passed appetizers—festive, but not… I don’t know, heart-shaped meatballs or anything.”
I nodded along. Let her fill the space with plans and details that made her feel in control.
