She wasn’t pretending she was fine. She knew she was wrecked. But she was showing up anyway. For people who needed her. For a baby she was already protecting. For a life she was building one impossible day at a time.
“You don’t have to be okay,” I said quietly. “You just have to show up. And you’re doing that.”
She looked up at me, hazel eyes tired but determined. “I just need a minute to cry. To say goodbye to him, I think. I wanted closure, but not like that.”
“He’s not worth it, darlin’.”
She gave a bitter laugh. “No, he’s not. I just wish I’d seen that before I fell in love with him.”
Everything in me went still.
She’d loved him. And he’d looked her in the eye and walked away.
“Why did you just go stiff?” she asked, studying my face.
I unclenched my jaw. “He rubbed me the wrong way, that’s all.”
She nodded, stepping out of my arms and squaring her shoulders. “Can you help me finish closing up? The last thing I need is Doyle showing up and finding a bottle out of place.”
She was already moving again—grabbing her camera bag, checking the champagne cooler, locking the register. Powering through because that’s what she did. That’s who she was.
And watching her do it—watching her pull herself together with sheer force of will and show up for people who were counting on her—was the most beautiful, heartbreaking thing I’d ever seen.
I was out the door before I could talk myself out of it.
“Hey, asshole.”
Nick’s head snapped up. He flinched before I even closed the distance, like he already knew why I was there. Good. I stopped toe to toe with him, close enough that he had to tilt his chin up to meet my eyes.
“Listen to me,” I said, my voice low, steady. “You stay away from her. And that baby. For good. Do you understand?”
He let out a careless laugh. “She’s your problem now, man. I don’t want a thing to do with any of it.”
That laugh was the last straw. My fist connected with his jaw before I even thought about it, a clean shot that sent him stumbling back into the stoplight with a grunt.
I didn’t chase him. Didn’t need to. I just stood there, shoulders squared, breathing easy, because I’d never been more certain about anything in my life.
“I’ll take that problem any day,” I said. It came out quiet, but it carried. A promise more than a threat.
Then I turned back toward the shop, tossing over my shoulder, “And I mean it. Stay gone.”
***
It had started as a scramble. Charlotte and Hoyt were supposed to say their vows in front of the Forsyth Fountain, but a late-afternoon downpour had rolled in with no regard for their plans. By the time we reached the square, the ground was slick, the air holding that clean, heavy scent only Savannah rain leaves behind. Guests huddled under umbrellas, and the fountain, usually a backdrop for tourists, stood nearly alone in the mist.
Tally was the one who saved it. She pulled out her phone and dialed Eunice, asking her if there was a gazebo nearby, covered yet still charming. She didn’t hesitate and called for cabs to send us a few blocks over to Whitefield Square. Charlotte and Hoyt loved the idea instantly. Within minutes, they were tucked beneath the white-railed gazebo, flowers and fabric repurposed from the fountain setup, the rain pattering on the roof while they exchanged vows. It felt intimate, almost secret, as if the weather had pushed us into exactly the right place without meaning to.
When the rain eased, we made our way back to Forsyth. The park was nearly empty then, rain scaring away anyone who might be lingering, the fountain framed in that narrow band of golden light you only get before the sun disappears. Pastor Donnelly’s ceremony had already wrung tears from all of us, but watching Hoyt and Charlotte cut their cake with her mother close by—blanket tucked over her knees, smiling through everysecond—was enough to undo the rest. The fountain bubbled steadily behind them, its spray catching the light in a way that made the whole square feel suspended in time. A few passersby slowed at the edges, pausing long enough to take it in, the way you do when you realize you’re walking past a rare moment in time.
When, in the middle of an ordinary day in Savannah, you stumble across a love story.
Tally pulled them aside for photos, steadying Charlotte’s mother with a light touch so she could stand long enough to kiss her daughter’s cheek. She caught it in one frame, the kind of picture that would live on a mantle and draw a tear every time someone walked past it.
A knot rose in my throat. Magnolia would be married soon, and our mother wouldn’t be there. Neither would our father. Or our uncle. Just the two of us left to hold each other up through every milestone.
Tally drifted toward the shade of a moss-covered oak, hand settling over her belly as she whispered softly. How a man could walk into her life and ask her not to be the one thing she was meant to be was beyond me. She’d made her choice, hers alone, and the strength in it floored me.
“You all right, darlin’?” I asked, stepping into the shade.
