Jordan shot me a pitiful look. “Just… go, Tally.”
Dig was already slipping on his shoes. “Field trip! I wanna see all the places you’ve been hanging and meet all of your people!”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I was still finding my people here. I was getting closer, inch by inch, but it still felt a little like I was standing on the porch, peeking through the window at everyone else gathered around the table. Some days, the door cracked open. Other days, it stayed shut. Whether the key was in my hand or someone else’s remained unclear.
Jordan and Doyle whispered as I grabbed my bag, their voices low and clipped, like I wouldn’t notice. Doyle kept glaring at Jordan across the kitchen island, tight-lipped and stiff, his whole body coiled like he was trying to hold it together—or keep the situation from blowing apart. He dried the same mug three times without once looking at me. Jordan, usually the calm one, the peacemaker, pushed scrambled eggs around his plate and kept glancing at the clock.
Whatever was going on, it wasn’t nothing.
Ten minutes later, we were in the back of a horse and buggy, driven by Savannah legend Franny Jo Anderson, crawling through the quiet morning streets of Savannah like this was what everyone did on a Wednesday. She hadn’t offered a reason or an explanation when she pulled up in front of the building and shouted “Get in!” from under a wide-brimmed velvet hat and waved at a group of tourists with the flourish of a woman who’d been born for the stage.
She was the kind of woman people in town spoke about with a mix of awe and deep, affectionate fear. A retired drama teacher who never quite retired from performing, she’d traded curtain calls for ghost stories and sequins for more sequins. She once told me the only lie she ever tolerated was the one she told herself every year about cutting back on champagne.
She had taken to Dig instantly the last time he came down, clasped his face in her rings-heavy hands, and declared him “one of the good ones.” Ever since, she treated him like an honorary grandson. Me? She treated me like cargo that needed protecting. Ever since she found out I was pregnant, she’d made it her mission to keep me off my feet and out of trouble, even if that meant swinging by my building unannounced and ringing the carriage bell until I came outside.
Dig, for his part, was eating it up. He waved to every tourist we passed like he was on a parade float and chatted with Franny Jo like they were old drinking buddies instead of two people who had known each other for maybe a week total.
Franny Jo looked back at us with a wide grin and a single, glittery eyelash attached to one eyelid like a festive bird wing. “Ain’t this nice? Just like old times. Remember when I took y’all to that underground roller derby with those vampire people last time you were here, Diggy?”
“Yes,” Dig said, dreamily. “It changed me.”
We kept rolling through the streets in Franny Jo’s open-air buggy, the morning quiet except for the rhythmic clip of hooves and the occasional rattle of the bench beneath us. Wreaths hung from iron balconies, and storefronts blinked with twinkle lights that hadn’t bothered shutting off after sunrise. The air was soft and heavy with that stubborn Southern humidity, carrying the smell of pine garland and fried dough from somewhere we couldn’t quite see.
Dig sat beside me, fixing the hem of his shorts like he was getting ready for a party instead of a ride to the coffee shop.
“Only a few more weeks until Christmas,” he said, voice low, like he didn’t want to startle the peace. “Any big plans with the brothers?”
I shrugged. “They’re doing brunch with their friends. They haven’t invited me yet, but… I don’t know. I think baby and I will be parked on the couch, watching reruns and eating pie without Doyle looming over me like a judgmental fridge warden.” I gave him a weak smile. “What about you? Please tell me you’re staying here.”
He shook his head. “I wish, babe. That week’s a war zone at Errico’s. Sal will have me filleted if I don’t show.”
I nodded again, turning to watch the Spanish moss ripple in the breeze.
“You know,” Dig said gently, voice laced with quiet concern, “You’re not as alone as you think. Seems like you and Franny Jo have been thick as thieves lately.”
I squinted at a slow-moving herd of tourists shuffling toward the Telfair, clutching glossy pamphlets and lining up neatly for a trolley ride. “She’s been taking me to appointments when Doyle or Jordan can’t,” I said, keeping my tone light. “And I’ve been helping out on her ghost tours, taking fun pictures for her social media. Just… staying busy.”
I kept my eyes on the passing squares, careful to avoid his staring gaze. “Besides, who said I was alone?”
Dig didn’t say anything right away, he only sat there—patient, quiet—the way only someone who’s seen all your worst days and still shows up can. “Tell me about the elopement! God, I can be so shellfish… I mean selfish,” he winked, as I handed him my phone to look through the first photo edits.
“These are so great, Tally,” he said quietly. “You pulled all of it together in just a few weeks, too. It’s amazing.”
“I’ve been taking a lot more photos lately, too,” I said, reaching for my phone to show him the other shots I’d been working on. “Franny Jo hooked me up with this local photographer she knows, and I tagged along on a maternity shoot last week. Nothing major. I mostly held reflectors and fluffed hair. But it felt good. Like I was doing work that made sense again.”
Dig’s expression softened, the way it always did when I talked about my camera.
“And I’ve been running Franny Jo’s social media, plus the account for this old lady’s club here in town, Lee Wilder’s mom is the president, or whatever. I keep reaching out to the connections I’ve made for a permanent gig, but no bites yet.”
“See, it’s not nothing,” Dig said, stretching his arm across the back of the buggy seat. “You’ve got the eye. You’ve got heart. And you’ve got hustle when it counts.”
I gave him a look, half amused. “Tell that to my inbox full of polite rejections.”
He shrugged. “Maybe they’re not supposed to hire you. Maybe you’re supposed to go off and do it yourself.”
I blinked at him. “What, like start a business?”
“Why not?” he said. “You’ve got the skill. The camera. A town full of pretty people who love to get married under Spanish moss. And a best friend who is more than willing to model fakeengagements if you need portfolio content. Use the elopement session as a blueprint.”
