“What about me?”
Sutton tilted her head, watching me too closely. “You know what’s weird? I’ve known you for, what, eighteen years? And I have no idea what you actually want. Like, for yourself.”
I tightened my grip on the sanding block. “I’m sanding these barstools for my baby sister and being the loyal, diligent big brother and best friend I always am. The rest doesn’t matter.”
Lee leaned back against the worktable, arms crossed, eyes steady. “It does, though.”
I gave them both a look. “I don’t need an intervention.”
Sutton smirked. “That’s exactly what people in need of interventions say.”
I groaned, dragging a hand through my hair. “Both of you—out.”
Lee grinned, holding up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine. We’re just worried about you, brother, that’s all. Maybe it’s time you tried expending all this energy onyourselffor once.”
Sutton hopped off the stool, stretching like a cat. “We’re going to the wine tasting next door tonight. Don’t be an old man. Come have a drink.”
I sighed, but didn’t argue. “Yeah, yeah.”
The door shrieked as it opened, then slammed shut behind them. Through the window, they ducked into the alley, likely taking the shortcut toward Bull Street to dodge the herd of tourists clogging up the riverfront.
Thirty-three years old, and what did I have to show for it? A stack of half-finished projects, a sister still pretending she didn’t need saving, and a front door that wailed like a beagle no matter how many times I fixed the damn thing.
Outside, clusters of ghost tour groups had already started to gather, their excited chatter floating in through my paint-streaked window. Savannah thrived on its haunted reputation—spirits in every historic home and moss-draped square.
But the real ghosts weren’t the ones in the tour guides’ scripts. They were the ones we carried inside. The might-have-beens and the what-ifs. The parents who never saw me graduate. The childhood that was cut short and rearranged.
And the whispers that had never quite left me:Be responsible now. Look after your sister. Be the man of the family.
I picked up a hammer, the weight of it familiar and grounding in my palm, and turned back to the barstool. Sometimes the only way to rebuild your life is to start with what was broken—what everyone else had tossed aside.
My friends were nosy. My sister was dramatic. My life was steady. Predictable. Routine.
So why couldn’t I shake the feeling that something was about to break?
I shook my head and grabbed my tools.
Didn’t matter. I had shit to do.
Chapter Three
TALLY
Aftertwodaysofshoving my entire, pathetic life into two overstuffed suitcases, packing Nancy Reagan’s extensive and frankly unnecessary wardrobe, and convincing Dig that no, he absolutely did not need to bring his tap shoes in case of a “dance-mergency,” we crammed into Jordan’s rental car and started the long, reluctant drive to Georgia.
As we crawled through bumper-to-bumper traffic out of Brooklyn, I watched my city disappear in the side mirror—the pizza shops, the bodega cats, the subway grates that used to feel like freedom. Now they just looked like bad decisions with good lighting.
I wouldn’t be whole by the time I reached my brother. And still, all I wanted was for someone to be proud of me. To actually see into that part of me that had potential and help me dig it out from wherever I’d buried it.
My brother used to be the one to do that for me. But I knew what was waiting at the end of that car ride. Beneath the witty banter would be the same old reminder: Doyle was perfect without trying, and I wasn’t.
We’d moved to New York together from Newnan, Georgia, shortly after Doyle graduated high school. We made promises. Big sibling dreams of being two kids taking on the city. We were supposed to grow together. Be there for each other.
Instead, he tucked himself into a wine shop job and found Jordan. They fell in love, realized their dreams didn’t include me, and left for Savannah to openCheese, Please!—a wine-and-cheese shop that probably smelled like a Napa Valley resort and smug perfection.
Meanwhile, I stayed. I failed. And I kept hoping he’d come back for me.
Leaving New York felt like losing the last shred of the life I thought I was supposed to have. It felt like quitting.
