I nodded, then asked, “And what would you do for love? Would you buy a bar? Cancel your plans? Give up your dreams?”
Charlie didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, it was barely above a whisper. “For me, love itself is the dream.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
TALLY
NancyReagangavemeside-eye from her perch on the unmade bed, her snout pressed dramatically into the comforter.
“Oh, don’t start,” I muttered, brushing mascara across my lashes and trying not to stab myself in the eye. “You’re still my baby. I just happen to be carrying another one.”
She huffed.
“I mean it.” I dropped the mascara wand and crossed the room, crouching beside the bed to scratch behind her ears. “No one’s replacing you. You’ll always be my crusty firstborn.”
Her only response was a suspicious little grunt, but her head tilted enough to lean into the affection. I took it as a win.
I stood again, eyeing myself in the mirror. The dress I’d picked out was nothing special, just soft, floral cotton with a little stretch, but I looked… good. Not in a glowing, ethereal, earth-mama way. But in ameway. There was a roundness to my stomach that no longer felt strange or wrong, and my skin had settled into something closer to dewy than haunted.
I’d never tell him this, but perhaps Doylewasright with his suggestion that I adopt a skincare routine.
And maybe it was the dress. Or the sunlight spilling through the curtains, soft and golden. Or it was the way Charlie had looked at me the night before while we moved around the kitchen, tired from a long day in the studio, both of us too worn out to talk much but still sharing small glances—his smirk, the quiet flicker in his eyes, the kind of look that made me feel like we were figuring this out together, even if neither of us knew whatthiswas.
But I was more confident and a little steadier in my skin.
In the days since Doyle and Jordan left for California, Charlie and I had fallen into an almost-rhythm. It wasn’t seamless, but it held. There were stretches of stillness, edges that didn’t quite line up, but somehow it still worked—two people coexisting in a borrowed penthouse with a judgmental poodle and too many unspoken thoughts.
Mornings started slow, with both of us on the lanai. Charlie nursed his coffee in silence, gaze distant, while I picked at a bagel or whatever carb didn’t turn my stomach that day. Nancy Reagan made her rounds, eyeing squirrels like they owed her money. Sometimes we’d talk. Sometimes we wouldn’t. Either way, it didn’t feel uncomfortable or forced. Just... settled.
After breakfast, he’d disappear into the kitchen, wiping down every surface obsessively, and I’d drag my laptop to the couch and pretend to make progress on my life.
I wasn’t only scrolling photography boards. I was chasing something murkier. I emailed magazine editors who never wrote back, stalked photo studios in nearby cities, and hunted down internships I was technically overqualified for, but still, no bites. My inbox became a graveyard of polite declines—or worse, nothing at all. Starting over in a creative field was a lot like screaming into the void and hoping someone handed you a camera and a detailed plan.
Still, I tried. Every morning. Because if I didn’t, then what?
After that, we’d ride the elevator down in silence, me clutching my water bottle, Charlie clutching whatever shred of sanity he appeared to have left, Nancy Reagan trotting contentedly between us as if she’d appointed herself chaperone, sniffing at the corners of the elevator, making Charlie jumpy. The short walk from the lobby to his studio—barely twenty steps—became a strange kind of ritual. Not romantic. Not even really warm, but quietly consistent.
We hadn’t had any other honest, deep conversations. And we hadn’t talked at all about that first night, when I let his hands rest on my swollen belly, feeling the life inside me stir in time with the wild, uneven rhythm of my own heart pressed so close to his.
But lately, he’d gone quiet again—focused. The commissioned piece for Lee had him in overdrive, and I didn’t blame him—it was massive, complicated work, and he only had a short window to finish it. So sometimes, I stayed out of his way. I’d wander the streets for hours, ducking into shops, nursing iced teas on shaded benches, letting Savannah unfold in pieces. Sometimes I’d walk. Sometimes I’d climb into Franny Jo’s carriage like avisiting dignitary and let her narrate the city in her sing-song voice, full of half-truths and tall tales.
Every day taught me a little more—about the city, about Charlie, about how it’s possible to drift and still start finding your footing.
At night, I’d retreat to my room like I was supposed to. But more often than not, I’d find myself sneaking out in the middle of the night, the soft patter of my steps drowned out by the hush of the penthouse. I’d steal a glance at him—curled up on that ridiculous loveseat, arms crossed, brow still furrowed, waiting for the next emergency. Even asleep, Charlie Pruitt looked like he was bracing for impact.
What was supposed to be one night had turned into night after night after night…
I tried not to read too much into it. I told myself he was being his typical, dutiful self. Or, maybe, that the penthouse was a little nicer than the studio, and he was enjoying the luxury of Doyle’s refined tastes. But some traitorous voice in the back of my mind—the same one that liked to whisper impossible things when the lights were low and I was too tired to fight it—kept nudging at me. Telling me maybe he was still here… for me.
I was still brushing the thought away when I heard his voice echo from across the penthouse, gentle but impatient.
“You ready or what?”
He was pacing again. I could picture it—the tight line of his jaw, the way his arms would cross then drop again when he couldn’t settle. I smoothed a hand over my stomach and called back, “Coming!”
Today was a follow-up appointment. A check-in on the little life growing inside me. And maybe the closest I’d come to meeting them, even if it were only through a screen and some fuzzy, grey outlines—a FaceTime with my future.
Charlie was waiting at the elevator. He didn’t speak as we rode it down, only nodded and walked ahead, opening the truck door for me. He shut it gently, careful and reserved in that way he always was when he thought I wasn’t paying attention.
