Arriving in Georgia felt like standing on the edge of the unknown. None of the worldly travel, the wild, artsy parties, or the hundreds of gigs I’d taken over the years could’ve prepared me for this—
Not just living under my brother’s roof, but stepping into the biggest adventure of all: motherhood.
Dig, my best friend-slash-former roommate-slash-chaos twin, spent most of the ride buried in social media, planning his first trip to Savannah with the intensity of someone mapping out a three-week tour of Europe. By the time we hit Georgia soil, he had scheduled brunch reservations, ghost tours, a horse-and-buggy ride, and, by some miracle, had three dates lined up.He was more excited than I was to be back in my home state, though I’m pretty sure his enthusiasm had everything to do with skipping his dinner shifts at Errico’s and escaping the city for a few days. I didn’t mind the plotting or the scheming. I was glad he was there.
And then there was me. Unshowered, vaguely queasy, clutching an ancient poodle who smelled like a hot subway seat, rolling up to the front of my brother’s luxury penthouse like I’d been personally evicted from the plot of my own coming-of-age story—despite the fact that I’d already face-planted into my thirties.
“God, I have never been happier to see a front door,” Dig groaned, slumping against the wall.
Nancy Reagan, tucked under my arm like a sweaty handbag, let out a huff that sounded eerily like agreement.
“We’re not even inside yet,” I told them, nodding toward the wall of gleaming elevators. “This is just the fancy-pants lobby.”
The entrance way smelled like expensive laundry detergent and new money and looked like the kind of place where you weren’t allowed to speak above a whisper or sweat in public. The floors were marble, the lighting was flattering, and the concierge gave me a polite nod that screamedYou don’t belong here, but I’m paid to be nice.
This wasn’t the dream Doyle and I had cooked up. That one had a shoebox apartment, burnt coffee, and a shared dream we chased from opposite ends of a borrowed couch. Not this.
“Hey y’all,” the concierge sang out, jumping up to grab some of our bags. “Mr. Aden, how was your trip? Looks like you came home with a few more items than you did when you left.”
Dig scoffed next to me and scanned his shiny name tag. “Hoyt, is it? Hi Hoyt. We’re the Adens’ emotional baggage, we’ll be staying for a while.”
A warm, friendly smile rose over his face, and he reached out to grab my hand. “You must be Tallulah, then. The Adens have told me so much about you.”
“Ha, don’t hold that against me, please.”
Hoyt met my gaze, then his line of sight flicked to Jordan. “I never would, Ms. Aden. That’s not my style.”
The elevator dinged, and we all shuffled inside, Hoyt hitting the button for the penthouse, and we bypassed a few floors on the way. “On the first floor, we have an art studio and gallery run by a friend of Mr. and Mr. Aden. And, of course,Cheese, Please!.On floors two and three are offices. Four has some apartments, and the entirety of floor five is your destination, the penthouse.”
The elevator doors slid open, and I was inside of Doyle’s impeccably manicured world.
He appeared from the terrace holding a wine glass, wearing crisply ironed linen pants and a button-down so white it made my teeth ache.
“Tallulah,” he said, sweeping in to kiss both of my cheeks.
At arm’s length, he studied me. There wasn’t judgment there, but a quiet ribbon of concern. My brother didn’t know who, or what, would be walking into this apartment. I suspected, from his line of sight, that I was far less disheveled than he was expecting.
Nancy barked once, then twice, before launching herself into a tiny tornado of excitement. “Will you pick her up before she pees on your Restoration Hardware rug?” I asked.
“Right, yes.” He scooped her up in time for her to lick his entire face. “Hi, Nance. You look... hydrated. Great.”
Wine in one hand, dog in the other, he gestured around like he was presenting a prize on a game show. “Welcome home, sis. How are you feeling?”
“She hasn’t thrown up in at least forty-five minutes,” Jordan said dryly as he walked in behind us, carrying our luggage.Behind him, Dig staggered in under the combined weight of my second suitcase, the poodle’s fashion trunk, and my giant salt lamp, which he cradled like a baby Jesus in a nativity scene full of poor decisions.
“Do not drop that,” I hissed.
“I would sooner dropyou,” he said, breathless, struggling to get the door closed behind him with his elbow. “Why is it shaped like this? Is this lamp possessed? It feels possessed.”
Nancy let out a strangled wheeze, wriggling out of Doyle’s arms, and immediately began her usual reconnaissance mission, her claws clicking across the marble floor in search of anything edible or forbidden.
The penthouse was pristine. White walls. White furniture. Expensive lighting that made even my frizzy travel hair look editorial. It was like walking into a magazine spread about couples who start their own wine labels and name their children after yoga poses. And there we were—me, Dig, a forty-pound salt rock, and a dog that looked like a dust bunny with legs.
Doyle leaned in for another quick, unaffectionate hug. He pulled back enough to assess me once again, in disbelief that I’d landed in Georgia in one piece. His eyes flitted from the salt lamp wedged under Dig’s arm, to Nancy, who had sneezed directly onto the leg of his couch, to the suspiciously duct-taped handle of my suitcase, covered in stickers from my travels.
Then his gaze landed back on me.
Something passed across his face, quick and flickering, before he caught himself and smiled, like he remembered that under my dry-shampooed hair and almost-put-together ensemble, I was still the sister he used to know. “Well, the good news is you made it.”
