Charlie barely looked up. “She’s asleep.”
“But she loves a good sunset,” I’d lied. “And besides, it’s good for the joints.”
Before I could change my mind, I was texting Franny Jo. I needed air. Motion. An industrial sized fan to cool the flush climbing up my neck.
Franny Jo pulled up in a horse-drawn sleigh that looked like Santa threw up on it. String lights blinked along the frame, candy canes dangled from the railings, and the whole thing smelled faintly of cinnamon and horse manure. She handed Charlie a dented thermos with a warning about sipping slow— “It’s from the good batch”—and passed me a chilled bottle of water with a wink, like she didn’t just hand him a one-way ticket to blackout moonshine island.
“The usual spot, Tal?” Franny Jo asked, glancing over her shoulder with a look that was equal parts curiosity and suspicion as she clocked Charlie beside me.
The carriage crept through the sleepy, sun-warmed squares of Savannah, the horse’s hooves echoing against brick and stone. I leaned back against the cushioned bench and let myself take it in. Every moss-lined street looked different that day, the way everything does when you’re sitting beside someone who changes how you see things.
Savannah had already made its case, curling under my skin and asking me to stay.
And who was I to say no?
But after that kiss in the rain, it wasn’t only the city holding on to me.
It was him.
And I wanted him to ask me to stay.
He’d been the one to bring it up, to ask if I saw myself in Savannah for more than a moment. And when he asked, I’d opened my heart in ways I wasn’t used to—letting him see the cracked, dented parts of the woman who’d spent too much time falling in love while quietly falling apart.
Charlie had asked if I was going to stay, but he’d never asked metostay. And no, I didn’t need a man to decide my place in the world. But if he wanted me here, I wanted to hear it from him.
Beside me, Charlie unscrewed the lid of the thermos and took a cautious sip. He gagged instantly, coughing as he tried to pass it off with a weak thumbs-up that fooled no one.
Franny Jo cackled. “Careful, sugar. That stuff’ll grow hair on your kneecaps.”
Charlie wheezed. “Pretty sure I’m good on knee hair, thanks.”
She grinned and gave me a knowing look. At the base of River Street, she pulled the carriage up to the curb and winked. “See you next week for those Instabook shots, right, Tal?”
Charlie stepped down first, then turned and held his hand out to me. I reached for him before I could think, my fingers sliding into his like they’d always belonged there. The city buzzed around us—the clop of hooves, the far-off rush of the river—but all I could register was his hand closing around mine. His thumb swept over my knuckles, slow and deliberate, a touch that seemed to say more than either of us had figured out how to put into words.
When I landed on the cobblestones, he didn’t let go right away. We stood there, too close, the December light catching in his eyes, making them burn darker and warmer all at once. The air between us felt thin, threaded tight with everything we hadn’t said.
“It’s called Instagram, Franny. And yes—if my captor approves,” I managed, still holding his gaze.
The corner of his mouth lifted. Maybe a question. Maybe an answer. Maybe the thing I’d been waiting to hear all along.
And then the horse behind us let out a truly biblical pile of steaming shit, breaking the moment clean in half. We both laughed, and with that, the spell was gone.
“Okay, I’m not really sure if you’re joking or if you’re actually under duress.” Franny Jo shot Charlie a sideways glance. “But I’ll leave you two to figure it out along the banks of the river. I’ve got poop to scoop.”
We walked River Street with Nancy Reagan leading the charge, her leash slack in Charlie’s free hand. His other hand had found mine somewhere between the cobblestones and the waterfront—no announcement, no hesitation, only his fingers threading through mine while cargo ships drifted past in the distance.
The evening light turned everything copper and soft. Tourists shuffled by with to-go cups and cameras. A street performer played something jazzy on a sax that echoed off the brick buildings. Nancy stopped to investigate every iron bench and lamppost, and neither of us rushed her.
We crawled up the cobblestone ramp from the river to the bustling street above, winding our way through the squares until we reached Broughton Street.
“Leopold’s?” Charlie asked, nodding toward the crowd spilling out onto the sidewalk up ahead.
“Obviously.”
The line wrapped around the corner—families with strollers, college kids in SCAD sweatshirts, a bachelor party wearing matching elf hats. It was December, barely sixty degrees, and somehow every human in the greater metropolitan area had decided tonight was the night for ice cream.
“Is this a thing?” I asked, watching a woman in a puffer jacket order three sundaes. “Ice cream in winter?”
