He stretched up to drape a garland across the fireplace mantle, and I focused way too hard on the movement of his arms, the way his shirt lifted slightly, enough to flash the waistband of his jeans.
“I can’t stay over this year, though,” he added. “I’ve got to drop Lee’s piece off at the bar before Magnolia wakes up. So I’ll probably head out early.”
There was a flat, indifferent shift in his voice. Things were changing for him. For Magnolia. For all of us.
“We’re doing brunch on Christmas Eve too,” he added after a moment, adjusting a stray branch on the tree. “Magnolia mentioned pancakes and mimosas, which means it’s going to be a three-course affair. I’m sure your brother’ll let you tag along.”
“Ha,” I said, winding a strand of lights around the mantle garland he’d just hung. “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll continue locking me up in this penthouse tower like some knocked-up Rapunzel. Far away from the rest of the kingdom.”
Charlie glanced at me under the rim of his baseball cap but didn’t push. He turned back to the tree, removing the sleek, impersonal gray ornaments from its branches and replacing them, one by one, with hand-painted oyster shells. They were delicate, flecked with faded pastels, initials still visible where someone had traced them in careful script.
“He’s not trying to punish you,” Charlie said eventually. “Everyone likes you. You’ve been here long enough to see that.”
I shifted around the lights, keeping my eyes on my hands. “Right. That’s why I’m still in time-out.”
“You’re not in time-out.”
“I’m certainly not invited anywhere.”
He exhaled, stepping back to survey the tree. “Doyle’s just trying to protect you. That’s his go-to move when he’s worried.” He turned back toward me. “And besides, there’s really been nowheretogo. In case you haven’t noticed, we’ve been sitting up here night after night watchingGolden Girlsreruns.”
I didn’t respond. Because he wasn’t wrong, but it still stung. My brother used to be the one shouting my name the loudest, dragging me into the center of things, reminding people I was worth paying attention to. Now he avoided eye contact during dinner and acted like I might combust if left unsupervised for more than ten minutes.
Charlie must’ve sensed it, the shift in my mood, because he added, “You’re not an outsider, Tally. Not to me.”
My hand froze mid-air, the string of lights tangled around my wrist. Charlie didn’t turn around; he kept carefully sorting through the ornaments, the muscles in his back shifting beneath the thin fabric of his shirt—deliberate and steady, as if he hadn’t said the one thing I’d been waiting to hear all week.
The soft crackle of the Christmas station droned through the speakers. The scent of pine, gingerbread, and warm sugar cookies wafted through the air. The realness and the coziness of it all was making me crack.
I turned back to the tree, blinking against the sting behind my eyes. I tried to pretend I was focused on a rogue bulb or an uneven ribbon, but really, I needed a second to get my pulse under control.
Being wanted wasn’t new. But this kind of wanted—gentle, no strings—was.
In the end, the living room was a beautiful, chaotic mess. Lights sprawled unevenly across the mantle, paper snowflakes stuck to the windows like a kindergarten classroom. Seashells, hand-painted by Charlie and Magnolia’s momma when they were kids, now nestle in the tree between soft white bulbs and leftover garland from the bar. The coffee table was covered in tangled tinsel and half-finished mocktails.
It looked like Buddy the Elf had been left unsupervised in a vintage Sears catalog.
And I loved it.
My phone vibrated on the table and I lifted the screen to check the message. “Oh my God,” I said, turning the message toward Charlie. “Pastor Donnelly just booked another wedding, and he wants me to come with him to take the photos.”
Charlie grabbed my phone and quickly scanned the message, putting it back down on the table to lift me, ever so gently, to spin me around in a circle. I was buzzing. This was really happening, and I had another shot at getting my foot in the proverbial door here in Savannah.
He set me back down, then ran his fingers through my hair, cupping my face.
“Did you read the whole message?” he asked, eyes bright. “They’re looking for someone to bake a cake, rustle up some last-minute flowers, and uncork something bubbly.”
I shook my head, stepping out of Charlie’s embrace, the magic draining from the room. “Shit, I don’t even know where to start.”
A catlike grin stretched over Charlie’s face, wide and full of mischief, but beneath it all there was a thread of wild, unapologetic belief. In me.
“Darlin’, youjustdid this for Hoyt. You know a chef, one of the most well-connected women in this city who orders moreflowers per year than I’m sure the funeral homes do.“ He stopped, closing the space between us yet again, wrapping his arms around my waist this time. “And not only do you know a bartender, but need I remind you, you have access to thousands of dollars worth of fancy bubbles right downstairs.”
Charlie’s gaze locked onto mine, and he brushed a wad of curls out of my face, watching me closely. “He also said, if this works out, maybe this could turn into a permanent thing for both of you.”
Could I really do this? Could I really take this opportunity and run with it, instead of running from it? I didn’t want that life anymore, I didn’t want my heart or my legs to send me packing and running away from here. Away fromthis.
And then it crept in—the ache of it all. Not loud or sudden, but slow and sneaky, settling behind my ribs like it planned to stay awhile. The grief wasn’t about lost cities, missed chances, or the life I left behind. It was for all the years I spent trying not to want things. For every time I shrugged and laughed it off when really, I wanted to be seen. Picked.Kept.
