I glanced toward Magnolia, laughing with Doyle and Jordan, her engagement ring catching the light. On the surface, everything looked perfect—like Tally had seemed at first. But I knew better. I’d seen how fast things could go sideways, how easily a polished smile could hide the cracks.
“You don’t think it’s too late?”
Lee’s gaze lifted from me to my sister. “It’s never too late.”
I pulled out my phone. Typed. Deleted. Typed again, deleted again. Finally, I hit send on quick note, hoping it read like an invitation instead of a plea.
CHARLIE:The only thing missing from brunch is a beautiful woman who doesn’t know how to bake but sure does know how to kiss. You should come, but leave the baked goods at home.
See? Honest. Not needy.
The undeniable truth settled in, louder than any craving or instinct—I wanted her. Needed her.
My gaze slid back to my sister, showing off floral designs to Jordan and Doyle, smiling as she did, though a trace of hesitation lingered beneath it. She was already getting tangled up in all thesomethings—borrowed, blue, and new—and I was still trying to hold onto the pieces of her I had left.
Could I do both? Could I keep my sister safe and still give in to what I wanted for myself?
What if protecting Magnolia meant keeping my heart on a leash?
***
Magnolia was in the kitchen, balancing a bottle of white between her thighs and propping her phone up against the sugar jar, FaceTiming with Sutton as she stirred the garlic butter for the mashed potatoes. I was supposed to be queuing upMeet Me in St. Louis, like I did every year, but my thumb hovered over the remote, frozen.
Because I wasn’t really here, not the way I usually was.
The apartment above O’Malley’s was cozy in the way my sister always managed since I’d moved out. Candlelight flickered from her windowsills. There was a pie cooling on the stove and the whole place smelled like nutmeg and browned butter and the faint pine from the tree Lee dragged in two weeks ago, the one he’d insisted on decorating with all the ornaments we made in elementary school, glitter peeling off them like dead skin, and the ones our Momma had had painted before she’d passed. Every inch of the place radiated warmth. Tradition. Home.
And yet, I kept thinking about the girl who wasn’t here.
What she was doing. If she’d eaten. If she was warm enough. If she’d been lying in bed all afternoon, staring at the ceiling, wondering why she wasn’t included. Or if she’d put on a brave face and distracted herself by making a mess in the kitchen, eating olives straight out of the jar with her fingers, irritating the perfect cadence of her brother’s world by simply existing.
She hadn’t texted me back. No surprise there. Still, the thought of sitting through that brunch without storming out, tossing her over my shoulder, and dragging her to O’Malley’s—claiming her, claiming us in front of everyone—was eating me alive.
Maybe she needed space. Perhaps she was in a knock-down, drag-out fight with Doyle. Maybe she knew I was with my sister, and that this might be the last time we’d carry out this decades-old tradition together.
“Charlie,” Magnolia called, glancing over her shoulder with a smile. “You’re up. Hit play. We’ve only got until the timer goes off.”
I stood, careful not to get too close to the Christmas tree where Pickle was perched halfway up like a furry gargoyle, tail twitching, eyes locked on me as if daring me to ruin her holiday. She batted a paw in my direction when I passed.
I cleared my throat and pressed the button. The screen filled with the soft, vintage glow of old film stock as Judy Garland’s voice crooned gently through the room. I settled into my spot on the couch and grabbed my wine glass from the coffee table, where Magnolia had dropped it off.
“This really isn’t a Christmas movie,” I said, because that was my line. I didn’t even think about it anymore. It tumbled out, muscle memory from thirty-some-odd December 24ths.
“It was Momma’s favorite,” she said, walking in and collapsing next to me on the couch, tucking her feet under my thigh. “And ‘Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas’ made her cry every year. Don’t you remember?”
I nodded and sipped. But my mind was still five blocks away in a penthouse that smelled like citrus shampoo and clean laundry, where twinkle lights hung half-heartedly from curtain rods and where a wild girl with wild curls had built herself a Christmas out of scraps.
I wondered if she’d thought about showing up today. Wondered if Doyle had stopped her, or if she’d talked herself out of it before she even reached for the door.
She was good at that—convincing herself she didn’t belong, before anyone else got the chance to do it for her.
But this time, we’d all proved her right by not asking her to come along. She’d given me her heart and asked me not to break it, and I wasted no time being the asshole she thought I was at the start.
I stayed quiet the rest of the movie, watching Magnolia mouth the words under her breath, her rapid blinking during Judy’s song as she tried, like she always had, not to let me see the emotion swelling in her eyes.
When the credits rolled, she leaned her head against my shoulder. “Can’t believe you’re ditching me this year.”
“I’ve got a delivery in the morning.” I tipped back the last of my drink. “Commissioned piece. Big one. Hard to miss.”
