TALLY
Thepenthousewastooquiet. And it wasn’t the kind where it felt peaceful and you could curl up and watch old Christmas movies on the couch. It felt punishing.
I’d spent the last ten minutes pacing barefoot across the cold marble floors, one hand on my lower back and the other gripping a half-empty glass of ginger ale, pretending not to care that I hadn’t been invited to a brunch that happened hours ago.
I didn’t even know who I was mad at. Doyle, for not inviting me? Myself, for assuming I’d be included? Or Charlie. Maybe, especially, Charlie.
I’d spent the day with Dig, and while that helped ease the pain slightly, I was now up burning the midnight oil and wearing a tread into the floors from all of my incessant pacing. And no matter how hard I’d tried, I couldn’t stop the thoughts from wandering back to Charlie.
I reread the text again. And again. And again.
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…
I stared at it until the screen dimmed, then set the phone back down. Cute. Honest. Maybe even sweet. But it had come too late. Hours too late.
If I meant something to him—if I really mattered—I wouldn’t have had to wait for an afterthought text.
He’d made me feel welcome, warm, wanted. He let me into his space, fed me, took care of me, gave me the most soul-altering sex of my life—and now here I was, alone on Christmas Eve in the world’s most beige penthouse, the sparkle from my festive Bedazzling fading into the corners. Unclaimed. Forgotten. Too much and not enough at the same time.
I kept pacing, arms crossed tight over my chest. The tree we’d decorated together sparkled mockingly in the corner—droopy branches, handmade ornaments, a fever dream of tinsel and oyster shells. The whole place smelled like real pine, nutmeg, and the sweet whiff of cookies Charlie had baked and left out on the counter. It should’ve felt cozy. Magical, even.
Instead, it felt like a stage I’d already been booed off of. And, of course, my brother was in the front row, booing the loudest of them all.
Snippets of the fight with Doyle kept flicking through my head, the way you can’t stop pressing on a bruise. His voice rising,mine matching it, both of us circling the same tired points: why I hadn’t been invited to brunch. How I’d “turned the penthouse into a Christmas craft-store explosion.” How my “messes” weren’t cute anymore. And then, the part that stung the most—watching him pull out his phone, muttering about calling our mother.
He hadn’t, of course, it was a vague threat. But what he did say, the part stuck on loop like a broken record, was louder than anything else in my head:
“You know what, Tally. Momma and Daddy would be better off handling this than Jordan and me right now. We’ve got too much going on, and at this point, you need more support than we can give.”
I’d laughed it off at the time, tossed out a snarky comment like armor. But the echo of it followed me now, every word making me question my place here all over again.
What if this wasn’t where I belonged? What if this was another wrong detour on the map I’d been drawing wrong for years? I had no idea.
I drifted toward the window and pressed a hand to the glass, staring out across the river. Everything was still and peaceful as Savannah rested her head, waiting for Santa to arrive and the bright possibility only Christmas morning brings. But there it was, crashing into me like a wave—the old, familiar itch to pack a bag and run. To get in front of the rejection before it hits me.
Only this time, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to go… or if it was a habit. The reflex of a girl who’d spent her life leaving before she was left. Before I started a business, it failed. Before I built a home here for the baby, and regretted it. Before Charlie saw all of me—the real me—and decided he couldn’t love the fragmented pieces.
All I knew was that I desperately, unabashedly wanted someone to ask me to stay.
My breath fogged the glass as I leaned closer, forehead pressed against the cool pane. I didn’t know how long I stood there, watching the world move quietly without me. Beyond these walls, families gathered. Lights sparkled across the water. And here I was, waiting for someone—anyone—to say it:Don’t go.
When no one did, I turned away from the window.
I padded toward the kitchen, bare feet brushing against the cold tile. There was still a trace of glitter on the counter from the ornaments Charlie had made, and my stomach gave a tiny, hopeful twist at the thought of him. Not the version who held me in his arms and whispered sweet, racy promises in my ear, but the man underneath it all. The one that he tried too hard to keep buried inside. Not the reliable guy with the tattoos and the muscles and the sister he felt like he needed to save. The one who was talented, an artist with his hands on the canvas and on my body, which he painted with kisses and whispers and faint traces of his fingers that knew exactly where to touch and what to do. The one who, if I really sat back and thought about it, wasn’t ever trying to save me. Since the first moment he met me, he’d been trying to coexist alongside me.
I glanced toward the elevator.
Then I changed my mind.
Instead, I slipped through the back door and tiptoed down the narrow service stairwell, one hand on my belly and the other skimming the railing. My body knew the way before my brain caught up, like it had already decided where I needed to be.
I didn’t knock when I reached the studio; instead, I eased the door open and slipped inside. The lamp on his worktable cast a low, golden glow across the room, softening the edges of everything it touched.
Charlie Pruitt stood barefoot and shirtless, tattoos winding over his skin like art upon art, a pair of worn jeans slung low on his hips. His dark auburn curls were damp and unruly, as ifhe’d just run a hand through them in thought—or frustration. A massive sheet of sketch paper was taped to the far wall, and his fingers, smudged with charcoal, moved quick and sure across its surface.
The Waving Girl.
My throat tightened.
