Morning came in gently, like Charleston knew better than to be rude.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains at The Palmetto Rose, soft and golden, warming the room instead of demanding anything from it. Somewhere outside, I could hear the faint clip of footsteps on the sidewalk, a carriage horse snorting, the low hum of a city already awake but in no hurry about it.
My head throbbed dully—not painful, exactly, just insistent. A reminder of drinks that had gone down far too easily and laughter that had stretched late into the night.
I rolled onto my side and groaned.
“Why,” Beth’s voice rasped from the other bed, “does joy always come with consequences?”
Natasha laughed from the bathroom. “Because you don’t drink water.”
I smiled into my pillow.
Despite the mild hangover, I felt … good. Lighter. Like something in me had unclenched overnight.
I pushed myself upright, padding barefoot across the plush carpet to peer out the window. Charleston glowed. Blue sky without a cloud in sight. Palm fronds stirring lazily in the breeze. The air looked warm already, promising one of those perfect southern days where time slowed whether you wanted it to or not.
“Okay,” I said, turning back to the room. “I know we could stay in bed all day. And I respect that impulse. Deeply.”
Beth cracked one eye open. “This feels like a speech.”
“But,” I continued, “we are in a city we’ve never been to, in a part of the country that feels completely different from home, and I really want to see it. Like—actually see it.”
Natasha emerged from the bathroom, face fresh despite everything. She studied me for a beat, then smiled. “You’re in exploration mode.”
“I am,” I admitted. “I want to walk. Eat. Wander. Pretend I’m someone who doesn’t know what’s next and is excited about that.”
Beth sat up slowly, clutching her head. “You say that like you’re not secretly auditioning for a new life.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I am.”
Natasha’s eyes sparkled. “Career pivot: Charleston edition.”
Beth flopped back onto the bed. “Fine. But if we’re doing this, we’re starting with breakfast. Somewhere good. Somewhere that understands suffering.”
“I don’t actually know it, of course,” I admitted, “but I read about a café called Juneberry and now I can’t stop thinking about biscuits.”
Juneberry wasn’t big—half café, half bakery, tucked onto a quiet corner that felt just far enough removed from the noise.
The second we stepped inside, the smell hit me: roasted tomatoes, warm yeast, coffee brewing somewhere close. The walls were painted a soft green that made the morning lightfeel cleaner, calmer. Little jars of wildflowers dotted the tables like someone had placed them there without overthinking it. It was the kind of place people lingered—young couples bent close over lattes, students hunched over laptops, locals slipping in for something quick but good.
“This,” Beth said as we slid into a booth, her voice full of quiet relief, “is already better than yesterday.”
Natasha picked up the menu, scanning it approvingly. “If I never see neon alcohol again, it’ll be too soon.”
I wrapped my hands around the mug when it arrived, letting the warmth seep in. Juneberry had that lived-in ease I loved when I traveled—pressed sandwiches on house bread, delicate salads piled high with herbs, soups that tasted like someone’s grandmother had been stirring them all morning. It didn’t try to impress. It didn’t need to. It just fed you and let you stay.
“This place feels cared for,” I said.
Beth nodded. “Like someone’s cool kitchen.”
We ordered everything that sounded restorative—strong coffee, flaky biscuits, eggs done slowly and intentionally, something lemony that promised to cut through regret.
When the food arrived, we fell quiet for a moment, the kind of silence reserved for appreciation.
“Oh, wow,” Natasha murmured after her first bite. “This is exactly what I needed.”
I wrapped my hands around my coffee mug, savoring the warmth. “Last night was fun.”
