I didn’t tell them what I was about to do.
Not because I didn’t trust them. Because I didn’t want a debate. I didn’t want Beth’s drama or Natasha’s careful questions. I didn’t want their worry to accidentally make my decision feel fragile.
This wasn’t fragile.
This was me.
I slipped my phone into my back pocket, grabbed my tote bag, and said, “I’m going downstairs for a bit.”
Beth poked her head out of the bathroom. Foam on her mouth. Toothbrush in hand. “Downstairs like … brunch downstairs? Or downstairs like …you’re going to hunt him down and drag him back by the belt buckle?”
“I’m going to do something responsible,” I said.
Beth squinted suspiciously. “That’s not always your brand.”
“It might be my new brand,” I said, and before she could argue, I was out the door.
The elevator ride down felt like a choice.
Not a grand, cinematic one—no swelling music, no wind in my hair, no montage.
Just a woman standing in a mirrored box, watching her own reflection and deciding not to wait for life to give her permission.
The lobby of The Palmetto Rose was brighter in the morning, sun pouring through tall windows, catching dust motes in the air like glitter. The place had a genteel kind of charm—Charleston trying to look effortless while still showing off.
A couple of guests sat in the sitting area with coffee and newspapers, talking quietly. Somewhere near the breakfast nook, silverware clinked. The whole building felt like it ran on hush and routine.
I walked to the front desk.
The woman behind it looked up and smiled with the kind of warmth that didn’t feel forced. She was tall—model tall—with wavy hair that hit her shoulders in dark, glossy curls. Her skin was that beautiful, impossible in-between shade that made you want to stare because the genetics were clearly showing off.
Her name tag read: Sasha.
“Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”
I leaned my elbows on the counter like we were friends and I wasn’t secretly about to rearrange my entire life. “Hi. I have a weird question.”
Sasha’s smile widened. “Those are my favorite.”
“Is there … like … a business center here?” I asked. “Computers, printer, that kind of thing.”
“There is,” she said immediately, gesturing toward a hallway. “Down that way. Second door on the right. We keep it unlocked from seven to seven.”
“Perfect.” I hesitated, then added, “And another question.”
“Hit me.”
I lowered my voice a little, like job hunting was scandalous. “How’s the job market in Charleston?”
Sasha blinked once, then laughed softly. “That depends. Are you asking as a tourist who got charmed and thinks she might move here, or are you asking as someone who’s already halfway packed?”
The fact that she nailed me in one sentence made my mouth twitch. “Somewhere between.”
Sasha studied me with quick, sharp eyes—like she could read posture and tone and know what kind of day you’d had. Her gaze flicked up to my hair, then to the edge of my concealer at my jawline like she was cataloging details, and then back to my eyes.
“You’re in the right city for reinvention,” Sasha said. “But it is competitive. Hospitality is always hiring. Tourism stuff, too. Events, marketing, admin—those doors open fast. Medical is steady. Legal offices are always looking. Tech exists, but it’s … not Austin-tech.”
I nodded, absorbing it. “How did you know I was from Austin?”
