“That’s different,” I said. “Bars are universal. I want … Charleston.”
Natasha nodded thoughtfully. “Historic. Walkable.”
“Perfect,” Beth said. “Lead on, Explorer Barbie.”
We wandered along the waterfront, the harbor stretching wide and glittering beside us. Boats drifted lazily across the water, white sails bright against the blue sky. Pelicans skimmed the surface, wings barely touching, while tourists clustered along the railings with cameras and ice cream cones.
Everything felt cinematic.
I slowed my steps, letting the moment stretch. Back home, I was always thinking in blocks of time—what came next, what I should be doing instead. Here, the day felt like something to be unfolded rather than managed.
“This place makes me want to romanticize my entire life,” Beth said.
Natasha laughed. “You already do that.”
“True,” Beth conceded. “But I want to do it here.”
We ducked into small shops—art galleries tucked into old brick buildings, boutiques with linen dresses and handmade jewelry, shelves filled with things that felt thoughtfully chosen rather than mass-produced. I ran my fingers along fabrics, paused to admire watercolor prints of the city, imagined—briefly—what it might be like to live somewhere where beauty was built into the everyday.
“Careful,” Natasha murmured as I lingered in front of a window display. “You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The imagining,” she said gently. “The maybe-this-is-my-life-now thing.”
I smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
“Only to people who know you,” Beth said. “You’re already redecorating an imaginary apartment.”
“Hey,” I protested. “That’s not fair.”
Natasha raised an eyebrow. “What color are the walls?”
I sighed. “Probably white. With lots of light.”
They both laughed.
We stopped at a small park shaded by massive oak trees, Spanish moss swaying overhead like something alive. The air smelled green and damp and old. We sat on a bench, sipping iced drinks from a nearby stand, watching families pass by.
“This is dangerous,” Beth said, kicking her sandals off. “I could get used to this.”
Natasha leaned back, face tilted toward the sun. “Everyone thinks that on vacation.”
“But what if it’s not just vacation?” I asked quietly.
They both looked at me.
“I mean,” I continued, feeling suddenly shy, “what if sometimes you’re just … supposed to see what else exists?”
Beth studied me. “You’re not talking about Charleston.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know what I’m talking about yet.”
Natasha reached for my hand. “You don’t have to decide anything.”
“I know,” I said. “But I think I’ve been deciding not to decide for a long time. And that’s its own choice.”
That quiet settled again—the kind that didn’t feel awkward, just thoughtful.
