She'd wanted to be a writer back then. Or a photographer. Or maybe a veterinarian. She changed her mind every week, trying on futures like clothes she wasn't sure fit, holding them up to see how they looked.
I'd just wanted to leave. Didn't matter where or how, just somewhere that wasn't Valentine, somewhere my father's expectations couldn't reach me, somewhere I could figure out who I was without six brothers' shadows falling across everything I did.
Turns out I got my wish.
And lost everything that mattered in the process.
She'd been my best friend. The only person who really knew me. Not the version I showed teachers or my father or even my brothers. Just me. The kid who didn't know what he wanted but knew it wasn't what everyone expected. The kid who felt too much and didn't know what to do with it, who carried things he couldn't name and didn't know how to put down.
And then I'd left.
Joined the Army two days after I was supposed to start at UT. Became someone else. Someone harder. Someone who didn't look back because looking back meant seeing everything I'd lost, and loss was a luxury I couldn't afford when survival required forward motion.
I'd let her fade into memory because it hurt less than admitting I'd abandoned the one person who'd ever really seen me and decided I was worth keeping, anyway.
I stopped walking, suddenly aware of how late it had gotten. The streets were quieter now, most of the tourists gone, restaurants closing down, metal gates rattling as shop owners locked up for the night. The harbor glittered in thedistance, boats rocking gently in their slips, masts swaying like metronomes counting time I'd wasted.
I needed to find a place to stay. Dominion Hall could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, I just needed?—
I looked up.
A small lit sign hung above a narrow doorway, the bulb inside flickering slightly like it was thinking about giving up:Vacancy. Come On In.
The building was old—older than most on the block—with peeling white paint and a porch that sagged slightly in the middle, wood worn smooth from decades of feet walking the same path. A brass plaque beside the door, tarnished but still legible, read:Mama P's Bed & Breakfast. Est. 1987.
Fate had brought me this far.
Might as well see where it wanted me to go next.
I climbed the steps—three of them creaked in harmony—and knocked on the weathered door, paint flaking under my knuckles.
"Come in," a voice called from inside, strong despite the late hour.
I pushed the door open and stepped into a small front room that smelled like cinnamon and old wood and something baking that made my stomach remind me I'd barely eaten today. An elderly Black woman sat in an armchair by the window, wrapped in a colorful crocheted blanket that looked handmade, needles moving steadily through yarn in a rhythm that looked automatic, muscle memory taking over. She didn't look up.
"You looking for a place to stay?" she asked, squinting at her work like it required all her attention.
The first thing I wanted to say was that it wasn't very safe for an old woman to sit around with an unlocked front door letting anyone walk in off the street at this hour. Charleston might becharming, but people were people everywhere, and not all of them had good intentions.
Before I could speak, she continued—still not looking up, needles never slowing, yarn sliding through her fingers—"If you're thinking about any funny business, I've got a revolver under this blanket. Three tours in Vietnam as a nurse taught me how to use it. Still remember where to aim to make it count."
I grinned despite myself, tension I didn't know I was carrying releasing from my shoulders like someone had cut the strings. "Yes, ma'am. I'm in the service myself. Just passing through town. And yes, I'd like a place to stay—especially with an armed guard as fierce as you."
She finally looked up, lowering her glasses to study me properly over the rims. Her eyes were sharp, missing nothing, cataloging everything about me in seconds. "Are you now?"
"Army," I said. "Engineering and security work. Currently on leave."
She nodded slowly, like that explained something she'd been wondering about, then went back to her needlework.
"You Mama P?" I asked.
"I am." She set her needles down in her lap, arthritic fingers carefully arranging the yarn like it mattered how it lay. "And you look like you've had a long day, soldier."
"That's one way to put it, ma'am."
"How long you need a room?"
I hesitated, thinking. "A week. Maybe more."
