Page 36

Magnolia Sebring

We don’t bother with formalities or the front door. Violet and I slip through the side gate and follow the winding path toward the back patio. I’ve got a casserole dish hot enough to burn through my forearms, and she’s carrying a container stacked high with her homemade lemon bars.

Laughter spills through the air before we even round the corner—glasses clinking, country music drifting low and twangy from the outdoor speakers. The air smells of lime and something grilled to perfection.

I nudge the gate open with my hip and call out, “We brought carbs and sugar.”

A pitcher of margaritas sweats on the counter, flanked by a neat row of matching glasses that glint under the patio lights.

A woman I haven’t met—Addison, I’m guessing—leans against the railing, one sandal dangling from her toes, margarita already in hand.

Chloe’s tucked onto a barstool, mid-story, her hands flying like the words don’t work unless she’s conducting them.

Behind the outdoor kitchen island, Laurelyn lifts the margarita pitcher, two empty glasses waiting.

“Salt rims for y’all?” Laurelyn asks, already reaching for a lime.

“Is it really a margarita without one?” Violet asks, laughing.

I lift the casserole dish like it’s a prize. “Hope everybody’s hungry.”

Laurelyn comes around the counter and pulls me into a quick hug. “Whatever that is smells of melted cheese and salvation.”

“Captain Rodney’s dip.”

She lets out a low whistle. “Damn, Magnolia. I haven’t had that since I lived in the States. I forgot it existed.”

“What’s Captain Rodney’s dip?” Chloe asks, eyebrows lifting.

“Only the greatest cheese dip ever to grace a Southern table.”

“Then I need it in my life.”

I hand off the dish and take in the scene—candlelight flickering in hurricane glass, fairy lights strung like constellations above us, the scent of lime and smoke in the air.

Tonight will be soft, sparkling chaos that only happens when good girlfriends gather, tequila flows, and someone else is in charge of the kids upstairs.

It’s only been a few months since I married into this circle—but already, it’s home.

Laurelyn slides the margarita toward me. “All right, newlywed—spill. How’s married life?”

Addison grins, already sipping. “And how are you adjusting to life Down Under? Any culture shock? Regret? Homesick meltdowns?”

Chloe lifts her glass and smirks. “Look at her. She’s glowing. This is not a woman who’s suffering.”

I take a slow sip, salt and citrus brushing the rim. “Not to be dramatic, but my life still catches me off guard in the best way. I’m happy. Deep-in-my-bones, didn’t-know-it-could-be-like-this happy. I didn’t realize life could be this easy or this right.”

Laurelyn nods. “It was the same for me, so I get it.”

“I’m not saying it’s effortless—but for the first time, I’m not working against the current.”

I think of my childhood. Of too-loud family members and too-little peace. Of trailer park summers, whispered judgments, and the constant sense I didn’t quite belong in the space I was born into.

Then I think of Charleston, of the years that weren’t all bad but were…

incomplete. I didn’t know how much more life could offer until I stepped into this one.

Until Alex. Until waking up wrapped in his arms, building a future I believe in, working a job at Sebring Hotels that lights me up, and finding friendships that are stitched together with purpose and love.

This isn’t a new chapter. It’s a whole new book.

Laurelyn tips her margarita in Violet’s direction. “All right, Violet. You’ve been quiet. Give us your first impressions of Australia and of being with Elias.”

Addison leans in, eyes sparkling. “Yes, especially Elias. We want details.”

Violet doesn’t miss a beat. “Australia is gorgeous. The men are beautiful. The coffee is suspiciously good. But Elias?”

She draws out the pause long enough to make us lean in.

“Entirely too good-looking for my emotional safety,” she says, reaching for a margarita because she’s going to need alcohol to get through the rest of this confession.

“Umm… it’s actually rude how symmetrical his face is.

And don’t even get me started on his body. ”

The girls laugh, and Violet presses a hand to her heart, mock serious. “And he’s nice. Help-you-with-your-bags, ask-about-your-day, remembers-how-you-take-your-coffee nice. The kind of thoughtful that makes you suspicious, because no man that hot should also have emotional intelligence.”

Addison lifts a brow. “You sound surprised.”

“I am surprised. The man opens doors and listens. It’s unnerving.”

Addison grins. “You poor thing. Sounds like you’re dangerously close to being cherished.”

Violet points at her, mock scandalized. “Exactly! And I didn’t come here emotionally prepared to be adored by a man who can turn my body into a puddle of obedient goo with just his hands and eye contact in the bedroom that says, ‘you’ll do exactly as I say.’ And the worst part? I do it. Happily.”

Oh boy. Things are heating up between Violet and Elias.

Addison lets out a whoop and clinks her glass to Violet’s. “Oh, I really like this one.”

Laurelyn laughs. “Are you catching feelings for Elias?”

“I think the feelings are catching me. Like a trap. A very tall, charming, dominating Australian-Samoan trap.”

Addison snorts. “Sounds like you’re being treated with basic decency.”

“I am!” Violet points at her. “And it’s disarming as hell.”

Laurelyn laughs. “So… you’re saying you like him?”

Violet sighs, dramatic but soft around the edges. “Yes, against all my better judgment and long-standing commitment to keeping things complicated. It’s deeply inconvenient.”

Addison snorts into her drink. “Oh no. You’re done for.”

“Tell me about it,” Violet groans. “One more Saturday morning in his hoodie and I’m going to start picturing us in matching Christmas pajamas with our dog named Waffles.”

Laurelyn grins. “You sure you’re not already there?”

Violet sighs, dramatic and adorable. “If I monogram towels, someone had better stage an intervention.”

Laughter and conversation ripple through the patio—easy, loud, a kind of joy that wraps around you and stays.

I take another sip of my drink, the salt sharp on my lips, and glance around at this circle of women—bold, funny, real.

The kind who ask the hard questions and pour another drink when the answers are heavy.

We’re passing around lemon bars and refilling drinks when Addison leans back in her chair and gestures around the table. “You know what’s wild? We’re basically a whole club of American girls who came to Australia for a man.”

Chloe’s smile wobbles for a second. “Except me. I’m the Aussie who was married to an American.”

Was .

Her words land with a softness that feels heavier than anything else we’ve said tonight. Then, with a breath that’s more release than inhale, she adds, “But not anymore. Only a few more weeks and the divorce will be final.”

Addison reaches over and gives her hand a quick squeeze. “You might not be married to Ben anymore—but you’ll always be family to me.”

My mind flashes back to when I first met Chloe. Alex told me she had separated from her husband and was barely holding it together. Her smile had been tight, her voice quieter than it is now. And I remember wondering what kind of pain she was carrying that she couldn’t—or wouldn’t—name.

None of us ask for details now. None of us press.

“Okay, emotional hour is over,” Chloe says.

Laurelyn offers Chloe a soft look, the kind that says I see you without making a spectacle. Then, with a well-timed smile, she changes course. “Who needs more cheese dip and a top-off?”

The pivot is graceful, but the moment hums underneath.

Chloe’s smile is steadier now. But her eyes flicker—for a second—toward Addison. And there’s a sad smile. That’s when it hits me. The connection.

Chloe’s husband is Addison’s brother.

Addison’s children are Chloe’s nieces and nephew.

I don’t know the details, and I won’t pretend to. But I recognize pain when I see it.

Whatever happened between Chloe and her ex wasn’t easy. It wasn’t small. And it has left a mark.

Addison doesn’t say a word in his defense. And that’s when it lands—she has chosen a side. Not her brother’s. Chloe’s.

That’s what makes this group different. They don’t just toast mimosas and share dessert. They stand up. They stand beside. They choose each other when it’s hard, when it’s complicated—when it matters.

This isn’t just sisterhood.

It’s something fiercer. It’s solidarity.

It’s a quiet, fierce kind of loyalty that wraps around the bruised places and says you don’t have to do this alone. And somehow, I’ve been lucky enough to find myself right in the middle of it.

A sudden knock against the glass door draws our attention—three little boys smash their faces up against the panes. One boy sticks out his tongue. Another crosses his eyes and flashes a peace sign.

Addison doesn’t miss a beat. “There’s our circus.”

Laurelyn doesn’t even look up from her drink. “And I’ve got double the monkeys. Mine argue about whose turn it is to breathe the air.”

We burst out laughing as the babysitter appears, herding the kids away with the gentle firmness of someone earning every cent of her hourly rate.

“They’re like gremlins. If you feed them after eight, it’s over,” Chloe says.

Addison raises her glass. “To sitters who deserve gold medals.”

Glasses clink, the mood lighter now, floating on the familiar rhythm of motherhood chaos and the women who survive it with humor and tequila.

I swirl the last bit of margarita in my glass and glance between Addison and Laurelyn. “Since I’ve got two mamas here––” I pause, a little unsure. “Can I ask you something?”

They both nod.

“When did you know it was the right time to have your first baby?”

Addison bursts into laughter. “I’m the wrong one to ask. I didn’t get to decide. I was already knocked up when Zac and I got married. No planning. No cute nursery Pinterest boards. Just two pink lines and a helluva lot of panic. I got tossed into the deep end and had to learn how to swim.”

“And you swam like a damn Olympian,” Laurelyn said.

Addison shrugs, but there’s pride tucked behind the smirk. “Pfft… not at the start. I was a mess. And doing it without my mom around… brutal. Thank God for Zac’s mother. She showed up and stepped in big time. Taught me how to swaddle and survive on a few hours of sleep.”

When our baby comes, I won’t have a mom to help either. At least not my mom. But I’ll have Malie. Even better.

And that’s for the best, because I don’t want Robin anywhere near my baby.

What I want is the quiet support from women who show up with casseroles and soft voices, who’ll say you’re doing great even when you’re crying into a burp cloth.

What I want is this.

This circle. These women. This fierce, unflinching love that says, You’re not alone.

I glance at Laurelyn. “What about you?”

She smiles. “Jack Henry was the one who was ready first. I wasn’t in a rush. I wanted time for the two of us. But then one day, something clicked. I woke up and realized I was ready. Not just to have a baby—but to be a mother.”

Chloe leans closer. “I’m not a mum, but I know what it is to crave it with everything you’ve got.” Her eyes glisten. “Has it hit you yet?”

I trace the rim of my glass, the salt gritty beneath my finger. “I think it has.”

A pause.

“It’s probably too soon. We just got married. But holding Krishna’s baby the other day… something shifted. A door opened inside me. And now I can’t stop thinking about it.”

There’s no teasing and no one tries to downplay what I’m going through.

“It’s your life and your timeline,” Laurelyn says.

“You don’t owe anyone a schedule just because it looks tidy on paper,” Chloe adds.

Addison chimes in, voice warm. “If it feels right to you and Alex, that’s all that matters.”

I smile, something tender catching in my throat. “Alex wants a big family. I’m almost thirty-two. If we decide to have several with a few years between them, math says we can’t wait forever.”

Violet gasps and presses a hand to her chest. “Oh my God. I’m going to be an aunt.”

“Not yet,” I laugh, throwing a lime wedge at her. “Cool your jets, Vi.”

She tosses it back, and it lands in my drink with a splash. “Too late. I’m already planning the nursery. I don’t care if you’re the designer—I’m thinking neutral tones and tiny cowboy boots.”

The laughter returns—easy, loud, loving. It cushions the vulnerable thing I just handed them and hands it back, wrapped in warmth.

And for the first time, I let myself say it in my head.

I want this.