by Tasha Hart
Now, my mama’s got me wondering if that pill meant something else entirely. That he doesn’t want a one-night mistake to saddle him to me for life. That the pill was his way of helping himself keep his options open.
That when he’d been reassuring me, it had really been out of relief for himself.
But no, I remind myself, think how nice he was with your sisters. Think of all the nice things he bought them. He must have dropped several hundred dollars on them today.
Still, that nasty voice in my head—the one that sounds just like mama—had a response to that, too.
He saw the sorry state your family was in. How you let your own two sisters live. Polite white boy like that, he felt responsible. Thought of you as some kind of charity case. His own screwed-up swipe at reparations.
It’s not that I believe the voice—not entirely. It’s just that I can’t seem to shake it, and the longer I let it linger in me, the harder it is just to open my mouth and ask him.
But hadn’t he called himself my boyfriend that morning? And to Reema, at that? At the time, I’d thought it was romantic, assertive. I’d thought he was proud of me, eager to connect with my family because he knew how important they are to me, and that he thought they could be important to him, as well.
Oh, Char, honey, says the voice with condescending glee. You never met a man who wouldn’t say something like that, not meaning anything of it, just to keep the door to your bed open.
I used to feel irritated with my mother for letting deadbeat men into her life when they were obviously just using her. Could it be that I had done the same thing, after all? Had I let Logan’s money and his looks and his smooth-talking blind me to the possibility that he was just in this for the one thing?
Confused, not sure how to feel, I’m relieved when he pulls up at my place. I look forward to the opportunity to be alone to think these things through. Or, preferably, to not think about any of it at all.
Yeah, that sounds better.
“Thanks,” I say, and my voice sounds heavy and strange, even to me. “It was nice of you to spend the day with me. To, you know. Help me out with my family and all that.”
“Of course,” he says. “Anytime.”
I wish I could believe it. I want so badly to believe it.
Then there’s another quiet moment while I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb from the car. He hesitates, his hand at his own belt, and I know he’s waiting for me to invite him up into my apartment. But just now I can’t stand the thought of him following me up there. I’m already thinking of the ice cream in the freezer, already selecting the clichéd romantic comedy I’m going to put on full volume as soon as I’ve locked the deadbolt.
“Okay,” he says, after rolling down the passenger side window because I’ve closed the door between us. “You know where to find me?”
It isn’t a question—he knows I’ve got his number—but he still says it like he’s waiting for an answer. I’ve got a lump in my throat the size of a grapefruit and I’m not sure I’d be able to say anything just now even if I wanted to, so I simply give him a jerky nod.
I don’t mean to meet his eyes, but I do, and I’m startled at what I see. He looks as hurt and confused as I feel, is wearing that kicked-puppy expression I’ve already learned to hate. It’s all I can do not to reach through the window and comfort him, run my hand down his face. Lean in and give him a kiss, tell him he can come upstairs if he likes.
Just what he wants you to do, the voice hisses, and that’s it: I turn with a wave over my shoulder and disappear into my apartment building, grateful when I hear his BMW take off behind me.
Seventeen
Logan
I haven’t even made it home from dropping Charlene off when I have the big realization: I’m in love with Char.
It isn’t exactly a startling epiphany. It’s been building inside me, warm and real and huge and undeniable, since the first time I laid eyes on her. I’ve never met someone so sexy, funny, and smart. So capable, whip sharp. Someone who could handle all the bullshit the world throws at her with ease and grace.
And then today I’d gotten to see just how caring she is. Her devotion to her sisters, even to her mom, is like a big blaring neon sign shouting out MARRY THIS GIRL. She’s exactly the type of woman I’ve always known I should look for, the type my own mother warned me were going to be few and far between in the real world.
She’s exactly the kind of person I want to hold and keep forever. So why does it feel like I’m losing her?
I know she’s had a rough life. I know her background is about as different from mine as possible. I might never fully understand the hardships she’s overcome and how they’ve shaped her into the woman she is. I know she’s built up this no-husband-no-kids mantra, this self-sufficient lifestyle as a way of protecting herself. She’s ensuring she won’t turn into her own mother, and I respect where that instinct comes from.
I just hope it’s not too late to prove to her that I’m not like one of those guys who will love her and leave her. I have absolutely zero intention of that.
I was hoping she’d invite me up to her place when I dropped her off. Not for sex, necessarily, though of course I’d have been happy to make love to her, if she’d suggested it. But I could tell that she was hurting, had been feeling bad ever since we dropped her sisters back at her mom’s place. Maybe I should have tried to talk to her about it, about what had happened and what her mother had said—and implied—during their argument. But I hadn’t wanted to push her. I figured she’d talk when she was ready. Then, when she never did talk, I figured she was still working at being ready.
I’ll call her tomorrow, I decide, transformed and optimistic by the knowledge that I’m in love with her, that I’m ready to do anything to stay in her life. First thing tomorrow. Check in with her, make sure she’s doing okay. Offer to drop by, bring her anything she needs. I want to give her the full queen treatment. She wants Nico’s? I’ll bring her half the menu. She wants a spa day, a massage, a beach vacation? I’ve got dozens of sick days waiting at the firm for me to claim them. I’ll whisk her away wherever she wants, buy her drinks that come in coconuts with bright pink umbrellas coming out of the top until she tells me to stop.
And do other things until she tells me to stop, too. I can’t stop thinking about her kisses, her moans, her absolutely perfect body under my hands. Her hands, her mouth, on my body, too.
With memories of her lingering tantalizingly in my mind, I head home and go to sleep, still determined to call her and check in as soon as I wake up.
Except the next morning, she doesn’t answer. Not the first time I call, or the second, or the third, or even the fourth attempt I squeeze in over my lunch hour later that day. She doesn’t respond when I text to ask her how she’s doing, leaves me on “read” when I tell her to call me when she gets a chance, or if there’s anything she needs. All day at work I keep my phone right in my pocket. Every call and message I get, my heart leaps, thinking it might be Char. And every time, I’m disappointed when it’s some client, or friend, or anyone but… her.
I’m not an idiot, and I’m not usually one of those douchebags who can’t seem to figure out when a woman is saying “no.” Under normal circumstances, if I called a woman four times and texted her three in the space of a day, I would get the message loud and clear. Hell, under normal circumstances, I would have gotten the message long before it got to this point. But somehow, I don’t think Char is saying no right now—at least, not exactly. She’d looked so hurt last night, so troubled in a way I couldn’t put my finger on.
It’s near the end of my workday, when I’m supposed to be looking through a whole stack of case files but I’m spending my time thinking about Char instead, and I think I figure out what’s bugging her. Those things her mother said come back to me, those awful accusations that I’m not serious about Char, that I’ve just been slumming it. At the time, I’d assumed Char would know this couldn’t possibly be the case—hadn’t all my
behavior toward her indicated the exact opposite? —but now I’m not so sure. The only way I can make sense of Char’s behavior is if there’s some part of her that believes what her mother said.
So, I go home for the day, hurt and disappointed to think that Char could believe something like that about me. I try to figure out how I might be able to reach her and, once I have reached her, convince her that I really love her and I’m not just using her for sex. Setting aside my pride, I call and text again, with no change in result. Still, there’s got to be some way that I can get to her without majorly overstepping her boundaries.
Because now the only thing I can keep straight is the simple fact that I love her, and that there’s no way in hell that I’m going to let her go.
Eighteen
Charlene
By the time I’m supposed to head to work I have five missed calls, and a ton of text messages I’ve had to force myself not to read. I’m half-tempted to call in to work, just this once, and continue the low-key wallow I’ve been nursing all day. Except, it occurs to me that a full night’s shift might be exactly what I need to distract myself from these horrible thoughts I’m having. I could also use a distraction from my phone, if I’m being honest, and the employee cell phone lock-up in the office—which everyone is supposed to use when they’re on-shift but basically no one does—will be the perfect way to step away from this boy trying to reach me all night.
To be honest, the way he’s acting has got me all confused. I’ve half-convinced myself that my momma was right, that Logan was just slumming with me. So why would he be calling me first thing in the morning? That’s hardly the hour for booty calls.
That’s the hour for checking in on someone you care about.
But, I’m probably just projecting.
It’s always been like this with momma. She’ll say something, something I know I disagree with, something impossible to believe. Then, after a while, before I’m even aware that my mind has changed, I’ll believe it. I guess it’s just that way sometimes with parents. They shape your minds from your first days, program in all of these vulnerabilities so you’ll be susceptible to them and their tricks forever.
I wonder what Logan’s relationship with his parents is like. I wonder if he’s as scared of his parents, or of becoming like them, as I am. Somehow, I doubt it.
Later that night, I’ve been on shift for twenty minutes by the time Ros brings my phone up to me.
“What are you doing?” I frown at her. “I put that in the cell lock-up.”
“I know,” she says. “It kept going off.”
“Huh?”
“It kept going off,” she drawls, as if I’m being thick. “I heard it making this huge racket every time I walked into the office. You’ve gotten, like, five texts in the last ten minutes.” She holds out my phone to me. “Please, just please answer them and keep this chirping monstrosity out of my hearing range.”
“I don’t want to,” I say, not taking the phone. “You can just turn it off. I should have done that before putting it into the lock-up, I just forgot.”
“Come on,” Ros pleads. “They’re from your boy.” When I lift a brow in question, she mirrors my look and cocks an eyebrow, too. “Five times, Char. I got curious and looked at your screen. You’ve missed a ton of calls from him all day. What did that boy do?”
“Nothing.” I don’t want to talk about it. “I want to focus on work right now, that’s all.”
“Bullshit,” Ros says. “I thought you liked this guy.”
I can’t meet her eyes. I can’t explain to her that I do like Logan. Probably more than like him, which scares me. I definitely can’t explain that I wish I didn’t like him at all. So, I just shrug.
“Char, tell me what’s going on.” Ros’s voice is serious but kind, like that voice teachers used to get when they could tell I struggled because of problems at home and they wanted me to open up.
“I can’t take a break right now. What if one of the waitresses has a problem?”
“They can handle themselves for ten minutes.” Ros pulls out two barstools, nudges me to sit. I do. She sits at my side. “You need a little liquid courage, or are you ready to spill?”
I spill, telling her the things I’ve been so scared about all day. Explaining to her about what my momma said, about the strange and silent car ride last night during which Logan hadn’t taken a second to defend himself or reassure me. I tell her about the shopping, and the meals, and the way he’d held my sister, and how now, looking back, all that behavior seems so suspect. Like it could all too easily be coming from pity rather than affection. How I feel like I fell too hard and too fast for this boy and now I regret it. I wish I could take those feelings back and wait until I know it’s safe to let them loose again.
Ros listens to all this without interrupting me. When I’m done, she draws in a long deep breath and lets it out. “That sounds like a whole lotta stuff to be carrying with you, sweetheart. I’m sorry you’re feeling this way. Sorry your mother said what she did. Sounds like it’s not the first time she’s made you feel less than you are.”
I sniffle a little, hoping against hope that I don’t start crying right here at the bar, where all my coworkers can see.
“And I can’t speak for Logan,” she says. “Or help explain why he didn’t talk to you last night, but he’s sure trying to talk to you now. And my experiences with fuckboys—and I do have experiences with them, believe you me—is that they don’t try this hard to track you down when they know you’re having a tough day.” She waggles the phone in front of me, so I’ll look at it, see the list of missed calls and texts. “If a man is trying this hard? He’s got a thing for you.”
Just then, the phone she’s holding rings. She doesn’t even have to check the screen to know it’s Logan. Neither do I. Ros just holds out the phone to me, smiling and looking me dead in the eye so I’ll really hear the words she’s saying. Somehow, I do. Somehow, what she just said manages to cut through the echoing mama voice that’s been wearing at me all day. I brace myself with a deep, cleansing breath, then take the phone from her hand.
I answer it.
Nineteen
Logan
“Hello?”
My heart stutters at the sound of her voice. I can’t believe, after all the calls I’ve made, that I’ve finally gotten through. Except, just because she answered doesn’t mean she’ll listen. The way she’s been acting all day, dodging my calls and texts, I’m half-terrified she’s going to hang up any second.
“Char? How are you doing? I’ve been trying to reach you.”
“I know.” Then, after a pause, “I’m fine.” Her voice over the phone is wary, but she doesn’t sound pissed, or like she’s been crying. I hear the sound of the club behind her: loud, pulsing music, glasses clinking, a white-noise sea of chatter.
“You’re at work?” I’m home, have been calling since I got in from work and trying to connect, not really expecting much. Now, I’m up off the sofa, grabbing my car keys and jamming my feet into my shoes.
“Yeah.” She’s giving me nothing.
“Listen, I think we really need to talk,” I tell her. “Would it be okay if I came down there?”
“What do you need to come down here for?” She sounds so suspicious. “We’re talking right now.”
“Sure, but this is the kind of thing it’s best to talk about in person.”
She’s even more wary when she finally responds. “Fine. Come down, if you wanna.” Then she hangs up.
Okay, so now she might be pissed. But I’ll make it all right with her, am practically leaping at the knowledge that I have her permission to come down to the club and talk to her in person.
The whole drive down, I buzz with nervous energy. I can hardly believe what I’m about to do. I’ve never felt this way about someone before, like if I lost them, I would be losing a part of myself. The best part of myself. This thing with Char is new, but already I can see the ways she’s changing my life, changin
g me, for the better.
And I think I could be good for her, too. Could maybe help cut through some of that noise, some of that horrible self-doubt and lack of self-esteem that hides at the center of her confident persona. Some of those messages she’s been getting about how little she’s worth, that I’m starting to understand how deeply she believes.
I’ll tell her every day that she’s beautiful. Brilliant. Perfect. Wake her up each morning telling her how much I love her, and how much she matters. The good she brings into the world. I’ll tell her, or I’ll find a million ways to show her.
First, she’ll have to let me.
I reach Sistaz in record time, though I hadn’t been aware that I was speeding on the ride over. I manage to find good parking nearby, which feels like a sign from the universe. The bouncer gives me a nod when I approach, waves me to the front of the line. I guess that means he knows something about Charlene and me, and he doesn’t think I’m the devil. That bodes well. If Charlene had been planning to break up with me, I imagine the entire club would know about it by now, and I would already have become persona non-grata.
I see Char over by the bar, but she doesn’t spot me. Instead of heading to her, I go to the platform where the DJ is spinning.
“Hey, man,” I fumble in my pocket for something to give him. My hand brushes the box I’ve got in there, the one I bought this afternoon on my way home from work. The effect of feeling it there, in this moment, is like an electric shock. I push past it, pull out my wallet, and dig out a twenty-dollar bill, which I hold out in front of the DJ. “Mind if I take the mic for a minute? I have something really important I want to do.”
“Mic’s not for sale, man.” The DJ gives the twenty a lingering look. “I’ve got a job to do. I can’t just let anyone stop the music for any reason.”
