by S. L. Scott
They shake hands as Charlie replies, “We met at a benefit last year, sir. My aunt Grace was in charge of fundraising for the School District #8 art department. The public schools there lost most of their funding, so she organized the ball.”
“And what was the outcome?” Mr. Smith asks.
“Over four hundred thousand was raised. It compensated for more than the deficit and eight scholarships were set up.”
“That’s good news. I bet your aunt was quite pleased.”
“Yes, sir, she was. She recently passed away, but she left this world knowing the arts wouldn’t be lost on the next generation.”
“I should hope not or we’ll be out of business, too,” he jokes, but becomes more serious. “I’m sorry for your loss. She was a very nice woman.”
“Thank you.”
Charlie and I smile. I say, “We’re going to lunch.”
“Well, I’ll let you get to that. Nice seeing you again, Mr. Adams, and I’ll see you at the meeting later this afternoon, Ms. Barrow.”
The elevator doors open and I feel the light touch of Charlie’s hand on my back, guiding me in front of him. He drops it as soon as we enter the elevator and I can’t stop the disappointment from the loss.
“Where are we going?” I ask, curious.
“How about a deli?”
“There’s a great one in the lobby, but it gets crowded at lunch, so we probably won’t find a table.”
“I don’t want to stand and eat. There’s a deli a few blocks from here that I’ve eaten at before.”
“Deli on Madison? That place is great.”
Fifteen minutes later, we sit down, placing our sodas and order ticket on the table. He bought lunch, claiming it was because he showed up uninvited. I’m thinking he doesn’t see how happy I am to see him again. “So what brings you to this part of town, Charlie?”
He plays with the straw’s wrapper before wadding it between his fingers. When he looks up, he says, “You do.” He shrugs. “I missed you.”
He always makes me smile, but I laugh lightly, too, because I like that he missed me. “You missed me?”
Leaning forward after looking around us, he whispers, “Yeah, I missed you. Is that so strange?”
No. Not strange at all. I’d been thinking about him since we parted after dinner yesterday.
“What?” he asks. “Are you laughing at me because I can admit I missed you?”
“I think it’s great you can admit you missed someone, and I wasn’t laughing.” I giggle.
“That. That right there is laughing.”
“No, that’s giggling.”
“Aren’t we too old to giggle?”
“Speak for yourself, old man,” I tease.
He laughs now, but turns away when our number is called. Tapping the table once with his palm, he says, “I’ll be right back.”
I watch him as he walks toward the back of the small restaurant to claim our order, enjoying the view. Damn it! I look out the window when I’m busted staring at his ass. When I look back, he’s gloating—I mean smiling—all the way back.
I try to tamp the heat I feel that wants to redden my cheeks, giving my guilt away, but I think it’s too late.
“Here.” He sets the food down in front of me. “Eat and maybe that will distract us enough to not talk about the fact that I just caught you ogling my ass.”
“I wasn’t ogling.” I feign annoyance at the accusation, although I totally was ogling.
“You were sooo ogling.”
“I hate you, Charlie.” I laugh, joking with him.
“Yeah, I hate you, too.” He teases with a smug smile set in place.
I seriously love our friendship.
Chapter 17
What is it about Charlie that makes me happy and provokes daydreaming? I think about this while doodling on a Smith & Allen pad of paper. I wish I wasn’t smiling. I must look insane, but just thinking of him makes me smile.
A tap on the shoulder startles me right out of my thoughts. I turn around and see Rachel standing there with a cocked, all-knowing eyebrow. “That bad, huh?” she asks, sounding sympathetic.
I laugh lightly before answering. “Bad? No, not at all. Good. Too good, in fact.”
She smiles. “Walk with me to the kitchen.”
I follow her down the corridor and around the corner where the kitchen is located. Although there are no doors on either of the doorways, it feels more private than our cubicles. I stand and wait. I know it’s coming. I was busted fair and square with my head in the clouds.
“Café mocha or hazelnut today?” she asks.
“Ummm, mocha. Thanks.”
She operates in silence, but when she hands me the flavored coffee, she says, “You like this guy, don’t you?”
So many thoughts—maybe they’re excuses—flutter around my brain. I’m not sure how to answer, so I respond as honestly as I can. “I do, but not in that way. We’re friends. That’s all.”
“Really? Just friends? Because I don’t remember the last time you doodled Rachel on a notepad with swirly bits and hearts around it. You have it so bad.” There’s a playful lilt to her words.
I roll my eyes and laugh. Yep, she caught me, but I’ll argue to keep my goofy pride intact. It’s embarrassing being caught acting like a high-school girl with a crush. “First of all, I don’t have anything ‘so bad’ except an over-sweetened coffee in my hand. Second—”
“Why are you blushing, then?”
I sip my coffee as a distraction, and also to give myself a few seconds to clear my head and allow the pink cheeks to dissipate. “As I was saying, Ms. Interruptus, we are friends. Only friends. Nothing more. I’m just happy when I spend time with him, but that’s where it ends.”
She saunters past me, shaking her head. “Keep telling yourself that, dollface. Keep telling yourself that.”
I slump against the soda machine after she leaves, wondering if the drawn hearts are more telling than I’d like to think. I like drawing the curve of them, but maybe . . . just maybe . . . nah. I shake myself out of this notion and toss the coffee.
I return to my desk and grab my phone. Walking down the hall toward the bathroom, I stand near a window in a spot that a small fake tree blocks from prying eyes. I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop myself. I press the button then duck down and put the phone to my ear.
“Hello there. I didn’t expect to hear from you today.” Charlie’s voice is calm, and I can almost hear the smile in his tone.
My heart leaps a little just at the sound of his voice. I look around, peering through the leafy branches to spy on nosy coworkers, otherwise known as Rachel. “I was just thinking about you and—”
“Oh you were, were you? I like that.”
“Hush, smuggsters.”
His laughter fills my ears. “So, what can I do you for?”
“That has to be one of the perviest phrases ever.”
“Perviest. The word perviest is pretty perverted sounding.”
“Well, yeah, it’s pervilicious.”
He chuckles. “My gut can’t handle your humor today. What’s up?”
“Nothing much. Like I said, I was just thinking about you. Are you busy later this week?”
“Are you asking me out on a date, Ms. Barrow?”
“That warrants an epic eye-roll, and since you can’t see me right now, please hold while I proceed to do just that.” I hear him humming When The Saints Go Marching In while he waits for me to eye-roll him. So I do.
“All right, I’m back.” I giggle. “Not a date. Just two friends hanging out together. I was thinking Saturday, if you’re free.”
“What time?” I hear shuffling on his end.
“I don’t know. I’m free all day. We could have another movie marathon.”
“You want me to come over to nap with you again? Admit it, Charlie, you are a Saturday afternoon napper, and you liked the company.”
I shrug, though he can’t see me. “I’m not asham
ed. Are you?”
“Nope, not at all. How does two work for you?”
“Perfect napping time.”
“What can I bring?”
“Beer. I have none.” I want to ask something, but I’m nervous of the answer I might receive. “I can make dinner if you’re also free in the evening?” So the question I really wanted to know the answer to might have been wrapped up in a casual package, but it’s still there.
“What kind of guy do you take me for? You think I’d nap with one woman then have dinner with another? What a low opinion you must have of me.”
I love that he didn’t make me ask. “Not low, quite high actually.”
“Oh really? You can tell me more about that on Saturday.”
“Yes, I look forward to filling your head full of compliments and ego-boosters.”
That earns me a laugh. “Charlie?”
“Yes?” I lean against the wall and grin from ear to ear.
“I have to run, but just so you know, I’ve been thinking about you, too.”
“Well, in that case, maybe you can toss a few ego-boosters my way on Saturday, too.”
“Happily. I’ll see you then.”
“Okay. Bye.”
“Bye.”
I end the call and lean forward, pressing my forehead against the window. Two days. That’s all. I can wait until then. The cool glass calms my warm skin, and I realize that I already want to call him back to chat again. I don’t, though, because I know he’s busy and I should get back to work, but for a brief moment, I think that maybe I do have it bad.
I like him too much to risk it away on a fling or frivolous relationship I don’t think either of us are ready for, so I pocket these feelings away. They’re troublesome and could lead to heartache. “Only friends,” I remind myself. Only friends.
Later that evening, I’m home and it’s dark outside. I want to curl up on the couch and flip through the channels for something I don’t have to think about while watching, something I can zone in on and zone out on real life.
I grab my uninteresting meal out of the microwave, and carry it on my oven-mitt-clad hand over to the couch, but I don’t make it there before someone knocks on my door. I detour and look through the peephole. I see him and feel the giddiness bubble up inside. Charlie knows I can see him, because he’s all smiles and funny faces. I unlock the door and open it wide.
“And to what do I owe the pleasure?” I put my free hand on my hip, and sway them with sass.
“I couldn’t wait until Saturday.” He smirks, holding up two white bags in his hands. “I come bearing food.”
“So what you’re saying is that you find me irresistible?” I present my awful, tasteless meal to him. “Anyway, I’ve already got dinner covered.”
He laughs, but says nothing as he walks past me straight into the kitchen.
“And the market on worn-out workout pants,” he says, unpacking the bags on the counter, “but I won’t hold those against you. By the way, that’s not dinner.”
I kick the door shut and lock the deadbolt, following behind him. “Don’t judge my comfy leggings. There are only two holes. And if this isn’t dinner, what is it?”
He looks over the little black bowl of steaming food still sitting atop my mitt-covered palm. “I don’t know,” he replies, scrunching his nose. “But you’re not eating it.” He picks it up and tosses the tray into the garbage can before I have a chance to protest. “I have food. Go sit over there in your holey pants and I’ll serve.”
I’m liking this idea a lot. “Who am I to argue with that?” I toss the mitt over my shoulder without care, and hurry to the couch to wait and be served.
I smile because he makes me want to smile, sometimes too much, making my cheeks hurt. Very much like right now. Flopping onto the couch, I cross my legs like a pretzel. I hear drawers opening and closing, silverware clanging together, and a wine cork pop open.
“You need any help?” I holler because I see him turning in circles looking for stuff.
“I got it,” he says then flashes me a self-assured smile. “Hope you like lo mein.” He hands me a plate along with a fork and napkin. “And I bought a sauvignon blanc because I have no idea what goes with Chinese food, and I like this one.”
“Thank you. This looks great. I’m starved.”
“Dig in.”
When he joins me on the couch, that comfortable silence exists between us again, surrounding us as we eat. But tonight, I find myself wanting so much more, wanting to talk, even if just to joke. He’s quick and clever and makes me laugh.
“Did you know you have a bull’s-eye on your chest?” He lifts his gaze from my chest to my eyes as he takes a bite of the saucy noodles.
“Oh,” I say, looking down at my T-shirt, “it’s from college. My roommate has one, too. We made them as an experiment.”
He chuckles. “I’m sure you proved your hypothesis true if the experiment was to draw every guy’s attention straight to your breasts.”
I cover my mouth with my hand so it doesn’t get ugly when I burst out laughing. After catching my breath, I ask, “So it worked?”
“One hundred percent, baby. By the way, you don’t need a bull’s-eye to get a guy’s attention.”
“Are we still talking science here?”
“Maybe chemistry. What do you think?”
I set my fork down and take a drink of wine, keeping eye contact. “I’m staying neutral on that subject.”
He narrows his eyes at me, but a wry smile appears. “Playing it safe will never get you anywhere.”
“Sounds like you know from experience.” I finish my last bite and set my plate on the coffee table. Angling my body to face him, I take my wine in hand. “Tell me about you. You’ve been good at keeping your life a secret.”
Stabbing his fork into his noodles before spinning it around, his expression darkens, though I know he’ll try to cover. That’s what he does. He has secrets and a past that certain topics bring to light. Most wouldn’t notice the look he gets in his eyes or the way his smile falls, even in the briefest of moments, but I do.
“I haven’t kept my life a secret. You know all about me.” He sets his own plate down and takes a sip of wine.
“Okay, let me rephrase. Tell me about your past, your childhood, growing up in Manhattan because I know you did, though you don’t talk about it, and went so far as to tell Rachel you grew up in Kansas.”
“I don’t talk about it because it’s uninteresting and stereotypical.”
“Nothing about you is stereotypical,” I add.
“I think that’s my line.” He shifts to face me, his long legs stretching across the couch and landing next to my hip.
I turn and straighten mine, mirroring him. “Is that what you do? You feed lines to girls?”
“Not to you. I speak only the truth.”
“I’m special, then?” I prod his hips with my toes for more information, pressing for the details that make up who he is.
He takes another long sip, his eyelids dipping closed to savor the drink. After a few seconds, he looks at me with a small smile. “I don’t know how to answer that.”
“That’s not the part I want to know about anyway. Why don’t you like to talk about your past?”
He looks uncomfortable for the first time since I’ve known him, other than at his aunt’s funeral. “I don’t like to do the whole woe-is-me thing, because I’ve had a good life, a spoiled one. I’ll come off like I’m complaining, and I’m not.”
“Then don’t put on a production or say what you think you should to appease me. Just share who you are. Friend to friend.”
He looks down as a soft chuckle rumbles around his chest. “Friend to friend,” he repeats with an amused scoff. Swinging his legs off the couch, he stands and walks to the bookcase near the door. He peruses the titles, not looking at me. “I was a rich kid from Manhattan. I went to the best schools in the city, and I partied too hard.”
“Where I’m from, tha
t isn’t stereotypical at all—”
“It is here. I’m sure Jim was no different. I might have met him, but I can’t remember.”
I don’t like Jim being dragged into the conversation, but I understand why he was. I’ve never liked to think about that part of Jim’s life. I know Charlie is right, and that hurts a little, but I remain quiet, encouraging him to continue. I may not want to talk about Jim’s life, but I do want Charlie to talk about his.
“My dad worked too much, and my mom worked the scene for social status. They weren’t bad parents overall, and I only had one nanny when I was younger, but when I decided to change my degree and go in a different direction . . . let’s just say they weren’t very supportive and my life plan didn’t go over very well. I was also arrogant and had a chip on my shoulder. That didn’t help my cause.”
“What was your cause?”
“To be anything other than what I was at that time. I had good times, don’t get me wrong, but I had sort of an awakening one day. I realized that the life I was living wasn’t what I wanted anymore. I wasn’t who I wanted to be anymore. So I made up my mind and made changes.”
“And your parents didn’t approve of this new you?”
He comes over and sits down beside me. “You see, my dear Charlie, I am what one in proper society would call ‘a disappointment.’ It’s not that I have any regrets, because I don’t. They cut me off when I changed my major, which meant no more school for me. I shoved my independence in their face by doing everything I could to prove the point that I didn’t need their money. The problem was that I went about things the wrong way. They reminded me of all my failings in life, and I reminded them of the shallowness of their lifestyle. We’ve butted heads for years over this.”
“You made a choice in life, and because of that choice, you basically lost your family?” I summarize, now understanding the aloofness between them at the funeral.
He taps me on the nose three times. “Ding, ding, ding.” He lies back, closing his eyes as if the weight of the conversation exhausts him. “I don’t like the world they live in, and threatening me with money doesn’t do any good. We’re at an impasse of sorts. I find it hard to spend time with my family and most of my old friends, so I don’t.”
