by S. L. Scott
He acts strong, but I see it causes him pain deep down. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought this up when he’s been so sweet and brought din—
I feel his hand on mine. “Stop that.”
“What?” I reply, my voice low like his.
“That,” he says, smoothing his thumb over my temple. “I can almost hear the cogs turning in there. Don’t overthink this. I made choices, and I’m good with them. I’m more than good. I’m happy, and I wouldn’t change a thing. I had Grace—”
“But Grace is gone.”
“I have you,” he says, like that’s the most natural response in the world.
And I couldn’t agree more. That response should scare me, or at the very least worry me, that I’m filling some void in his life, but it doesn’t. The void I fill is not one left vacant by his aunt. No. He carries her in his heart. I’m here for different reasons. I’m not sure what those reasons might be, but I like being in his life no matter what they are. “Yes, you do.” I move my hand down to where his are resting in his lap and entwine our fingers. Curling my legs up, I snuggle into his side. “I’m tired, and you stuffed me.”
“You stuffed yourself. I’ve never seen a girl eat so much.”
“Shush it.” And just like that, the heaviness is gone, and we’re back to us again.
Chapter 18
We’ve grown close, Charlie and I. She’s vivacious. That’s another word she’s made me use for the first time ever.
Everyone underestimates her, including her boss, and even her friend Rachel. They think of her as a wallflower or a bookworm, more the quiet type. Maybe she is with them, but with me she’s not. She’s vivacious. And her spirit is contagious. I’ve found myself unpredictably addicted to her.
So, even though I spent this past Thursday evening schooling her on the ins and outs of Manhattan then beating her at two games of Scrabble, I’m back at her place on Saturday afternoon at two on the dot.
I knock, a knock I use just for her. It goes something like one knock, then two quick ones and another one. As I stand there trying to contain the goofy grin that gives away how happy I am to be here, I hear the same knock from the other side of the door. That does it. I have to smile and punctuate it with a gut-chuckle. She’s clever and amusing.
She swings the door open, laughing. I’ll never get enough of that sound.
“You didn’t think I was paying attention, did you?” she asks, her smile giving away her happiness, too.
“Eh.” I feign disinterest. “I knew you were. You’re more observant than others give you credit for.”
She steps aside, and I stride in, heading to the fridge and putting the beer away, starting to feel at home here in her apartment.
“Aww, is that a compliment?” she asks, following me.
“Was that a fishing question? Do I not give you enough compliments?”
She tilts her head down as if embarrassed before she responds. “You do. You’re good like that.” Clasping her hands, she rubs them together. “Let’s get this marathon going.” She walks to the coffee table and bends over. Although I should be ashamed for checking her out from behind, sadly I’m not. Then again, I’m not sad about it either.
She squats, and her eyes meet mine. One major eye-roll from her and I move to the couch . . . so I’m in front of her. Yeah, so she caught me. It’s not the first time and it won’t be the last.
With five movie cases stacked in front of her, amused, I say, “You mean business today.”
She laughs. “A marathon means business. So, what’s first? I have two girlie flicks, two testosterone movies, and a thriller.”
I lean forward, spreading the movies across the table. “Do you have a preference?”
“No, you can choose.”
“Hmmm . . .” I look at each cover. I’ve seen two of them, but I don’t want to ruin this for her, so I don’t say anything. She went to a lot of trouble to get a variety, and I appreciate that. “How sleepy are you?”
“Pretty tired. I had an auction that went later than expected last night, and we were short two assistants. I didn’t get home until after eleven. Why?”
I hold up one of the guy movies. “This is the one.”
She smiles. “Perfect.”
Just as I suspected, twenty minutes in and she’s fast asleep. The blinds are closed, and the room is dark, except for the television screen. The movie was noisy, but I’ve turned it down to let her rest. This is one of the movies I’ve seen before. I picked it because I knew she’d fall asleep, and she did.
We’re lying lengthwise on the couch. My arm is draped over her ankles, my fingers toying with her socked feet. Over the next forty-five minutes, I watch her more than the movie. I’ve always thought it was strange when people say sappy things like “you look younger and more at peace when you sleep.” Until now. She makes me want to move down to her end of the couch and hold her, instead of her feet.
My mind lingers on the thought before I make my mind up to do it. What’s the worst that can happen? It’s cuddling. I mentally kick myself for using that word. Being cautious and slow, I work my way up and switch sides, sliding between her and the couch cushions. I stop breathing and stare as she adjusts, but she doesn’t wake, so I settle all of the way down and tuck my arm under hers, holding her to me.
I don’t remember falling asleep, but I did. When I wake up it’s a little darker in the room, and she’s rolled my way, facing me, her bright, wide, happy eyes watching me. My eyes go wide, and excuses tumble from my mouth. “I . . . this isn’t . . . I guess I just fell—”
Her hand touches my cheek and with a faint smile, she says, “It’s all right, Charlie. I like snuggling with you.”
“Is that what we were doing?”
She giggles, pushing my chest lightly. “You’re a snuggler. You’re a napper and a snuggler.”
“I prefer cuddler,” I say, just to clarify.
“Cuddler, snuggler. Same thing.”
“I can tell you’re rested by how fast you’re talking.”
“I’m not talking fast,” she declares, the words rushing out.
I close my eyes, still smiling. “C’mere.” With the arm that worked its way under her while we were sleeping, I roll her over so that her head is on my chest.
It’s nice that she doesn’t fight it. She even wraps her arm over my stomach, and I can feel her breathing level out.
“I like this,” she says, but I hear the worry in her tone. “I’ve never had a guy friend like this, one that I felt this close to before. Do friends do this?”
I embrace her fully with both arms and place a light kiss on the top of her head. “Yes, good friends can do this and we do this.”
Around five thirty, we venture out to the grocery store down the street. Watching someone in their element is always so interesting. Charlie’s guard is down, and she’s feeling rejuvenated after the nap. She greets a checker by the name of Bill as she reaches for a basket. I take it from her, offering to carry it, and follow her to the small produce section of the corner market.
“What are you hungry for?” she asks.
“We’ve eaten Italian and Chinese together. How about Mexican tonight?”
“Oooh, that sounds yummy. I make killer nachos.”
“Well, I can’t pass up killer nachos.”
We get the goods, and I toss some ice cream into the basket before we head back to the register. As she chats with Bill while unloading the basket, I notice he keeps glancing at me. Maybe I’m a little paranoid, but it seems like he’s sneering when Charlie isn’t looking. I give him a closed-mouth smile in acknowledgment. I know this game. He doesn’t like me encroaching on what he considers his territory.
Sorry, buddy, I think to myself. I lean in, my chest touching her right shoulder, and rub my hand up and down the middle of her back. “I’ve got this,” I say, winking at her. My eyes lock with his.
She turns in my arms, which puts her even closer to me, more intimate to the outside world, and s
miles. “Are you sure? I don’t mind. You did let me hog the couch all afternoon.”
I smile, enjoying the fact that she just told Bill how we slept on the couch together. “Yeah, I’m positive.” I should probably downplay the pleasure I’m feeling and try not to sound so chipper. “Really. I want to buy them, and I’m the one who benefited on the couch.” I think about leaving the conversation there, insinuating everything, but I don’t. I don’t want to make her feel uncomfortable in front of this guy. “I love a good cuddle, remember?”
She turns around as she puts the jar of jalapenos on the counter. When I meet Bill’s eyes again, I smirk with a cocky shrug thrown in for good measure.
He leans forward, trying to block me out. “That’ll be twenty-one dollars sixty-three, Charlie.”
She giggles and nods her head toward me. “His name is Charlie also. What a weird coincidence, huh?” she asks, looking back at me.
“Yeah, weird,” Bill mumbles. I can tell he’s not amused like we are.
I pay the man and grab the bags. She walks out the door, waving good-bye to Bill. Dropping my shades down over my eyes, I add, “Thanks, man. I’m sure I’ll being seeing you again real soon.”
Only the sound of the door chime is heard, since he doesn’t respond.
We make it about ten feet down the street before she looks up at me and asks, “So, are you always that obnoxious?”
“What?” Oops, I think I’m busted.
“What?” She scoffs. “Yeah, you’re just the picture of innocence. I think you know what you did back there.”
“I’d think any woman would be flattered to have two men—”
“Territorially pissing over them? Yes, that’s oh so flattering, Charlie.” Her tone is flat, not her normal teasing.
“Hey.” I grab her wrist to stop and get her attention. Lifting my sunglasses to the top of my head, I ask, “Are you mad? Because I can’t tell right now.”
She looks down the street, then pushes me backward, moving with me so we’re out of the main path of the sidewalk. “No, I’m not mad. I’m just not used to the attention.”
“If you want my opinion, and I know how you live for that,” I lean down to her eye level so she knows I’m serious, “I think you just never noticed all of the attention you actually get.”
The woman can hold eye contact with a straight face very well. I must admit, it’s a little intimidating. Then the side of her mouth quirks up, and her cheeks pink when she says, “Stop. You’re too complimentary, and I’m not comfortable with all that . . . you know, attention stuff.”
I shouldn’t do this. I really shouldn’t bring Jim up at a time like this, but I have to. She needs to know how special she is, even if I have to give her constant reminders to undo the damage of that relationship. I take her hand in mine and start walking again. I want her to feel safe and keep this conversation casual.
“There’s this girl I know.” I look down at her. “She was hurt. I mean, someone hurt her heart, broke it. Despite having this broken heart, she brought light to everyone around her without even realizing it.”
I notice she squeezes my hand a little tighter before she speaks. “Charlie—”
“No, let me finish the story.” She keeps walking, silent and listening as I continue talking. “Every day I spent with her, I discovered something new and amazing about her, something I didn’t think even she realized about herself.”
“I don’t have low self-esteem anymore,” she says. She’s trying to stay calm, but I can tell she’s getting defensive.
“This is just a story, Charlie.” I glance over at her, and she seems deep in thought.
“Then tell me more.”
“I found myself wanting to spend more and more time around her and her light. One time, I walked into a dark, crowded club, and she was the only one I saw. No one shined as bright as she did, and she alone was the one I wanted to talk to.”
She stops walking and turns into my arm, resting her forehead against my chest. Holding her in the middle of the sidewalk, I say, “Jim didn’t know what he had, or maybe he’d forgotten. Not everyone is that forgetful.” I tilt her chin up to look at me. “You need to know that you’re beautiful and stronger than you think you are. And hot. So I might get a little overprotective or . . .” I hate that I’m about to say this, but do it anyway, “. . . jealous. That’s because the time we spend together is perfect to me, just like you are.”
I feel her body shake as she sniffles. She drops her head down just as the tears begin to fall. A soft giggle, and then a full-on laugh, erupts as she steps back. With a playful hit to my chest, she says, “Damn, you are good with the compliments. I might have to keep you around.”
My chest tightens, knowing that everything I said, everything I just professed, has been twisted in her mind, leading us back to where we started. I drop my sunglasses back down onto my nose and take her hand tightly in mine again. After releasing one long sigh, I say, “C’mon. We’ve got some nachos to make and movies to watch.”
“I’m thinking a Scrabble rematch is in order.”
I laugh out loud. “That’s my feisty girl.”
She smiles to herself, then leans her head on my arm. We start walking again, leaving the deeper stuff to be dealt with for another day. It’s hard to get mad at her, even if she is oblivious to what this is, to what we are. She’ll see the truth one day. As for me, I look down at our hands clasped together, and yeah, this isn’t so bad.
Chapter 19
“So, destiny brought us together?” I ask her as we walk down the street.
“I’m leaning more toward fate. Destiny has nothing to do with fate.” She says this like it’s a fact. It is . . . in her head.
“I always thought they were the same thing.”
“No, no, no. Not at all.” She looks at me like I’m crazy. Charlie’s so damn cute. “Fate is a negative outcome.”
“So we weren’t destined to be, well, what we are?” I ask, playing the innocent just to hear more of how her mind works.
“We became friends because of the funerals. That’s pretty negative, in my opinion.” She sounds almost disappointed by this realization. I know I am.
“Destiny is positive then?” I egg her on, because I love having conversations like this with her.
“Destiny is the exact opposite of fate. Destiny is the belief that forces beyond your control want you together and will make that happen. And you call yourself a writer!” She smirks in amusement, because she loves to prove me wrong, and is proud in doing so at this moment.
“And I always thought you were my destiny.”
“Ha! I think I’m more your fate.” She jabs me in the ribs then grabs my wrist, pulling me into a kitchen store.
I follow her through the tight aisles packed with cooking utensils and pans, but I’m still curious about the fate/destiny topic.
Picking up a rubber spatula, she states, “I like the red. Maybe I need to add more red into my life.”
“Red is daring. Are you ready to commit to making such a bold statement by using a red spatula in the privacy of your own home? Sounds crazy if you ask me.”
She doesn’t respond to my sarcasm. She’s gotten good at ignoring it. “Yes, I should be more daring. Look at Rachel. She loves red and wears it all the time.”
“You’re not Rachel.” I scrunch my nose. I like Rachel, but Charlie . . . she’s so much more.
“I know I’m not Rachel, but she’s daring and she’s happy.”
“She has low standards if Justin is the one who makes her happy. You aren’t happy?” The thought of her unhappy bothers me.
“No, but I’m happy when I’m with you. There’s a difference.”
“You’ve lost me again.”
“Seems to be easy to do.”
“Maybe you need to give me a map of Charlie Barrow, so I can keep up with the different detours your mind takes.” I chuckle at my joke.
She points a peeler at me. It’s red. “Maybe you need more r
ed in your life, too.”
I spin her around by the shoulders and muss up her hair just a little before kissing her playfully on top of her head. She’s laughing. She loves it. I can tell. “I think you’re all the red I can handle right now.”
She stops, tilting her head, her eyes wide with curiosity. “Just right now? Is this not an ongoing thing we’ve got going here?”
These little moments of insecurity on her part work in my favor. Without telling me directly, she’s letting me know she likes being in my life, too. So I tease a bit more, keeping her on her toes. “Are we back to the fate and destiny thing again?”
She stares into my eyes for a few seconds before shaking it off and turning around. Dropping the peeler back into the canister, she rounds the corner. “You’re exasperating, Charlie. You know that?”
“Yes, ma’am, I do.” I peek around the corner. “But that’s why you love . . .” I catch myself, “. . . hanging out with me.”
With an apple-shaped kitchen timer in hand, she smiles, redirecting the conversation to a topic she’s more comfortable discussing. “Timers are antiquated. Why buy a timer when your oven and microwave both have the feature? It’s like timer overload.” Her arms go into the air as she glances back, but then she keeps walking—the timer is just a distraction tactic. “I need cupcake liners,” she says before taking off toward the back of the store.
I stand there a moment, watching her through the open racks of supplies. She’s mumbling to herself. That’s a nervous habit she’s started doing the last couple of months. Sometimes I wonder if she only does that around me, if maybe I’m the source of her anxiousness, but I don’t dare bring it up. I don’t want to make her feel self-conscious.
Roaming down the aisles, I find her in front of an impressive display of cupcake liners. Her finger taps her lip as she contemplates her choices, as if cupcake liners will ever matter in the grand scheme of life. “What kind of cupcakes do you want on Saturday?”
