Naturally, Charlie

by S. L. Scott

  She hesitates, but then answers, “Yes.”

  I hang the phone up and slump further down onto the seat. After being dropped off in front of my building, I go to my apartment reliving every moment of the night.

  It was bad enough that she was forced to spend time with Don and Katherine alone. That’s no picnic, but then to recognize Liz from one of her most painful times in life? Yeah, that’s gotta hurt. She was quiet on the ride home. I thought she was trying to forget the last two hours of torture, but she wasn’t. Her mind was reeling, in overdrive, and plotting her escape.

  She fed me lies. All lies. I could see it in her eyes. The words were surface, a defense mechanism. Although I know deep down it’s not how she feels, her comparison of me to Jim and then calling herself a runner-up . . . that hit deep.

  I float through my nighttime routine, unaware if I’ve brushed my teeth or changed my clothes. I find myself under my covers and thinking, replaying the car ride and how she felt in my arms. I tried to take the bad away, feeling if I could have held her tight enough, it would have disappeared, and I would see her smile again. I wanted to believe that could happen. She’s made it apparent that I can’t protect her that way, because she’s not here and we’re not friends now.

  I think back to the reading of Grace’s will and remember the look on my family’s faces, the surprise and shock on mine. It was quite the turn of events in and of itself, but to have Charlie hit with her past during dinner was even more shocking.

  I wish I could take back the entire night. I wish it was four o’clock again, and we decided to blow off the dinner and stay on the couch all night. It wouldn’t have changed the will. I’m so stupid for going to my parents’ and for taking her, exposing her to all that.

  Her couch is our safe haven, our bonding spot, our place. It’s where the rest of the world doesn’t exist. It’s where cupcakes and beer are a perfectly acceptable lunch, and chick flicks are played after horror movies, and somehow that makes sense. It’s where we aren’t just friends buying groceries at the store or a platonic coffee at the corner. It’s where we get to be who we want to be without having to define us to anyone else.

  And that’s gone now.

  I toss and turn for hours. My sleep is restless, and I’m upset from the loss. I feel it deep within me, maybe more than I should considering how long we’ve known each other. But I don’t care about that. I only care about her, so I get up and get dressed though it’s just turned 5:00 a.m.

  After I knock on the door just above the closed sign, it swings open, and Tony stands there smiling. I grumble. It’s too early to be chipper. Tony’s outlook is contagious, so I return the smile and greet him properly.

  “Morning, Tony.”

  “Good morning to you. So, what brings our illustrious New York writer out at the wee hours of the day? Oh, wait! Let me guess.” After he flips the sign over to display open, I follow him toward the counter.

  The smell of hot, fresh bread fills the small shop. It’s stronger than usual in the early morning. I lean against the counter, needing a strong cup of coffee to keep me on track with my mission.

  Tony starts his round of guessing. “Considering it’s Sunday, I’m thinking it’s either some investigative, undercover-operation-type news piece, or it involves a woman.”

  “Am I that transparent?”

  “Yes, you are. So I’m right?”

  “It’s the latter.”

  “A woman, huh? I take it by your current disposition that it’s not good news in regards to this woman?”

  “You’d be correct.”

  “Man, that’s rough.”

  “Yeah, rough is right.”

  “How’d you lose the girl before I got to meet her?”

  “Long story.”

  “They always are, my friend. Last time you told me it was a complicated story.”

  “That, too.”

  “So, what can I get you today? A bagel to melt in her mouth, or biscotti to dip in coffee, or maybe a muffin that shows how much you care?”

  “The muffin.”

  “Ah yes, the win-them-over-with-a-muffin routine,” he says with a smile.

  “Are you always happy this early in the morning?”

  “Pretty much. I’ve been baking for three hours at this point. It’s just good to talk to someone other than my brother.”

  “I didn’t know you had a brother who worked here.”

  “I try to keep him busy in the back. He doesn’t have a sparkling personality like me.”

  That makes me laugh. Thank goodness something does. He hands me a coffee, because it’s apparent I need one, and places two muffins in a bag. “You should be all set, and let me know if the muffin works. I have it on good authority that women can’t resist my baked goods, but it’s always good to hear about it.”

  “Will do,” I reply, dropping a ten on the counter. “Keep the change, and thanks.”

  I head back out and down to the nearest subway station. I’m still holding onto hope, though it would be wise if I left that flighty emotion on the platform.

  I’m not wise, though. I never have been when it comes to matters of the heart.

  Conviction.

  Once I believe in something, I have conviction. That’s something more tangible to me. I can feel that emotion in my bones, deep down in my soul. I can grasp it in my hands and have it carry me forward. Conviction is what drives me now.

  I step onto the train and plop down in a seat. The car is empty except for the few souls with some tedious weekend job that requires their presence before the regular workweek starts again tomorrow.

  I get off at her stop and make my way up to street level. Walking the two short blocks to her building, I see the sun starting to rise in the distance. I look up at her window as I approach. It’s still early, so I’m not surprised to see the curtains drawn closed.

  After entering the code and walking up the four flights, I’m at a loss as I stand in front of her door. Do I knock? It’s not even six in the morning. Do I wait out here? Not a well-thought-out plan overall, but the need overtook me. I wasn’t sleeping anyway, so I don’t regret coming over.

  I slide down the wall and decide to wait before knocking. That lasts about fifteen minutes, then I give into the urge. I want to see her, and I’m hoping we can work this out. Maybe sleep has given her a new perspective.

  Performing my special knock just for her, I try to determine the balance between soft enough to reflect the hour, but loud enough so she can hear it from her bedroom. Guess it worked, because I hear her walking across her wood floor and then nothing. I assume she’s looking through the peephole.

  She doesn’t open the door.

  She doesn’t say anything.

  Waiting and listening, I don’t even know if she’s still on the other side. But I’m here and I have to try. “Charlie? Please open the door and talk to me.”

  I lean against the door, my palm flat against the solid wood. I haven’t heard her walk away, so I try again. “I brought coffee and muffins. Best in the city.” I hold the bag up so she can see if she’s still spying through the peephole. When I don’t hear anything, I lower my voice and plead with her. “Please, talk to me.”

  Nothing.

  I slide back down the wall and wait. She’s got to come out at some point, right?

  Sleep takes hold despite the people and the city coming to life around me. When I open my eyes an hour later, I bend my neck to the left. It’s stiff from the poor sleeping conditions. I’m about to stand up when I notice a note on my legs.

  I’ve gone out for the day. Please go home.

  C.

  She’s very stealthy, and now I’m left wondering if she’s telling me the truth or lying to get rid of me.

  Standing up, I stretch, realizing how ridiculous this is. Why am I here? She’s not going to speak to me. She’s stubborn that way. So I leave the coffee and muffins there and walk down the stairs. No sense in hanging around her hallway all day if she’s no
t home or won’t come to the door.

  I push the door wide open and walk to the middle of the sidewalk, looking in both directions briefly. I’m not ready to give up, but I need to give this plan some serious consideration. If she’s not going to talk to me, what’s the point in sleeping at her doorstep?

  I glance up at her window and see the curtain fall to the side. Charlie! That sneak! She is home.

  My first instinct is to run back up there and bang on her door until she lets me in. But my second is to let her think she’s deterred me. Then I’ll return tomorrow and every day after until she agrees to talk to me. I know she cares, or she wouldn’t have bothered with the note and wouldn’t be spying on me from her window. I leave, shoving my hands into my pockets and head toward the subway. I need more sleep and fuel to put this pester-her-until-she-talks-to-me plan into action.

  I’ll play to her weaknesses, and I’ll get the girl back.

  Chapter 30

  He’s shadowing me. Why? Why can’t he just get the message? I’ve been pretty clear that I do not want to see Charlie, and yet, it seems he’s around all the time. I see him even more than before. Doesn’t he have New York observations or quirks to write about? What happened to him writing a novel? What happened to all I said the other day? Was I not clear?

  It’s been two weeks, and I still haven’t caved to my craving to hear his voice. I want to. Sometimes I call Rachel just so I don’t call him. I may not be talking to him, but I sure am seeing him everywhere.

  Not only that, but it’s scorching outside and he’s wearing T-shirts. Short-sleeved T-shirts! It’s all very distracting, especially when I’m not supposed to be focusing on him at all. Some of the shirts are more fitted across his chest and some are tighter around his biceps. Has he been working out? Where did that tan come from? He’s distracting. He shouldn’t look this good—it’s annoying.

  He’s been coming to my work and waiting down on the sidewalk near the building’s entrance. I didn’t expect to see him the first time I strolled out the lobby doors, then bam! There he was next to a giant potted ficus tree.

  He was leaning against the potted plant like he had every right to be there, sunglasses on, worn and soft-looking T-shirt with a beer logo, jeans that fit just right, and sneakers. Cool sneakers, though, not like the ones people jog in or buy for show. Sneakers that said he cared about what he wore, but didn’t put too much effort into the fact. He’s just completely distracting.

  Someone bumped into me as I stood frozen in my spot, reminding me to move out of the flow of pedestrian traffic. Slowly walking forward, I put my sunglasses on, and took a right down the sidewalk. I pretended I hadn’t seen him, but I could feel his presence, his nearness. Risking a glance over my shoulder, I saw him about ten feet back, several people separating us.

  I stopped and moved to the side, looking back once more. He came closer, tentative, until he was right there, right in front of me. He was bumped from behind, and then we were touching, just briefly, but we were. Scenarios of kissing him in the middle of the sidewalk during rush hour flitted through my head, but then I remembered we couldn’t, and I sighed.

  Just when I turned to leave, he said, “Don’t go.”

  I closed my eyes and straightened my shoulders back. Taking a deep breath, I opened them and walked back into the flow of people. He stayed there until I couldn’t see him any longer.

  My heart was hurting, but my resolve was strong. This was the right thing to do.

  An interesting thing I have discovered about Charlie is how persistent he is, even at the risk to himself. It made no sense why he showed up every day for the following two weeks. It made no sense to see him reading a book on a bench across from my apartment last Saturday. Doesn’t he have anything better to do with his time, like play video games or roll around in his family’s money? He makes no sense to me, and that intrigues me more than anything.

  Today is the day I decided I’m going to talk to him and ask him to leave me alone. I step off the elevator and hide behind the security guard’s desk in the middle of the lobby. This spot gives me a great vantage point where I can see him before he sees me. Yeah, I learned my lesson the second time he showed up. I didn’t like the surprise from the previous day, which left me flustered. So I’ve been more prepared the last two weeks.

  Every day he’s leaning against the potted ficus, his shades pulled down over his eyes and his arms crossed over his chest. He sometimes crosses his ankles, which makes him more exasperatingly attractive. I see women checking him out. Every once in a while, one will stop to talk to him, but he points toward the building like he’s waiting for someone, and they move along. He’s not lying. He’s waiting for me, and I find myself smiling from this knowledge before I internally reprimand myself for the traitorous thought.

  Today, as I peer over the shoulder of the large guard, my heart sinks. He’s not there.

  “Can I help you, miss?” the security guard asks.

  I answer without eye contact, because I’m too busy searching for Charlie. “No. I’m fine. Thanks.”

  “Miss, you seem to be hiding from someone. Are you all right?”

  “I’m all good.”

  “You might want to consider filing a restraining order if you’re in danger.”

  I look up at him, confused. “I’m not in any danger. What makes you think that?”

  “Umm . . .” His eyes dart to the left and then come back to me. “Because you’ve been hiding from someone out there for the last two weeks.”

  “I’m not hiding,” I state, firm in my belief. “I’m preparing.”

  “Preparing?”

  “Yes.” I gulp and readjust my handbag at my elbow. “Thank you for the help, but the police aren’t necessary.”

  “All right.” He sounds skeptical, so I walk away and head for the doors.

  I still feel the disappointment in my chest that Charlie’s not here. By the time I walk out into the late-afternoon sunshine, I’m mad. I can’t believe he gave up on me that easily! See? I justify to myself, and hold my chin up. I was right about him all along and take back all the nice things I thought about him and his persistence.

  Looking around once more, I finally start walking in my usual direction. My mind can’t seem to figure out if the validation of being proven right is worth the disappointment that my heart feels for that same exact reason.

  Turning the corner to head home, I hear, “Did ya miss me?”

  Startled by the unexpected voice in my ear, I cover my heart with my hand. “You shouldn’t sneak up on women like that!” I don’t stop walking, and I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him, although the wind wafts his scent in my direction, reminding me of how we used to cuddle on the couch.

  “I saw you looking for me.”

  I refuse to give into him. I will stand firm. “I was just looking around. You know, it’s good to be aware of your surroundings when living in the big city.”

  “I think you were looking for me.” It’s too easy for him to keep pace with me.

  Stay strong. “I think you’re being arrogant.”

  “Did you think I’d given up?”

  “I hoped, but here you are.”

  “You looked disappointed.”

  “Disappointed that my stalker didn’t show up?” I laugh at the thought. “Surely you jest.” I know he’s right.

  “Stalker? Hmmm. I don’t see it that way at all. I like to consider myself more your guardian angel.” I can hear his smug smile in his words and feel it in the way he walks next to me with his arm pressed against mine.

  I stop, feeling haughty. With my hands on my hips, I scoff. “Guardian angel? And how do you figure that?”

  “Well, at this stage in our relationship—”

  “Or lack thereof, considering we don’t have a relationship,” I say, correcting him.

  He rolls his eyes. “Or currently lack thereof, I protect you. I’ve been within a few feet of you for the last two weeks on this dangerous w
alk home of yours. Even the subway. Stuff happens on there all the time. I’m kind of handy to have around.”

  “Madison Avenue isn’t exactly a derelict area, and I never asked for your help or guardianshipness,” I explain, holding my purse tight to my side. “Anyway, I can take care of myself and do a fine job of that every day.”

  “I know you can take care of yourself. I think my point is you don’t have to do this all on your own. And I don’t think guardianshipness is a word.”

  “Sure it is. And I don’t have to do what all on my own? Walk home? I worked here a year before I met you and walked home all on my own just fine.”

  He stops walking and scratches his head. With a confused look on his face, he asks, “What are we fighting about again?”

  I stop without giving it a second thought and roll my eyes. “Charlie, what are you doing here? Why are you everywhere I go?”

  His eyes are set on mine, and the smile and playful tone are gone. “All kidding aside. I want our friendship back.”

  “Well, damn. That was just so straightforward and stuff. I didn’t actually expect you to lay it out like that so easily. I thought we’d go a few more rounds before I got the full truth.”

  “Nope. No more beating around the ficus tree. I miss you, I want to see you again, and spend my Saturday afternoons with you.”

  My hands fall to my sides, catching my purse as it slides down my arm. I look back up at him and see the sincerity in his eyes, all of his truths exposed to me in his expression. My willpower starts to give. I feel it deep within, and dang it, if I’m honest with myself, I miss him, too. “Walk with me?”

  He smiles, and inside I know this is the right decision for now. “My pleasure.”

  My mind isn’t changing. I’m flattered by his dedication and persistence, and especially his honesty, but I’m not where I need to be. I stop, moving out of the pedestrian traffic.

  “Charlie.”

  I guess it’s the tone in my voice or the way I sighed when I said his name, because he says, “That doesn’t sound good.” He stops in front of me. “Before you make a huge mistake, because I can tell that’s what you’re about to do, I need to say something.”