Something Special

by S. Massery

  36

  Past

  “Charlotte?”

  I jerked my attention away from the window. Instead of answering her, my eyes slid over her. She was a tall, giant woman. Her hair was always impressive, and I imagined that it was a source of pride for her. Today, it was in beautiful, thick curls that bounced around her neck and on her shoulders. She always wore wonderfully bright, silky shirts that complimented her dark skin tone. Maybe she was trying to inspire happiness through her clothes, through her smile, through her tone.

  “Do you feel like talking today?”

  This day was like every day. Except, maybe not. For the first time, I wanted to open my mouth to answer her. I wanted to say, I do feel like talking, thank you, Dr. Sayer.

  Instead, I pressed my lips tighter together.

  “I was thinking that we should have your parents come in,” she said.

  “No,” I whispered. It was out of my mouth before I could lock it inside. Once that magic floodgate was broken, my words flowed out like a waterfall. “Dad’s coddling is weird. Mom is avoiding me. I just want everything to go back to normal.”

  Dr. Sayer nodded, like she was just waiting for this moment. “Okay, Charlotte. Let me help you find a new normal. Sound good?”

  I scratched at my arm. I didn’t consider myself a drug addict—not really—but I knew that I was acting irrational. The fact that I had been acting irrational because of Colby pissed me off. “Can you call me Charlie?”

  She nodded again. “What’s the last happy memory you remember?”

  It took me a while to think of an answer. We sat in silence again as I filtered backwards through the last six months. “My best friend and I were running through the woods…” I told her about the day Jared and I went to the private beach on the backside of the lake. I told her how, up until everyone else showed up—until Colby showed up—it was perfect.

  I thought she knew enough from my parents, and my hospital file, that she would know Colby’s name. Instead, she quirked an eyebrow and asked, “Who is Colby?”

  Something in the depths of my mind was screaming. It had cracked me wide open, a yawning gap into the shattered psyche of Charlotte Harper Galston. I had a brief moment where I thought I should minimize it or lie. Or, better yet, stay silent.

  Instead, I told her everything.

  37

  “Merry Christmas!” I say into my phone. Christmas is barely hanging on: there’s only ten minutes left. I’d been wondering if Avery was going to call me. Hell, I would’ve settled for a text at this point. I don’t know why I’m still awake; Georgia and Henry went to bed long ago.

  “Merry Christmas, Charlie.”

  My knees buckle at Jared’s voice.

  “Hi,” I squeak.

  He laughs, and it soothes some of the ache inside of me: missing my parents, hurting from Avery’s cold shoulder, wishing I had something as special as Georgia and Henry. Jared and I used to sneak up to my treehouse once it was dark, even in the middle of winter—especially on Christmas—with a candle, blankets, and warm cookies while my parents hosted a party. We would stay out there until our parents hollered for us from my back porch. Even in our hiding spot, we were never out of place.

  “I just wanted to see how you are doing,” he says.

  “Me?”

  One of the floorboards in the hallway creaks. Georgia might be eavesdropping. She’s always had good thoughts about Jared, even if she didn’t like that he left without a backward glance. On the other hand, she sneers at any mention of Avery. She holds my grudges for me.

  When Jared doesn’t answer, I say, “I’m good.”

  “Are you home?” Jared asks.

  “No, I’m actually in Chicago.” I don’t bother to mention with who; he wouldn’t know Georgia by name, anyway.

  “That’s a far way to go for Christmas. You didn’t want to be with your parents?”

  I start to roll my eyes, but then I wonder if he’s at his parents’ house. “They went down to visit family. My boss...”

  “Ah, him again.”

  I grunt. “He can’t survive without me.”

  “As long as it isn’t the other way around,” he says lightly. “How’s the boyfriend?”

  I remember how he watched Avery and me out of the downstairs window in his house and never said anything until we had left. I wonder if he’s doing that now, if he’s still staring at my empty house, wondering if I’m coming home.

  Jesus, Charlie, stop that idiotic talk.

  “Charlie,” he mutters. “Chill.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “I feel like I lost you for a minute.”

  I chew on my lip. He lost me for a lot longer than that.

  “He’s in San Diego.”

  “With his family?”

  “That, supposedly, he wanted me to meet over the holidays.” I roll my eyes. It makes me feel better, even if he can’t see me do it. “I thought he meant these holidays, but I was wrong, I guess? I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re still together,” he says.

  That’s helpful, and I tell him so.

  He laughs again. “It sucks that you’re not home.”

  “Would you have actually said something? Asked to see me?”

  He doesn’t say anything. I wonder if he’s only calling because my parents’ house is dark.

  “How’s the leg?”

  He grunts. “It’s great.”

  “How’s the side without a leg?”

  He laughs. “Wow.”

  “I heard you can get phantom pains. It still hurts, even if it’s not there?” I sigh. “Our brains are fucked up.” He makes some sound of agreement, so I continue, “I mean, my brain, for example. I send Avery a nice Merry Christmas email, and he doesn’t reply. So, of course, I’m thinking the worst of him right now.”

  “I do seem to catch you when you’re feeling down.”

  There’s that damn lump in my throat again. It’s hard to swallow around, threatening to choke me up. “Jared…”

  He sighs. “I wish I had said something about Thanksgiving, while you were home.”

  I do, too.

  “It would’ve been nice to see my old friend,” I manage. “Can I ask you something personal?”

  His voice holds his smile when he answers, “I owe you a personal detail or two by now, Charlie.”

  “Why are you calling me? I mean—aren’t you with your parents? Or…” Or your child?

  “Charlie, who do you think I should be with, besides my parents?”

  “Seriously, Jared?” I snap.

  Inhale.

  Exhale.

  “I have to go.” That came out nicely. And then, “But, seriously, don’t pretend we both don’t know about your girl and the baby.”

  “Macie?”

  I grunt affirmation, and he doesn’t respond.

  “Merry Christmas, Jared.”

  I hang up.

  And then burst into tears.

  38

  Past

  “How do you deal with anger?” I asked.

  Dr. Sayer tipped her head to the side. She did that when she really had to think about a question. I had so many questions, and for most of them, she had a ready answer. But for some, we would sit in silence for a few minutes, her head tilted like the Leaning Tower of Pisa, while I stared out the window. Eventually, she would give me something close to an answer.

  Outside, it was snowing. It was a weird April: almost halfway through, we were still getting flurries. The clouds were moving quickly, too. Birds shrieked and chattered at each other, probably cursing the sky and Mother Nature. I was still wearing coats and scarves. Dr. Sayer explained that until I was back up to a healthier weight, the temperature would feel colder than normal.

  “I’ve got it,” she said. She smiled at me. “But first, tell me, how does anger feel?”

  I picked at my fingernails. “It makes me feel sick. Like everything has twisted up inside of me. I can’t breathe. I ju
st want to scream or run or hit somebody.”

  She nodded. “That’s a good way to describe it. Some people have difficulty voicing how anger feels, and how it affects them. The first step is to recognize it. Saying, ‘I am angry’ can help. Figure out why you’re angry. In your case, think, ‘Is this making me angry because it reminds me of Colby?’”

  That made sense—to figure out the root cause of my anger. “I always take it out on the wrong people.”

  “If you’re in the heat of the moment, Charlie, you need to remember to breathe. Think about what you’re going to say, and how it’s going to come across. Don’t be blinded.” She wrote something down on her notepad. “I’m going to give you a homework assignment. I have a stack of journals in my desk. Take one, and I want you to carry it around with you. When you’re angry, write in it. Don’t think, just write. We’ll go over it next week.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Write in it. Sure.”

  39

  I squirm in my seat, unable to keep still. The plane is taking forever to unload. As soon as the wheels touched down, time slowed down. Avery is picking me up, and after barely a week away for the holidays, I miss him so much my heart is going to explode. The older woman next to me pats my hand. I blurted our whole story to her with the help of a glass of wine. I left out the unsavory details.

  When it’s our turn to go, she steps into the aisle and forces the man behind her to take a step backwards. “After you, dear Charlie,” she says.

  I grin, scrambling up. “Let me get your bag for you?” She points to the one above my head, and I drag it down for her. “Happy New Year,” I wish her, and then I’m off.

  I’m here, I text Avery. His plane was scheduled to land a few hours before mine.

  I get my suitcase and head to the curb. My phone has been radio silent. Did he forget? I’m tempted to call him, but he never texts and drives. He could be on the way already and not able to respond. The air is freezing, although it hasn’t started to snow yet. I duck back inside, standing so close to the glass that my breath makes a fogged circle.

  After ten minutes, I start pacing in circles around my suitcase. Every red car that flashes by makes me whip around, trying to see the driver. Where are you? I text him.

  He had replied to my Christmas email the next day, when I was out with Georgia. It was short, and he apologized for the lateness of his message, and said that he was eager to get home and see me. Home. I had been so relieved to hear him call Boston his home. In that way, I felt like my mind was warped. Was there some part of me that thought he’d go home and run back to his ex-fiancée? Our arguing, his choice of not inviting me to San Diego for Christmas, the melancholy that fills the holes of our relationship, were all tiny red flags that all seemed to flash before my eyes. I was cranky because I hadn’t talked to him—because he hadn’t reached out to me. Perhaps distance makes the heart grow fonder doesn’t apply to Avery and me.

  After thirty minutes without a response, I start to worry. Did something happen to Avery’s plane? I force myself to sit as I track his flight. It landed on time three hours ago. His phone goes directly to voicemail, like it’s off. I hang up without leaving a message. Shoulders slumped, I head toward the T’s Silver Line to get myself home.

  Meekness is not in my character anymore.

  When I get home, an hour later—public transportation in Boston is a joke—and when I am finally safe, I am angry. I stewed the entire time I sat on the bus, and my anger grew when I transferred to the train, and then to another train. I temper the desire to smash something, curling my hands into fists. A few of my knuckles pop. I wish I could release the tension building in me as easily as that: pop, and it’s gone. Most of my things are in boxes; almost everything breakable is wrapped in newspapers and bubble wrap. There’s not much to smash if I were to give into the urge.

  “Screaming is probably inadvisable,” I force myself to say aloud. I look out the window. Something twinges in me when I don’t see Avery or his car.

  My phone rings from my kitchen counter.

  “Hey, baby,” Avery says after I answer. I wait for him to keep talking. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. I missed my flight, so I had to catch the next one. By the time I remembered to text you about not being able to pick you up, the flight attendant was yelling at me to turn my phone off….” He sighs. “I just landed. I’m going to come see you, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say. Hurt swirls around me, as well as white hot anger. They flicker back and forth, beating out all other emotions. I stay at the kitchen counter, leaning on it, wondering if I need to start writing my anger down again. But, no. I’ve learned that writing helps me let go of anger that I cannot justify. However, this is justified, and I deserve an apology.

  In no time at all, Avery knocks on my door. He gives me a small, tentative smile. “Hi,” he whispers, coming closer. I am tense, but my legs tremble. He wraps his arms around me. It’s the last thing I want, and yet I instantly relax against him. I don’t hug him back. I rest my cheek against his chest, the roughness of his coat scratching my skin.

  Together, we breathe.

  “I am so sorry,” he says again. He’s still speaking softly. Am I a wild animal that needs taming? Something that may run away at loud noises? His apology is better in person. He runs his hands up and down the length of my torso, and it ignites my nerves. After a minute, I tilt my head up to look him in the face. I watch his eyes, and then his lips.

  When we kiss, he shows me he is sorry. He is gentle, but he is solidly there, everywhere, invading my senses. I don’t want sorry. I want fire. One of my hands stays at my side, while my other touches the back of his neck. My fingers slide into his hair and fist there, nails scraping against his scalp. He makes a small noise in the back of his throat as I pull on his short hair. I capture his lower lip in my teeth, tugging, until he gasps and leans into me, kissing me harder.

  Avery walks us toward the bedroom and pushes me onto the bed. He has a wicked look in his eye that I don’t get to see very often, and he doesn’t waste time pulling off my shoes, and then my pants. I can see the outline of his erection through his jeans. I shiver with anticipation.

  He makes quick work getting out of his clothes and climbs over me. He nuzzles into my neck, inhaling. When his tongue flickers against my earlobe, I can’t stop the moan that slips out. I hook my legs around his hips, drawing him closer. He kisses me again, his tongue taking over my mouth. At the same time, he slides inside me, eliciting a gasp. We meet eyes, paused momentarily, until I nod. He pulls almost all the way out and slams back into me. I groan, biting my lip. The sound spurs him on, and soon we’re both sweating. Finally, after we both finish, he flops down next to me. The wetness between my legs is...

  Unexpected. We had the talk about not using condoms a month ago, but so far he had been unwilling to go without. I hadn’t had a problem with the idea. Avery and I are both clean, and I had an IUD inserted right after college. I didn’t expect the emotional impact—feeling so close to him. It’s a true step up in intimacy.

  I turn my head, looking at him through half-closed eyes.

  He stares at the ceiling, one arm bend behind his head. The other traces lazy circles on my arm. “A picture would last longer,” he chuckles.

  I blink, and find myself turning red. I watch him a lot. He should be used to it. “I should go clean up…” I wish this had been my first time without a condom. I wish Colby didn’t ruin my sixteenth birthday with a romantic gesture—the candles, the dinner—and then stealing my first time having sex without protection. And then he ruined the romance, too.

  When I come back from the bathroom, Avery is in the same position. He pats the bed next to him. “Come snuggle,” he says. I curl into his side, resting my head in the perfect hollow of his shoulder. The room smells of sex and sweat, but under my head, his scent is a deliciously masculine musk. It fills my nose, and I don’t ever want to exhale.

  “Did I tell you how sorry I was?”

  I roll o
nto my stomach so I can look him in the eye. “You did,” I say. “I was worried. And angry. And panicked. And…” I focus on the wall behind his head until he touches my chin.

  “Charlotte, you can tell me.”

  Taking a deep breath, I say, “I thought you had forgotten. Let your phone die, or set it down and just… forgot about me.” My fears from Christmas sneak out.

  His eyes soften, and he leans forward, placing a sweet kiss on the corner of my lips. “I could not forget about you, Charlotte. Ever. You’re magical, beautiful, powerful, and…” he smirks, “great in bed.” Much different than the first time, I remind myself.

  He succeeds in making me laugh, but I still feel the pinch of unease in my stomach. Dropping the smile, I whisper, “It just seems really easy to believe that you’re not totally invested. I know it’s still kind of a new relationship. We haven’t discussed where we want to be in a year, or five, or ten—”

  “I want to be with you.” Right now, he sees me. All of me. My nerves and insecurities and everything I’ve been trying to hide. We sit up, facing each other. We’re naked, literally and figuratively, and a small part of me appreciates the irony. “I want to be with you now, a year from now, hopefully five years from now… Charlotte. Did you doubt that I was serious?”

  Tears prick my eyes. “Well, yeah, I ...kind of doubted it. You never said anything!”

  He laughs, but it isn’t comforting. It beats against me like a dull roar. Oh, how the cliff side must ache as the ocean pounds against it every day. “I never said anything? Are you serious? Charlotte, I don’t try to fucking coax you into romantic dinners and shit for nothing. I’m in love with you. I’ve said that before, and I meant it. I mean it now. I fucking love you. God,” he exhales, and it feels like a slap.

  Instead of crying, I blink it away. I smile, although I know my lips wobble at first. “I’m sorry.” I hate that I am the one apologizing now. “I know. It’s just,” I try to think, but I can’t, because I’m talking over the lump in my throat that threatens to choke me. “I love you, too.” Even that feels kind of lame, a throwaway line that I half-mean. It’s meant to placate him—I recognize it because I would do the same thing to Colby.