by Brill Harper
I shake my head when I realize that I want to kick my own ass on her behalf.
The whole situation is messed up.
We park on a street that still has angled parking. Jones hands the keys to Emily after popping the back open. “Would you two mind taking the boxes to the library for Mom on your own?” he asks. “I have some shopping left to do.”
Emily claps and smiles. “Yay! That means he’s shopping for me.” She gets out of the car and goes to the trunk where Jones hands her a box. “Don’t do all your shopping at the hardware store this year, ‘k?”
“Hey, everyone should have their own set of tools. Even bratty sisters.”
“I have two brothers. What do I need with tools? Something breaks, I call you guys.”
Jones tugs her braid as I grab the other box. I bet she is probably too independent to call her brothers for every little thing and that she probably makes good use of the tools. But even I know that was a boneheaded gift.
“Come on, Charlie. The library is this way.” She starts walking, so I nod a quick goodbye to Jonesy. Jones. Carter.
The street reminds me of Bedford Falls from It’s a Wonderful Life. I’ve seen the movie every year since enlisting thanks to the sentimental saps I worked with. After about the fifth time seeing it, it became a tradition I looked forward to. Like a hot dog on the Fourth of July or turkey—or what passed for turkey in the mess hall—on Thanksgiving.
Old-fashioned lamps decorated with wreaths line the sidewalks in front of the Victorian shop fronts. A grassy median lined with oak trees gives the appearance of a different, slower time. But it is the shop windows that draw my attention. Some of them project out with white panes—but all of them showcase a Christmas scene. Glitter, lights, baubles, toys...and since there are no cars on this part of the street, I really could have stepped into a different era.
When I catch up to Emily after pulling myself away from a Santa’s Workshop scene, I ask, “Hey, why are we bringing books to the library anyway? Doesn’t it usually work the other way?”
“These are for the Christmas party. Santa gives each child a book for a gift. My parents purchase them every year for donation. The librarian will curate them for the different age groups.”
“Your family is pretty great,” I say, liking that she hasn’t clammed up on me. Maybe we can be friends. I had a couple female friends in the Army, but never a civilian one. The women I met on leave were nice, but I’d never classify them as friends.
“We’ve been fortunate. My parents always taught us to pay it forward. Give back. But yeah, they are pretty great.”
She smiles at me, and I almost drop my box. It’s like the one I saw her give her brother yesterday. It feels like warm sheets from the dryer.
And I am acting really weird. Warm sheets? It was a smile, for God’s sake.
But if she thinks wearing those baggy slacks and a turtleneck makes her smile less potent, she is wrong.
The library is a small brick building on the corner. It has been a long time since I’ve been in one, but Emily walks straight behind the desk like she’s been here hundreds of times. She probably has.
“Hey, let me take that,” a man’s voice says from the stacks behind me.
I turn and find a well-dressed, preppy dude wearing glasses rushing to Emily’s aid. I should probably have taken both boxes from the car. Why hadn’t I thought of that? What kind of idiot lets a pretty girl carry a box of heavy books for a block without offering to help her?
The snappy dresser takes the box from her and gestures to me. “Follow me, man.” As I follow, I get an introduction. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Mike Page. Town librarian.”
Mike drops the box against a wall, so I put mine on top and thrust out my hand. “Charlie. I’m a friend of Carter Jones.”
Mike’s handshake is firm and sure. “Not the Sergeant Warner we’ve heard about?”
“That’s him,” answers Emily. “Charlie is having Christmas with us, the poor guy. Which reminds me, my mom asked me to remind you you’re invited to Christmas Eve dinner.”
I watch the warm chitchat between the two and realize this Mike Page is the kind of guy Emily should hook up with. She probably already is. Page is smart, friendly, and a good dresser...and they seem to like each other well enough. He is intellectual, could probably talk to her about important things that I don’t know about.
My gut churns, though I’m going to blame that on too much breakfast and not jealousy. Because I have no rights to her. I’m not staying and even if I were, she’d be better off with a librarian than a guy like me. Mike and Emily fit together in a world that makes sense.
But I never figure the world for making much sense.
If Mike and Emily are dating, why did she kiss me back when I laid one on her last night?
“Are you sure you won’t change your mind?” she asks the librarian, obviously disappointed. He must have turned down the invitation while I was remembering how whiskey tasted off her soft lips and tongue.
Damn. What the hell is wrong with me?
“Plans this year, but thank your mom again for me.”
“Will do.” She looks to me. “What do you say, Charlie? Think we have time for a hot chocolate before my brother finishes his shopping? My mom will be ecstatic if I fit in an unscheduled bonus Christmas activity.” She turns to Mike. “I’ve never seen her like this. She’s bordering on manic this year.”
“I’m sure she’s just glad to have your brother home.” Mike smiles at her, and I want to punch something. I’m never going to make it in civilian life if I don’t learn how to deal with people. But I really, really hate the idea of this librarian being perfect while I’m anything but.
In the Army, I knew where I stood. In bars, I know how to talk to women. How to get them to flirt with me. In any given situation, I’m used to being in charge, respected. I don’t like this lack of confidence I’m suddenly feeling around a guy who isn’t even trying to size me up. In a physical fight, it’s clear who would win, and that’s pretty much how I’m used to earning my place most of the time. The strong man, the confident man, wins. Wins the fight. Wins the pissing contest. Wins the girl.
But in my new life, I’m not sure if that is true anymore. Guys like Mike don’t have to be the alpha to get ahead in this world. Guys like Mike can date girls like Emily and live in a small town and be happy around books and Christmas parties for children. And that is great. Really. I have no plans for Emily other than being an extra brother for a week. That is it.
“I haven’t had hot chocolate since I was twelve, but sure, why not?” I incline my head to Mike, searching the man’s face for jealousy and finding none. Idiot. Doesn’t he realize what he has? How easily he could lose it if I were a different kind of guy? The staying kind? “Nice meeting you, Mike.”
Mike cocks his head, reading something into my tone. Good luck figuring it out, buddy. I don’t even know why I’m upset right now. “I’m sure I’ll see you at the kids’ party.”
Emily and I cross the street to the coffee shop called Beans Crosby. Inside, the interior is like stepping into a vintage movie. Everything is gray and black and white with just a few punches of red here and there to draw the eye. The roasted beans smell delicious, but I know I’m in for hot chocolate instead. Which is fine. Emily tries to pay, and of course I don’t let her.
“Let’s sit outside,” she suggests.
“You’ll freeze.”
She pats her hat. “It’s not that cold. C’mon.”
We sit in front of the shop. The day is clear and crisp, but the forecast is calling for snow in the next few days. An honest to God white Christmas.
Emily’s cheeks flush a pretty pink as she chats with me happily about the town, the traditions, and her mother’s crazy obsession with the perfect Christmas. I don’t have much to add, but I smile while she talks, enjoying the stories and her animated expressions. So unlike the girl who blended into the scenery the day before. I like that she is fe
eling comfortable with me again.
I realize this is why I fought so far from home. So this girl with a pink nose could sip hot chocolate on a postcard-perfect small-town block. So others like her could enjoy the anticipation of snow and holiday cheer. So they could be safe. I’m not one of them yet, but a peaceful sensation steals over me thinking that maybe someday I could be.
And then she stops talking abruptly and diverts her attention to her shoes. It isn’t until a man stops in front of her, instead of going past into the shop, that I realize why.
My hackles are up and my muscles coil in ready response.
“Emily,” the man says.
“Hello, Alan.”
She doesn’t introduce me, but I’m not offended. I realize something is very, very wrong and she is trying hard to hold it together.
“This your new boyfriend?” Alan asks, his face tight and lips curling into a sneer.
Emily shrinks further into her chair, so I stand, feeling protective and pissed off. I wish I knew why I’m pissed, but it doesn’t matter. Not really. “I’m Charlie. Friend of Carter’s.”
“You a soldier, too?” Alan asks. He is smaller than me, but he doesn’t seem too intimidated.
“Yeah,” I answer. Because it is easier than using the entire explanation.
“Thank you for your service,” he says, and it sounds earnest. Real. To Emily, he adds, “I hope you’ve done your service by telling him upfront about the kind of girl you really are.”
Emily’s once pink cheeks are now ghostly white, and I have an urge to punch this Alan character.
“I think you better go on in and get your coffee,” I growl. “If you continue to upset the lady, I’m not going to be happy.”
“It’s fine, Charlie. I’m not upset.”
Except I can hear in her tight voice that she is very, very upset.
“Let’s see what kind of white horse you ride in on when you find out she’s a liar. That she’ll open her legs to anyone who asks.”
Well, I warned him. I pull my arm back and visualize how satisfying the crunch of Alan’s nose is going to sound when a grip from behind stops me from forward movement.
“This one’s not worth your time, Sarge,” comes Jonesy’s steel voice. “Though I appreciate you looking out for my sister.” Carter steps in front of me and uses his body to steer Alan away from Emily. “Okay, Preacher Boy, it’s time for you to hit the road and take all your peace, love, and joy with you. You know, I’ve seen a lot of really messed up dudes, but I’ve never seen one as judgmental and hypocritical as you. Because it’s Christmas and I like your mom and dad so much, I’m not going to beat your pasty-white pansy-ass into the ground, but you talk to my sister again, and I won’t be so gracious.”
Alan shakes his head in disgust. “You’re not helping her by defending her, you know. She needs to come clean with the—”
I interrupt with a plea to Jonesy, “Please, man. Just let me hit him once.” I have no idea what this is even about, but I know for certain I hate this Alan person.
“Please stop.” Jonesy and I both turn to the small voice. Emily’s eyes are rimmed with unshed tears. “Don’t ruin Christmas. Let’s just go.”
We usher her past the asshole. And into the car. When we get back to the house, she pleads with us not to tell her mother, and she runs to her room.
“What the hell was that all about?” I ask Jonesy as we move into the living room, the fireplace like a magnet even though it isn’t that cold outside and we’ve just come from a warm car.
“Not my story to tell, Sarge.”
“I bet I could beat it out of Alan.”
At that, Jonesy smiles. “I wouldn’t mind seeing that. He’s a punk. I never liked him before, never thought he was good enough to date my sister, much less marry her.”
“They were married?”
“No. Look, it’s not my story.”
I want to pull rank, but realize I can’t do that anymore. “He made it sound like she—”
“My sister did nothing wrong. Don’t even go there.”
“I wasn’t implying she did. I like your sister a lot. She’s a nice girl.”
When Jonesy scowls at that, I’m not sure what I said that made it worse.
Jonesy shakes his head and braces himself on the mantel. “Be careful about calling anyone a nice girl.”
“Huh?” Last I heard, being nice was a compliment.
“Look, sometimes people put expectations on people. Put them in boxes and only allow for certain things. When you call a girl a nice girl, it’s easy to forget she is human. Like the rest of us.” He scrubs a frustrated hand through his regulation short hair. “I’ve already said too much. Emily would kill me if she knew I was talking about her. But just know that “nice girls do” or “nice girls don’t” isn’t something we like in this house.”
And then he storms out, leaving a very confused me and a crackling fire behind.
Tagged: Chapter Five
Emily
I WASN’T EXPECTING a late-night knock on my door, but I am even more surprised to find Charlie standing there with a bottle of whiskey and two snowmen mugs.
“You were quiet at dinner,” he says. As if that explains his presence at midnight.
“I’m quiet a lot.” He waits for me to...what...invite him in? Which I’m not sure I want to do. “It’s late.”
“You don’t owe me anything, Emily, but I’d really like it if you told me what was going on with the asshole in front of the coffee shop today. I wanted to hit him. I still want to hit him.”
“He’s not worth it.”
“You’re right...but that’s not stopping you from letting him get to you.”
I want to send him away, except I don’t. I lean my head against the door. “It doesn’t concern you.”
“Actually, yeah, it does. I can’t stand the thought of that weasel hurting your feelings. And he’s going to keep doing it unless you stop giving him the power to.”
That doesn’t explain why it concerns Charlie, but I don’t want to chance someone coming up on him in the hall, so I pull the door back and gesture him in.
He whistles as he turns a circle in the center of the room. “This is your room still?”
I laugh, taking in my Justin Timberlake poster and horse trophies and pink bedspread. “I don’t live here anymore. I’m visiting just like you. But yeah...this was my room.”
“This is actually kinda hot. I feel like I’m seventeen sneaking into a girl’s room. Better fantasy than even the hotel bar we met at in the kitchen last night.”
I unfold my arms, knowing I look like some weak shrinking violet when I hug myself. “Well, you’re the only boy I’ve ever had in here.”
Our gazes clash, and I feel his hunger. Hunger for me? Is it me or just the idea of sneaking into my teen room that has him hot and bothered? I grab a unicorn pillow off the bed and plop onto the floor, my back against the bed, the pillow in my lap. “I bet you were a bad boy sneaking into girls’ rooms all the time.”
He joins me on the floor. “Maybe once or twice.” He pours us each a drink. “Was Alan your boyfriend in high school?”
Well, he gets right to the point, doesn’t he? “Yes.”
“But he never came in here?”
I shake my head. “We didn’t...we didn’t have sex...not until prom.” I shudder thinking about the backseat of his parents’ car. “And then it was just the one time. We’d been saving ourselves for marriage, but we screwed up once.”
“Is that how you see it? Screwing up?”
“Alan is the son of a pastor. He wants to be one, too. It was important to him that we do things the right way.”
“But not you.”
I shake my head. “Not really. I’m not religious. When was your first time?”
Charlie squares his jaw and looks into his cup like he is hoping the answer is in there. “I was younger.”
“How much younger?” The longer we keep the focus on him, the better I
feel. I wonder what he was like as a teen. Trouble probably. He has that vibe.
“Probably too young. I don’t...it wasn’t great. I mean it was sex, so it was good, but the circumstances were less than ideal. I was too young. She was...I don’t really want to talk about this.”
I snort. Not very ladylike, but whatever. “Oh, but it’s okay to talk about me and the weasel?”
He swallows hard; his Adam’s apple bobs and I find it fascinating. “I lived in a foster home. A lot of different ones over the years. My guardian...she was lonely. I was thirteen.”
All the blood leaches from my face in a cold rush. “Oh, God. Charlie...”
“Like I said. Less than ideal.”
The idea of someone taking advantage of a young boy like that infuriates me. But he didn’t come to me to rehash his own bad memories, so I change the subject. “It might surprise you to know that my experience with Alan was also less than ideal.”
This time he snorts. “Not surprised really. He seems...”
“He cried.”
Charlie spits the whiskey in his mouth back into the cup. “What?”
“He came, and then he cried. Told me we made a huge mistake. Wanted to pray right then and there for forgiveness. I had to push him off me.” Out of me. He’d still been inside me when the sobbing started.
“So you didn’t...” The rest of the sentence is hanging in the air, unsaid but not unnoticed. So you didn’t come?
Why this isn’t embarrassing, I don’t know. But talking to Charlie feels natural. “I didn’t. The tears were sort of a mood breaker.” Not that I was close anyway.
“That’s not why he said those things to you today, is it?”
“No. Are you sure you want to know all this?”
“Are you sure you want to tell me?”
“No,” I answer. “I’m sure I don’t want to. It’s sordid and embarrassing.”
Charlie leans back, resting his head on the mattress behind us. “Did you cheat on him?”