Naturally, Charlie

by S. L. Scott

  Though my agent, Alec Stants, appears to be a sloth in a suit, he’s surprisingly agile and fit. “I have to stop. I need air.” I huff, coming to a stop and bending over to rest my hands on my knees.

  “Come on! How weak can you be?” He stops, turning back to look at me. Shaking his head in mock disappointment, he adds, “This is just a disgrace that you would let an old man like me embarrass you like this.” He keeps jogging in place while he annihilates every bit of my pride into humiliation.

  “Who knew? Right?” That’s all I manage to squeak out as I remind myself that he’s only forty-two. I stand back up, pacing back and forth, attempting to regain my breath. “How much farther anyway?”

  “Sad. Just plain sad. I thought for sure you’d make it halfway. We’ve got just three small miles left if we turn back now. That’s not so bad, is it?”

  I tug at my jogging pants and start in a forward motion, thinking I can do this! But I hate every remaining minute of it and finish out of spite and pride.

  He pats me on the back while laughing. As we exit the park, he says, “See? Not so bad after all. You should make exercise a priority. It clears your head, keeps your body and mind in working order. You’re pushing thirty, man. You need to stay active.”

  “First of all, I have a couple of years until I’m thirty. Don’t age me too fast. Second, you’d prefer me out running around the park all day over writing and providing you with a paycheck?”

  “Good point.” He chuckles as we shake hands. He teases me as he starts to walk away. “You did better than I thought. Keep it up, and hey, send over those last two articles. I need to submit them on Monday.”

  I nod, acknowledging his request, and collapse on the closest park bench I can find. My mind is jammed with thoughts vying for my attention. Thought exercise was supposed to clear your head? I guess it did while I was doing it. I scramble to my feet and take the lazy, short way home—the subway.

  A recurring thought crosses my mind—my redhead. Charlie. She’s off-limits because she’s Rachel’s friend, but being on the subway reminds me of yesterday and how she handled herself so quietly. She has a story, and the more I think about her, the more I want to know it. Rachel’s friend, I remind. Don’t go there. I push the thought and the subway doors aside, and walk the remaining block home.

  Sunday offers me a new perspective on the life of a New Yorker. On this one particular day, they seem to become elusive or in hiding, relatively speaking. Saturdays the streets and shops are packed with people and Monday rolls along tripling the crowds again, but Sunday, no one. There’s always a seat on the subway, an available park bench, and no lines at the coffee shop. Where do New Yorkers go on Sunday?

  I determine a walk around a surrounding neighborhood is in order to prove my point. Since I recovered quicker than expected from the torture—I mean, run—yesterday, I put my sneakers on again. Leaving my jacket at home, I race down the stairs and out onto the street.

  The nearest neighborhood bordering mine has classic architecture and young families. Several small children play while their parents sit on the stoop keeping a watchful eye on them. Kids are interesting little creatures. How does so much life fit into such a small package?

  As I turn the corner, I come across the dog park. Even though Rachel seemed to garner a different idea from my story Friday night, it doesn’t hinder me from leaning against the fence and watching the dogs run free in the enclosed area.

  I return home two hours later, encountering only a few people during my walk, thus proving my point. I spend the rest of the day at my computer, typing and surfing online with moments of staring out the window mixed in. I go to bed before my usual time and pay the price when I wake at three in the morning. Flicking through the late-night selection on television, I find a program I know will put me to sleep again, and it does.

  Monday rolls around just as I was starting to enjoy my lazy weekend. I remember dreading these days when I was younger, but my career has given me lots of freedom that make Monday just as good as Friday. With plenty of much-needed sleep, I leave the house bright and early. I stop by The Bagelry before taking the train over to my agent’s office.

  Walking into his offices, I’m always surprised by his importance. He’s just Alec to me—more of a friend who makes demands of my time every now and again. But here, he’s the boss. With ten employees already bustling around the large space, it’s easy to see where my commission goes. It gives me a sense of pride to play a small part in his success. He’s doing better than me, that much is obvious, which makes me chuckle. No one said I’d get rich following my passion, but I’ve done quite well.

  The receptionist calls him as I gaze out the windows of his eighteenth-floor suite. “He’ll see you now, Mr. Adams.” Her tone makes me think she doubted he would as she signals me around the decorative wall behind her.

  I walk into his office and make the couch my own. Alec looks up and smiles. “You could’ve just e-mailed the articles and saved yourself the trip.”

  “What’s the fun in that? Anyway, I haven’t been here in a while and had the time.” I stand up, handing him the disk. “There are five on there. Do we have takers for all of them?”

  “And more. Two were due today, and I have some interested parties in your work. They’re looking for something different. You have a unique voice in your writing. I’m sure they’ll want them.” He stands, leaning his body against the windowsill. I can tell he’s about to get serious. Folding his arms over his chest is always his giveaway. “What’s the big picture, Charlie? What do you want to do?”

  Oh, we’re having this conversation again. “I’m doing it.”

  “I think you’re wasting some of your talents. I love your writing, and it sells well, but you can do more . . . bigger things. What about a book? Have you given serious consideration to writing a book?” He half smiles to ease the tension I must be revealing through my own expression. “I’m asking because I’ve received a few calls from interested agents and publishers.”

  “I . . . well, maybe it’s crossed my mind, but not to any great length.”

  “Will you consider it now?”

  “Are we talking a collection of my articles on New York or something different?”

  “We can package your current stuff together and get it out there, but I think you have a great novelist inside you. What do you think about fiction?”

  “I love fiction. Anything that allows the psyche to escape for a little period of time is a good thing.” I look down at the floor with a better understanding of what he wants from me. “Are we talking about the next great novel—Hemingway, Salinger, King-type stuff?” I feel the pressure being applied. This is usually the point when I tend to cave into my inner feelings of doubt.

  “Look.” He shakes his hand at me, not scolding, but more matter-of-fact. “I know you like your free-living lifestyle. That doesn’t have to change. I’m just saying if you let yourself attempt something of importance, you might succeed.”

  “You seem to know me better than I do, but what you forget is it’s me who lives with me every day. I have accomplished a lot on my own, considering the circumstances surrounding those accomplishments—”

  “You’re not understanding what I mean. And being from a wealthy family doesn’t constitute child abuse. Your talents are bigger than you give yourself credit for.” He walks closer, lending me his hand. Pulling me to my feet, he looks me in the eye. “Charlie! You can do this and you should do this. Think about it and give me a call later this week with your answer.”

  I remain speechless and leave the room, already feeling the weight of the burden placed on my shoulders. I shove my hands in my pockets as I walk back outside, finding comfort in the small action.

  The rest of the afternoon is spent staring at a blank page on my computer, willing myself to write something, but I can’t. I’m not feeling it. Thankfully, I have a distraction. Tonight’s my date with Rachel.

  The dinner is good enough, and as muc
h as Rachel seems to be a nice person, I’m not sure if a love connection has been made. We end the night sitting at the bar and having a cocktail. Every once in a while, she says my name or pats my knee to bring my attention back to her. But instead of my name, I think of it as her name—the other Charlie, Rachel’s friend, Charlie. I jiggle my head a few times to shake it off, but even in my overanalytical state, I know where my interest lies, and it’s not here.

  I’m relieved when she says, “Listen, I like you, Charlie, but I think we might be better as friends.”

  I see the sincerity in her eyes and smile. “I agree. I like you—”

  “We don’t have to go into all that. Let’s just leave it at we’ll stay friends.”

  I chuckle. “Yes, I’d like that.”

  The evening ends at the same restaurant where it began three hours earlier. When we walk out, she leans forward and kisses me, a kiss that stays chaste and on the cheek. Easier to cut ties that way.

  “I’m so glad we did this. It was fun, Charlie. But damn if your name doesn’t throw me off every time. I keep thinking of my friend, and that just makes it weird.”

  I chuckle, knowing exactly what she means. “I had a great time getting to know you, but you’re right.”

  She laughs. “Friends.” Taking my hand, she squeezes gently. “Best of luck.”

  “You, too. Thanks again.”

  Right before she ducks into the waiting taxi, she says, “Call me if you want to hang out. All right?”

  “Okay. Take care.”

  I spend Tuesday running every pro and con through my mind, on paper, on my laptop, and out loud to strangers, searching for an answer regarding this novel idea. The only conclusion I come up with is that I should write this book. And although I explained the whole deal to Tony at the bagel shop, he’s more interested in the redhead I mentioned in passing. He said I should have asked Rachel for her friends’ number, but that’s just crass in my opinion. He’s of no help with this major career decision. By the end of the day, I reason with myself. What if I write just for me? What’s the worst that could happen?

  On Wednesday afternoon, to honor my great-aunt Grace, I decide to walk. She used to say our walks were her own saving grace, before she was too sick to take them any longer. But what I forgot to tell her was our walks were my saving grace, too. I enjoyed the peace they gave me, maybe even more than she did.

  Chapter 5

  While rushing along a side street that runs perpendicular to Park Avenue, I look down at my watch—it’s almost three. These things don’t start on time. There’s always leeway at weddings. I hope funerals follow the same standard protocol.

  I look straight ahead and notice a man in a well-tailored suit walking toward me. As he gets a few steps closer, I realize I know him. That’s Charlie. He smiles, recognizing me at the same time.

  “Are you following me, or am I lucky enough to run into you three times in . . . five days?” I realize how peculiar this must sound coming from a perfect stranger, but it also feels like the exact thing I should say to him, to Charlie. His name is becoming more comfortable than it should for how well we don’t know each other.

  His smile widens, lighting up his entire face. Stopping in front of me, our eyes connect for a few silent seconds, and we laugh. It’s awkward and yet somehow makes me feel giddy, happy. “I think I’m the lucky one. Are you heading to work or playing hooky today?”

  I look down, liking how he treats me like an old friend instead of someone he just met briefly. “I’m, well . . . this may sound strange, but I’m going to a funeral.” Very uplifting—not!

  When I look up again, his eyes brighten, and he chuckles. “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, and yeah, strange but coincidental. I’m heading to a funeral myself.”

  I smile at the coincidence, but show him the appropriate sympathy. “I’m sorry for your loss. Were you close?”

  “Regrettably, not recently, but yeah, in my heart. How about you?”

  I look at my watch as we shift around each other, not knowing quite what to do, but I don’t want to leave yet. He looks at his watch then glances at a car nearby. He needs to leave, but doesn’t want to, or he would’ve by now. Instead, he turns and starts walking with me in the opposite direction of his intended destination.

  “Not in a few months. We weren’t on speaking terms, but we used to be very close. You know, I should get going.” I look forward and say, “He said I was always late to everything—it drove him nuts.” I smile, and a hesitant laugh escapes. We stop and stand together. I’m surprised by the ease of this interaction. “He joked that I’d be late to his funeral if given the chance.”

  I see opportunity flash across his face, and a smirk slowly appears. “Do you want that chance?” I stand there speechless as the heaviness of the day weighs me down, making me want to skip the funeral altogether. His face softens with sincerity and he asks, “You want to hit my funeral first, and then we’ll make an appearance at yours?”

  Words fumble from my mouth before I have time to think them through. “This is the weirdest date I have ever been asked out on. I just might have to take you up on your offer.” I laugh, feeling awkward by my assumption. I start walking, hoping to leave the embarrassment of my words behind.

  “Hey, Charlie?”

  I stop with my back to him, looking over my shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I’d really like your company. I could use some today.”

  Thinking of every reason not to, I follow my instincts and turn around, walking the few feet back to where he waits. He looks away, ridding himself of the tears that have formed in his eyes.

  I wasn’t going to make a big deal about it. Obviously, he was closer to the person who passed than he let on, and sometimes a stranger can offer more comfort than someone who knows your burdens, your baggage.

  With a light touch, I press my fingertips against his hand. “I could use some, too—a little company that is.” Sliding my hand up the sleeve of his jacket, I intertwine my arm with his, and we walk together.

  Something about Charlie makes me trust him. I think it’s his eyes and the truths that are so evident in them.

  We don’t talk as we walk, no words feeling necessary, until we reach Park Avenue, leaving the peacefulness of the street we were on. A jolt of city life hits as we join the crowds. I stop on the sidewalk and look at him, releasing his arm.

  “What?” he asks, concern etching his features.

  “We’re not . . . I mean, this isn’t a real date? I just used the wrong term earlier, that’s all. I mean, you went out with Rachel just two nights ago. She’s my friend.”

  He looks at me, baffled by my crazy mutterings. “No, Charlie, I didn’t think you meant an actual date.” He chuckles and starts moving, tugging me by the coat sleeve, playful and cute, a little one-sided grin slipping out. “What kind of date would this be? A depressing one, that’s for sure.”

  I double step to catch up with him. “I appreciate the company. I just didn’t mean to imply you were hitting on me or anything like that. We just ran into each oth—”

  “We just ran into each other. That’s all. Pure coincidence. It’s not fate or anything like that. No worries. It’s not a big deal.” He stops, so I do, too. “Would you rather not do this?” No lopsided grins, no playful eyes. I see confusion and doubt instead.

  “No, no. I want to. I want to do this.” I wave between us. Knowing I’m giving all the wrong signals or too many different signals, I close my eyes and take a sharp breath before reopening them. With a loud exhale, instant relief washes over me. “I’m nervous about the funeral I’m going to. That’s all.”

  “No need to be.” He takes my hand, pulling me closer, and hooks it back around his arm. When we start walking again, he looks over and smiles. “Why be nervous? You have a perfect stranger here to comfort you.” His words warm me over, making me smile again, too.

  “This will be nothing if not interesting,” I say as we approach the church.

  When w
e walk into St. Bartholomew’s Cathedral, I’m surprised at the beauty of the setting. For a funeral, this is the way to go. The church is full of people, and there seems to be an even amount of tears to joy. I think it’s the glass-half-full mentality winning, though. Charlie leans down and whispers, “This is my great-aunt Grace’s funeral. She was ninety-four.”

  “Ninety-four? Wow! She lived a long life.”

  “She did, but I’m glad she’s moved on. The last few years have been difficult on her in that home.” He straightens, standing to his full height, his body tensing under my hand. I don’t say anything, even though I’m filled with questions. Gripping his arm a little harder, I try to comfort him.

  A rigid-looking woman approaches us with a smile that’s neither comforting nor cold—detached. She leans in and kisses him on the cheek. He doesn’t reciprocate, but touches her arm for a brief moment.

  “Pleased to see you here, Charles. I didn’t know if you’d come.”

  “I loved Grace. You know we were close,” he says, justifying his attendance.

  She doesn’t acknowledge me, not even with a glance, until it goes quiet between them. She looks me over, her eyes judging, calculating. I remember receiving this type of glare from Jim’s family and friends.

  She returns her full attention to Charlie. “Would you like to introduce me, or should I do it myself?”

  Her tone is sharp, but he obliges her. “Mother, this is Charlie. Charlie, this is Emeline Adams, my mother.”

  I’m taken by surprise by the close relation, because they don’t seem close at all. They don’t even seem to like each other and are bordering on incivility. I put my hand forward in greeting. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise,” she responds. Her dislike for me is as obvious as her distaste for my name. “Charlie is an interesting name for a woman.”

  “It’s Charlotte, actually. You may call me that if you prefer.” I feel like a small child in her presence, begging for her acceptance. She has an air about her that feels familiar in the worst of ways. I won’t be good enough. I already know this, but the people-pleaser in me demands I try.