"Hey," he said. "Harriet's friend?"
"Yes. I'm Emma."
"I know. Cool. Doctor Emma. I'm Bobby. Well, Robert. Robert Martin." He let her inside. "Harriet talks about you a lot. She really likes you." He closed the door behind her.
The main room of the apartment was papered in superhero posters for obscure comic book characters and recognizable ones. An Incredible Hulk lamp was glowing on a table made of milk crates, its open sides crammed with paperbacks and DVDs. It was a little untidy, but not bad, in Em's estimation.
"She talks about you, too," said Em. "She says you paint signs."
"Yeah. Road department stuff." He shrugged. "I like it okay. It's a living. And it leaves me with free time on the weekends for stuff. You know, for hobbies, hanging out with friends. With Harriet."
She couldn't help but notice Harriet's name was separate from the rest. "You two are good friends, aren't you?" she said. "Harriet said you're the only one she can talk to."
"Yeah? That's 'cause those creeps at her office are so self-absorbed," Bobby snorted. "They think they're all that and stuff. I don't like 'em. Harriet, though...she likes hanging out with them. I tried, but I just couldn't."
"What do you and your friends do for fun?" Em asked.
"LARP. You know what that is?"
Em had a vague idea that involved wearing costumes and running through the woods — a sort of live-action battle backed by fantasy tales akin to Merlin. "Yes, I've heard of that."
"Plus, I like to skateboard, and take road trips sometimes. Went to Yellowstone last year. I tried to talk Harriet into coming, but she got that bronchitis stuff a couple of days before that."
Yellow and green paint was splattered down his clothes, like the time before, but this time Em noticed other colors: ochre red, violet, sunset orange, pearl white.
"I got your scarf right here with Harriet's stuff," he said. "Just let me wipe this paint off my hands." He retreated into a smaller room, a shower curtain drawn back part way from its entry. Curious, Em followed. On the other side was a painter's studio. Plastic sheets on the floor, easels folded out, open cans of paint everywhere, and large canvases tacked to the walls.
Innocuous objects painted in bright, bold shades, larger than life. A fire hydrant, a phone booth, a dog, a street musician. The only one which seemed out of place was directly across from her. It was the Eiffel Tower painted in shades of lavender, purple, and red, as if the sun was setting behind its metal frame.
"Wow," breathed Em. "That's incredible. That's really beautiful, Bobby."
He blushed, modestly. "Thanks. I saw a postcard of it. One of Harriet's. She's always talking about it, so I ..." He gestured towards it, then trailed off, raking his fingers through his hair. A streak of purple paint appeared in his sandy blond hair in response.
There was more to that statement, Em sensed. Unspoken words that she could guess. "You painted it for her," said Em.
"Yeah. Guilty," he answered.
"Has she ever seen it?"
"No. No way. I ... I only show her the smaller stuff I sketch and draw. I'm not that good, really. And when we're hanging out, we do stuff like photography, or skating and stuff. There's just ... not a good time."
Not a good time to tell her how he really felt. It was plain in the painting, however, even without words. He had painted in the detail, the perfect shades and accurate lines.
If Harriet saw it, would she read between those lines and colors? Did she have any clue at all that this boy cared for her that way? Em wanted to say something comforting, but wasn't sure Bobby wanted to hear those words spoken aloud by anyone, even a stranger he'd probably never see again.
"It's beautiful," Em repeated. "I think if she saw it, she'd say the same thing."
Bobby was quiet for a second, then came to life. "Here's your scarf," he said, picking up a little white shopping bag with his cleanest hand. "Sorry — I forgot it for a moment there."
"That's fine," answered Em, draping the scarf around her neck. "Are those Harriet's movies?" she asked, noticing a stack of chick flicks next to some orange paint cans.
"Yeah. She loaned them to me. We swap stuff all the time. It's getting hard to remember who owns what." Bobby pulled the shower curtain back and held it out of the way as Em stepped out of the room.
"Thanks again, Bobby," said Em.
"No problem." He opened the door for her and gave her a genuine smile. On the table in the living room was a sketch of Harriet herself, Em noticed. Same bright colors, a perfect depiction of Harriet's smile, also. "Have a nice night."
Colin's apartment building was vastly different from Bobby's. An elegant historical building, a doorman requesting Em's name before permitting her past the lobby, a lavish space decorated with a sofa worth twice the value of Em's car.
She rode the elevator to Colin's floor. She didn't have a chance to knock on the door before he opened it, to find Em on his doorstep, her hand raised to perform the act.
"Emma," he said.
She held out the CD. "Here," she said. "Vic wants you to have this. New ideas due by Monday." She turned to go, but Colin spoke.
"Emma, wait." She paused, reluctantly. "You could come in, if you like."
"I have someplace to be," she answered. "I'm having dinner with Frank."
"Oh." That was Colin's only answer. Em took another step towards the elevator, then paused and looked back at him.
"You know, you were right about Bobby," she said. "And wrong about him at the same time."
Colin looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that he is the guy for Harriet. But not because he's what you said before, a slobby slacker who just wants a girlfriend — but because he's the only person who truly appreciates her. He understands her in a way that most of us are dying to be understood."
A short laugh escaped Colin.
"What's so funny?" Em asked.
"Just that you would tell me," he said. "Or that you even remembered what I said about him in the first place. I hardly remember."
"That's because for you, honesty and brutal honesty are the same," said Em. "If I'd made that comment about Bobby, I'd remember it as something catty and insensitive, and worth being sorry about."
"As you did so recently," said Colin, "when you insulted that caller on your show. The one whose life you relegated to the pathetic with a few choice words."
Shock had taken Emma's tongue. It wasn't the shock of knowing he had listened to her show — although that surprised her readily enough — but the pain of those words coming back to her with full force. The tacit cut-off of poor, puzzled Claire as a boring and tedious caller.
After a moment, she spoke. "You're right. You're absolutely right. And you said it perfectly, so that it hurt me as deeply as I hurt you."
The stony expression on his face melted away. "Emma, I didn't mean —"
"No," she said. "I deserved it. And you should have the satisfaction of knowing that." She turned away and pushed the button for the elevator, feeling relieved when its doors closed and cut off any attempt Colin might have made at an apology. Except he had said nothing after her words were finished.
"There's just something about him." It was anger in Em's voice as she concluded her recitation of the apartment scene for Frank's benefit. "I don't know what it is. He just ... gets to me."
At least it was anger and not tears. She had almost cried a few in her car before she had taken command of herself and started the engine. Don't be childish, she had told herself. He had been right. Whether she liked the way he worded it or not, it had been true. On the drive to Frank's, she had time to focus on this. Frank, however, had seen the alternate side of the issue instead.
"He's a rude, heartless person, Em. That's how those people operate. They know exactly how to hurt you — they do the calculations in their mind the way other people calculate restaurant tips," said Frank. "Of course he gets to you. You'd have to be heartless, too, for him not to do it."
"He's not
heartless," said Em. "I mean, I know there's a different side to him." She hadn't intended for this to turn into an attack on Colin. Had she? "He can be nice. Caring, even. And he was right about my making a mistake."
"It's a wonder he didn't word it cruelly. 'Listen to you, Doctor Emma. You think you're such a kind, caring listener, but in reality, you're as selfish as the rest of us. No patience for the tedious, boring, pathetic loser any more than the rest of us cold-hearted jerks.'" Frank took a bite of cheese and crackers from their appetizer, the plate half-buried under his manuscript sheets.
He was closer to the truth than he realized, Em thought. It had been her incessant worry about her own problem that caused her to dismiss Claire’s that day on the air. But never in a million years would she tell him the reasons why.
"You need to arm yourself against him. Ammunition," said Frank, pointing at her. "You need something to fight back with whenever he says these things. I'll bet we could find some great dirt on him."
"I'm sure I could if I wanted to," said Em. "But I would like to think that's beneath me." She re-stacked the loose pages of Frank's chapter eleven, noting that it hadn't progressed much since their previous session. "Anyway, it doesn't matter. He doesn't respect me, because he doesn't respect what I do."
"Of course he doesn't," Frank laughed. "I mean, we both know why. It's a shame you can't use something that perfect against him, but you'd never do it in a million years."
"He's a world-class snob," she answered, "if that's what you mean. But that's not much of a bombshell."
"That's not what I meant," said Frank, still laughing. "Didn't you realize? He's Charles."
Chapter Sixteen
Em's face was momentarily blank. "What?" she repeated. Her heart had plunged downwards in a freefall in response to Frank's words.
Frank's smile was puzzled. "You didn't realize it," he said. "Wow. I didn't know," he continued, looking surprised by this fact. "Didn't his voice ever sound familiar to you? I just assumed you recognized him, and that was partly why you disliked him. The fact that he was so disappointing in person."
Something about him had been familiar. She had sensed it from the start, although she could never pinpoint what it was connected to in her memory. But that wasn't what was bothering her at this very second. It was the memory of herself babbling on about Charles's plight on the bridge, as Colin listened. He had listened to her, sympathized, smiled — and all the while, knowing he was the one. He had let her make a fool of herself by telling that story. Had he been mocking her the whole time?
She stirred. "How did you know?" She looked at Frank.
"I listened to the tape." Reaching over, he opened the drawer, ignoring the manuscript pages which slid to the floor in response to this motion. He pulled out the cassette Em remembered from before, the one Frank had shown her weeks ago.
It spooled through the tape deck in Em's old stereo. Through the speakers, Em's voice emerged, the younger version of itself. "Listen to me, Charles. It's important that you don't keep these feelings bottled up inside you, okay? You can talk to me, or anybody else you want."
"I didn't want to talk to anyone. I just ... suddenly needed to hear someone talk about it. I don't know why. I can't understand it. I just think it shouldn't have ended this way ..."
It was Colin's voice. Younger, hoarse, broken and bitter, but definitely the same. How could she have not realized it, forgotten the sound of it after the mark it left in her life the first time?
"A lot of people out there know how you feel, Charles. A lot of people listening right now do, too. Just go ahead and share what you feel —"
Em switched it off. Even without the tape playing, phrases from that conversation were coming back to her, running through her head with tones as clear as a bell after hearing those voices again.
"I thought I made her happy. Nothing she said told me it wasn't true..."
"You've got to believe that it wasn't all you, Charles. If you loved her, if you didn't hurt her, then you can't hurt yourself like this..."
"She walked away, and I ... I felt lost. I had no explanation for what just happened..."
The radio in Em's car was running the twenty hottest pop hits of the week, but Em wasn't listening. The tape was still playing in her head, fueling the anger which was building steadily inside her with every recollection.
"Do you believe you could still love someone again? That you can let go of her someday? That's half the challenge. You just have to believe it's possible."
"I don't know if I want to believe it."
"You should. Because I don't believe you're a lost cause in romance. I think you can face that moment she walked away, and put it behind you —"
Em signaled a turn and swung into the parking garage of Colin's building. The doorman didn't question her this time, apparently recognizing her from before. No one prevented her from crossing to the elevator.
"She was everything..."
"It feels like that, I know, but this is not the end of your world, Charles."
"It is, though. It's the end of a piece of it. That was the piece I wanted most."
"But you have so much more going for you. You have a job. You have a family, I'm sure. You have a city around you that is filled with opportunities..."
You've Got a Friend. That's the song she had played after the call. He hadn't requested one, of course. That wasn't the point of his phone call, that lonely act of reaching out in the dead of night. Em punched the button for the elevator, angrily, as the doors closed.
When they opened, Colin's apartment was mere steps away. Em didn't give a thought to whether he was home, or asleep, or entertaining guests. She pounded on the door twice, then waited.
It opened. Colin was there, wearing a worn sweater and jeans instead of the suit he'd been wearing earlier. He stared at Em, evidently confused.
"You're Charles." That was all she said. On Colin's face, comprehension dawned.
"My middle name," he said. An explanation, Em realized. "Colin Charles Ferris."
Her mouth opened. "Why didn't you tell me?" she asked. "The whole time I was telling you the story on the bridge — you remembered, didn't you? This tape —" she held up the cassette, "— this is your voice, isn't it? Charles at three a.m., calling into my request line at the radio station."
"Yes. It is."
"Then why didn't you say something?" Em's voice rose. "How could you pretend you didn't know what I was talking about? That I was telling a story about some — some stranger to you. You told me to let go of Charles' problems, of not knowing — and the whole time, you knew perfectly well what happened to Charles."
"Because I prefer not to remember it," Colin answered. "I prefer not to remember calling into a radio station and exposing my foolishness to the world."
He was completely nonplussed. No consternation for her discovery, no dismay for her anger. Nothing. Em stared at him, uncomprehendingly.
"You're amazing," she uttered, in disbelief. "Look at you. You don't even care."
"I do care," Colin said, levelly. "That's why I don't like to think about it. I didn't mention it, because I wanted you to forget about it. I told you to do so, because it was for the best."
"The best?" echoed Em. "I cared about what happened to you! It mattered to me to know what happened to 'Charles,' believe it or not!"
"I do," Colin answered, lowering his voice, glancing around as if afraid his neighbors might hear them. "That's why I wanted you to let go and not think about it anymore."
Em shook her head. "This is unbelievable."
"Why?" Colin asked. "Probably a hundred people phoned your request line. You've probably passed some of them on the street without knowing it —"
"That's not what I mean," said Em. "I mean you. I mean your attitude about this. You let me make an idiot of myself, telling you something that was important to me. You called into my show all those years ago, and here you are now, despising what I do ... what am I supposed to think? How am I supposed t
o feel about this, Colin?"
He glanced away. "Just because I prefer not to remember it doesn't mean I'm laughing at you," he answered. "Surely you see why I didn't bring it up when I met you. It was ... humiliating."
He could have said nothing else that sucked the breath out of her as quickly as this word did. Humiliating? Her advice? She was aware that her mouth had come open, but no words were coming out of it.
The two actions were separate, but came together seamlessly, with what was left of Emma's dignity. She tossed the tape at Colin's chest, watching as he fumbled to catch it. Then she turned and marched to the elevator.
"Emma! Emma, wait —"
The doors closed before she was forced to hear anything more of Colin's reply. There were no tears running down Em's face, or in the car afterwards, as she turned the key in the ignition.
The top pop favorites sprang to life. Em shut it off, switching to the CD. Kelly Clarkson's album blared from her speakers, filling the silence. Em sang along — forcefully, when it came to the lyrics proclaiming what doesn't kill you makes you stronger — and succeeded in drowning out any further replay of that tape which was now undoubtedly in Colin Ferris's trash can.
Now she understood his loathing for radio therapy. All the things he supposedly said about call-in segments for sharing problems — all those statements might be true, and they were all inspired by her advice to him years ago. His past experience with her had probably been the biggest obstacle for him in working with her.
Clearly, she needn't wonder any longer if her advice had been helpful to 'Charles.' It hadn't.
She slammed her front door at home and tossed her coat onto the sofa. In the bedroom, she plucked Colin's book from its place on the nightstand.
"...I know you'll be fine, Charles. Just keep thinking of letting go. She's not just letting go of you, you're letting her go. You're moving on to something better for you. To a person who will really care about you ..."
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