by Ginger Scott
I nod once and pack my things to walk out with him, my insides bouncing between nervous excitement and fear that I’m going to be alone with him. I’m not ready. I’m not ready. I’m not ready.
“Oh, and so…I guess, I’ll pick you up at six for the show? I’ve got some work at the shop, so I’ll swing by the house,” Cody says.
I nod yes and give him a thumb’s up like the weak-willed loser I am. I can’t say no to Cody.
I don’t want to.
I’m pacing in the driveway, swinging my keys around my thumb, trying to get up the nerve to drive to the shop and cancel on Cody. I’ve actually put the keys in the car three times, and gotten back out each time, only to pace more. Meanwhile, minutes are ticking away, and now I’ve found myself at less than an hour until Cody’s coming to pick me up.
Jessie’s Volkswagen pops when she pulls up the driveway, like it’s announcing her arrival. Her car is loud and unapologetic, just like her. She pulls right up to my feet and stops her engine, getting out, her gum popping in her mouth, and her hands dangling from the pockets of the hoodie she’s wearing.
She pushes her toes right up to mine and then tilts her head, staring me in the face. “What are ya doin’?” she asks, twisting her neck to the side with a crack. She’s staring me right in the face, her chewing slow and methodical—like she’s trying to break me.
I don’t know how to answer her. Honestly, I haven’t a clue what I’m doing. I suck in air swiftly, and then blow it out slowly, my posture deflating along with the tiny bit of confidence I have left.
“I have no idea,” I say, my eyes tearing a little as I speak. I try to blink them away, but it only makes it worse, and within seconds, I’m actually crying in front of the toughest girl I’ve ever met.
“Shit,” she says, reaching for my hand and pulling me inside the house. “I didn’t mean to make you cry. Come on, where’s your room?”
I lead Jessie upstairs to my bedroom, and once we’re inside, she shuts the door behind her. She walks around the room slowly, her face somewhere between a laugh and confusion. “You live here?” she asks, touching the dresser and running her finger along the bottom of a picture frame.
I shrug my shoulders, still recovering from my breakdown.
“It’s just…it doesn’t really look like you. Like…at all,” she says, and I know exactly what she means. It’s not me.
Jessie notices my desk finally, and she comes over to sit at it, tracing the dents with her fingers, just like Cody did. “Well, I take that back. This is you,” she says, a tight smile forming when she talks.
“That was my dad’s,” I say, letting out every last bit of air and tension when I do. “And you’re right. About everything.”
Jessie nods yes and pulls the gum from her mouth as she stands. “Trash?” she asks. I direct her to the bathroom, and she is in there for a few minutes, no doubt looking at all of the ornate fixtures and the oversized closet.
She’s rubbing her hands together and cracking her knuckles when she comes back into the room. I’m sitting on the end of the bed now, my feet folded up and my head slung forward.
“So? Where’s the ring?” she asks. I nod toward the drawer, where I’ve tucked it in its box. I don’t wear it when Trevor isn’t here. I tell myself it’s because I don’t like being flashy, and it’s a little uncomfortable. But I do it because I don’t want to rub it in Cody’s face. I know he notices, but he hasn’t said anything about it.
Jessie slides the drawer open and peeks inside the little black box for a few seconds. She doesn’t react at all when she closes it again and places it back in the drawer. She zips down the front of her hoodie and pulls her arms from the sleeves, tossing it on the bed just before she flops down next to me.
“It’s a nice ring,” she says, no inflection at all. She shoots her head to the side to look at me. “It doesn’t look like you—like at all.”
“I know,” I say, surprising myself at my honesty.
“Why’d you say yes?” she asks.
I shrug, and then flop down on the bed beside her. “I’m supposed to,” I say, knowing I’m only scratching at the surface of the reason I said yes to Trevor’s proposal.
“Bullshit,” Jessie says, leaning her arm into me.
I laugh at her reaction, mostly at how quickly she called me out. “It’s not bullshit,” I say with a nervous laugh. “Not totally, anyhow…I mean, I’ve been dreaming of marrying Trevor Appleton since the day we met. His asking actually happened right when I hoped it would. It’s just…”
She stops me mid sentence.
“It’s just that was before…before Cody,” she smiles softly and reaches for my hand to squeeze it. On instinct, I squeeze her back and let the tears fill up my eyes again.
“Jessie, what the hell am I doing?” I say, the tears coming on a little harder now.
“You’re playing it safe,” she says. I hold my breath to stop my crying and stare at her, trying to understand what she means. Am I being safe? Is that all Trevor is about?
I love him—I know I do. But maybe there are different kinds of love? When Mac died, a piece of me died, too. My fire. My energy. If anything happened to Trevor, I know I would hurt and struggle to recover. But if something happened to Cody? It would devastate me.”
“You should tell him,” she says, waking me from my thoughts.
“Huh?” I ask, not completely following.
“Cody. You should tell him how you feel,” she says, her face serious, but not threatening like before. She’s talking to me like a friend—a girlfriend—and it feels amazing.
I smile back at her words, but I don’t respond. I know that Cody’s biggest priority is saving his father’s shop. And I also can’t bear the thought of being the thing that destroys this new relationship he’s found with his brother.
I can tell Jessie senses my hesitation, but she decides not to push me. Instead, she pulls me to my feet and into the gigantic closet filled with my sad selection of clothing.
“Well, at least you’re going to a kick-ass show. Let’s get you dressed, so you can have a good time tonight, maybe forget about this mess you’re in for a few hours, huh?” she says, flipping through my hangers and scrunching her nose at most of my garments. “Fuck, Charlie. What are you, 45?”
I laugh at her remark, until I realize she’s serious—and then I realize how pathetic my wardrobe really is. I went from shy-high-school-shut-in, to college-brown-noser. The partying-coed never really made a stop with my style. My pulse is quickening, and I feel like I might pass out as I realize Cody’s going to be here in less than 20 minutes—and I might have to walk downstairs in a sweater vest and jeans.
Out of instinct, I start to chew my nails, only to have Jessie slap my hand away from my lips. “Stop it!” she scolds. “That’s a bad habit, and you do it all the time. Come on, pull your shoes off.”
I do as she says and notice she’s pulling off her black combat boots. She pulls my white cotton sundress out and tells me to pull it on. So, I do. Then she tells me to see if her boots fit me, and amazingly we’re the same size. I’m awkward in them, though, and I feel like I should wrap myself in a sweater to cover up my bare shoulders. Just then, Jessie drags me into the bathroom and comes back in with her hoodie.
“Here, wear this when you’re cold. But when it warms up, during the show, take it off. You look super cute. Trust me,” she smiles.
I check the mirror and decide she’s half right, but my face and hair still look dull and lifeless. Without warning, Jessie is coming at me with a mascara wand, and I back up against the sink, a little nervous. “Relax, I got it out of your make-up bag on the counter. I’m just going to help you rock it out a little,” she says, biting the tip of her tongue while she concentrates.
For the next ten minutes, Jessie powders, circles, and smudges around my eyes, finishing with a touch of gloss on my lips. Before she lets me turn around, she pushes my head down between my knees and brushes out my waves with her finge
rs, roughing up my hair at my scalp.
“There. Okay, flip it back up and check yourself out, mama,” she says, proud of herself.
I turn around and can’t believe the vision that greets me—I’m not sure I look like myself, but I like the person that I see. “Wow,” I say, turning around some to see the back of the dress and my hair. “You’re, like, a ninja make-up warrior.”
Jessie laughs so hard she snorts, then she covers her mouth, embarrassed by her noise. I laugh with her, until I hear a soft knock at my door. I know it’s Cody—and suddenly, I’m not so sure I want him to see me. I’m thinking about diving under the covers on the bed and feigning ill when he creaks the door open, his hand over his eyes.
“You decent, Charlie?” he asks. I can smell his scent from across the room—like the embrace of a warm outdoor fire. He must have taken a shower before he came to pick me up, because his hair’s still wet. He’s wearing the same black thermal that he was during class, but it suddenly seems ten times sexier. The sleeves are pushed to his elbows, showing off his tats and leather bands. His jeans are straight-cut, hugging his thighs and showing off just how strong he is.
I realize it too late, but I’m licking my lips as I look at him. I cough to regain my composure and elbow Jessie, who’s now outright laughing at me. “Yeah, I’m decent,” I say, rolling my eyes. I walk closer to him and reach for my purse, which is lying on the bed. I stop long enough to catch Cody’s first reaction, though, and it fills my body with a rush, my heart pounding out of my chest from the way he’s looking at me.
It’s desire.
I decide not to interrupt it, and I turn to thank Jessie, and then pull my purse strap over my shoulder before turning back to Cody. “Well, you ready? We better go so we’re not late,” I say.
His eyes stay on me while he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his keys. As I walk by him, I let my shoulder graze across his chest, just barely, and I swear he breathes me in.
Jessie comes downstairs with us and gives me a quick wink at the door before leaning in for a whisper. “Tell him,” she says.
I smile with tight lips and head to Cody’s truck. He’s only a few steps behind me, and in my inner fantasy, he’s following me to my door so he can turn me around, push me against the cold metal, and kiss me. But I get in and pull the door closed behind me without as much as a touch of his hand.
Cody’s standing outside, his hand on his door handle, looking at me through the glass—staring at me with the same wanting he was upstairs, and I can’t look away. I can’t look away, because I want him to want me—because I want him. But just like the damned glass between us now, there’s a barrier between us every minute I’m with him, no matter how close we get.
It’s like he comes to the same realization I do, and he quickly looks down at his feet and opens the door. When his eyes meet mine again, the hunger in them is gone, replaced by the same guarded friendliness he’s been showing me for days. I can’t deny my disappointment, and I instantly feel stupid in Jessie’s boots, with my stupid smoky eyes and hair.
We drive for about ten minutes before a word is spoken, but when Cody asks me—I instantly wish for the silence to come back. No, I beg for it.
“So…tell him what?” Cody asks.
I pretend I have no idea what he means, just turning my head to the side and shrugging
“Jessie said ‘Tell him.’ I heard her. Tell him what?” he won’t look at me when he speaks, and his face is serious. For a split second, I think about doing what she said. I could tell him that I’m terrified about marrying Trevor…that I think I was wrong to say yes, and that I can’t stop thinking about him…and I think I might be falling for him. But then I fast-forward to how hurt and angry Trevor would be, and how he’d blame Cody for everything.
So I lie.
“I was asking her for advice on something with Trevor. Just something girly and silly,” I say, brushing it off and putting on the performance of my life. Cody’s face falls the moment I’m done talking, and he stops breathing. I can see his jaw tense through his cheeks, and when he turns to check his side mirror, I swear his eyes are wet. But he puts on his mask quickly and turns back to look at me for a second with the safe smile.
“Oh, okay,” he says.
The arena is a good hour away. With every minute that ticks by and Cody doesn’t talk, my stomach is churning with nerves. I waver between wanting to pretend I’m ill and wanting to tell him I lied—to tell him the truth. I have to do something to ease my anxiety, so I start to look through my purse for my wallet, for the only thing that ever seems to stop the panic attacks—the only thing that rights me when I’m getting off course.
I flip the last fold open on my wallet, and the old photo slides onto the wrinkles of my dress. It’s worn and bent in half, so I’m careful when I flatten it out. It was the last time Mac and I were together before he died. We had finished celebratory slushes from my tournament win, and both of our tongues were stained red from the syrup at the soda shop. Mac said I should get a picture of us sticking our tongues out, so we smashed our heads close, and I snapped one with my phone. I had a print made the next day, after he died, because I never wanted to forget how we were that day—I never wanted to forget my dad.
“Can I see?” Cody’s voice surprises me. I crook the corner of my lip into a faint smile and hold the fragile photo up near the steering wheel, again sharing a piece of me that has only ever been private.
“That’s my dad,” I say, not even masking my pride.
“He was a cop, huh?” Cody asks, taking the photo in his fingers and holding it up in front of him while we sit at a stoplight. He’s careful with it and hands it back to me gently.
“Yeah. He was a great cop,” I gulp. “That was the day I won the state championship. We were celebrating. He died that night.”
Cody doesn’t look at me, like he knows how far I’ve gone—and that if he pushes, I’ll only retreat. And he’s right; I will.
“You were really good at golf. You shouldn’t have quit,” he says, deciding to focus on the part of what I told him that isn’t wrapped in scars.
“It wasn’t fun anymore,” I say, glad that Cody didn’t ask for the rest of my story, but also desperate to keep him talking. I put the photo away and let my guard down, but only a little. “It’s kind of like you and riding.”
Cody smiles, his lips tight while he breathes slowly through his nose. “I get it. I didn’t ride for about five years. At least, not often.”
“Gabe said you do sometimes. That you rebuilt a bike…that one I saw,” I say.
Cody’s biting his lip while he’s listening to me, with a smirk on his face, and I get the feeling he’s hiding something.
“I did,” he says, pausing for a long time, sucking in his lips and taking another long breath. “It took a while to build, and I did some riding here and there. But I didn’t really start riding a lot again…until I met you.”
I know my eyes are wide. I can feel the blast of the heater drying them out. But I can’t mask my surprise and the butterflies inside me that are starting to suffocate me.
“Oh,” I say bashfully, sucking in my bottom lip.
“So, tell me something about you. Who is Charlotte Hudson…really?” Cody says, and I bunch my brow at him with confusion. “I mean, come on. You can’t wear khaki pants to school and like The Killers—those are two different girls. Which one is the real Charlie?”
I’d love to answer him. Hell, he has no idea, but I’ve been asking myself who I am since the day my mother dropped me off on Mac’s doorstep. So I just shrug, not sure what the hell else to say.
“Oh, come on now. That’s a cop-out. You know who you are—even if you think you don’t,” Cody’s playful side coming out again. “Here…let’s see…”
I grip the sides of my dress to dry the sweat from my palms and wait for Cody, both nervous and excited to see where our conversation goes.
“Favorite ice cream?” he asks.
Th
at one’s easy. “Chocolate,” I say.
“Hmmmmm, that’s predictable,” he says, reaching up and scratching at the whiskers on his cheek. I allow myself to sneak a look at him, to admire his face. “Okay, how about this…rock or country?”
“Both,” I say, sort of surprising myself. My head fills with the sounds of Mac’s car—the classic rock and the sad country he’d play late at night.
“Good. Good. Okay, steak or pasta?” he fires back.
“Pasta, definitely pasta,” I’m smiling at the thought, remembering almost every dinner I ate when I was a kid.
“Why do you want to be an architect?” he keeps going, not giving me time to rest—time to think.
“Because I love to draw. And I want to see something I put on paper live in the world,” I answer back, probably the only question he’ll ask that I’m absolutely sure about.
“Favorite Christmas?” he asks, dancing around my weakness, but not threatening it.
“The last one with my dad,” I say, smiling fondly, and Cody’s face matches mine.
“Me, too,” he says. “Okay, when did you meet Trevor?”
I can tell he’s struggling with this one, forcing it, and I don’t want to make a big deal out of it. “We met at school—one of the honor-student receptions,” I say, shrugging it off and hoping he’ll move on, but for some reason my answer seems to give him pause.
“Which one?” he asks.
I can tell you everything about the day I met Cody. It was a Saturday. He was wearing a T-shirt, a gray one. His eyes crinkled, and he made things inside me come alive, things that I buried with my father. And his touch felt like something I needed to survive, like the air I breathe. But right now—thinking of Trevor—I try to remember our past, and it’s like a fog.
“I think it was the last fall one, about a year ago. The one the Dean had at his house?” I say, not sure that I was right, but feeling fairly certain.
I can see everything about Cody change, his posture is rigid, and his hands are tight on the wheel. His teeth are clenched, and just like that—the easiness between us is gone.