Trouble With the Curve (Learning Curve #2)

by Felicia Lynn

  Grabbing my phone from my back pocket while I wait for the elevator, I check my notifications. Shit. Four missed calls, three texts. When the elevator arrives, I stumble in and then aggressively punch the button for my floor six times when the doors close a little too slowly for me. I read her messages as the steel box climbs directly to my floor; luckily, I’m traveling solo.

  Buttercup: Hey, hotshot. Just dropped off Trace. On my way home. I’ll call you when I get there.

  Buttercup: I’m home. Tried to call and went to voice mail. Can’t wait to talk to you.

  Buttercup: Are you ok? I hope you’re having fun. You deserve it. I’m in bed, but I’ll try to stay up as long as I can to wait for your call. L+u Stone. <3

  It’s fair to say that the emotional pick-me-up from the booze withers away as the elevator climbs. As soon as the doors begin to open, I squeeze myself through the crack of space, sloppily jogging down the hall toward my room, praying I’m able to hear her voice. I’ve waited all day. I look forward to it every night and being too drunk to hear my phone or even remember to check it is a huge fuck up.

  It takes six frustrating attempts of inserting the magnetic key into the slot on my door while seeing double to finally get the green light and throw the door open. I press the green button next to her picture, and the phone is ringing before I even sit on the edge of the bed. But it rings too many times, and I almost throw my phone against the wall on the other side of the room but disconnect before the recording can play and redial instead. Please don’t let voicemail pick up.

  Her voice is groggy and raspy from sleep when she answers. “Ty. Is everything okay?” she asks, not fully awake. I look at the time on the alarm clock next to the bed, realizing for the first time that it’s after one o’clock in the morning. Damn, I knew it was late, but I had no idea I was in the bar that long.

  “Sorry, beautiful. I didn’t realize how late it was. Go back to sleep. We can talk tomorrow.” I pause, trying to keep my shit together before I finish, and I hear the sweet sound of her yawning. “Buttercup, I just wanted to tell you I love you. Sleep tight.”

  “No, Ty. I want to talk to you. Are you in bed?” I undress after her question faster than any man in my condition should be able to and dive under the covers. Lying back on my pillow, I try to picture what she looks like right now in our bed at home.

  “I am now. Did you have a good time with the girls tonight? How was the movie?” I ask. Ashamed when I stagger through my questions, I hope she doesn’t realize my inebriated state.

  “I had a good time, Ty. Can we talk about your night? Are you okay? You don’t sound right.” The concern in her voice hurts. I’m not okay, and she’s known it for a while, but the guilt from causing her stress multiples anyway.

  “Just went to the bar downstairs to watch the games with the guys, like I said before. I guess I had one too many, but maybe it’ll help me sleep better. Tell me what you’re wearing, buttercup. I wish I was there to touch you.” I attempt to distract her from any talk about my current mood or condition and move on to a more favorable topic.

  “Ty . . . what’s going on? What’s wrong? I’m not saying you don’t deserve a night out with the guys even if you are really drunk. I’m okay with that part. But you don’t sound right. Something’s going on, and I’m really worried. Please talk to me. Is everything okay with the team?” I can’t deal with this right now.

  “Drop it, Charlotte. Everything is fine with the team. I’m going to be hurtin’ tomorrow, but if I can sleep tonight, it’ll be worth it. So again, what are you wearing?” I ask again, hoping she takes the bait.

  The long pause followed by a sigh on the other end of the phone isn’t promising. I hear the covers shuffling, and I can almost picture her sitting up in our bed. “Ty, I’m only going to ask one more time. If you refuse to answer, this conversation is over. Please . . . talk to me,” she pleads.

  The fragile hold on my patience breaks. “You know what, Charlotte, I’ll tell you. But remember you asked for it when it’s not what you wanted to hear.”

  “Ty, it’s not about what I want to hear. I love you. I only want the truth and to know you’re okay. And right now, I don’t think you are. So tell me . . . I can handle it,” she says, faking confidence.

  “I’ve worked so fucking hard for this. It’s the only thing I ever wanted. Now that I have it, there’s no joy in it. I’m fucking miserable. I feel like I’m stuck between the two most important parts of my life. It’s ripping me to shreds. Nothing is working out how I’d planned, and I’ve figured out I can’t have it all and be happy. If I can’t choose, I think I might lose it all.”

  “Ty, there’s an adjustment period. We talked about this. It’s going to get better. We just have to give it time. I’m sorry for being whiny about missing you, but I’m finding a new routine and feeling better. You will too if you just give it a little more time.” Her voice trembles, and I hear her breath catch in her throat—a sure sign she’s crying. “You’ve always said if it was meant to be, it would happen. It’s happened. We’re lucky. Don’t you see that? You can’t give up before it gets to the really good part.”

  I’ve never been one to admit defeat so easily, and I might regret doing it now at some point, but I don’t care anymore. If that makes me weak, then so be it.

  “Maybe it’s not meant to be. Maybe wanting it to work out isn’t enough. Even if what I want means almost everything to me, it’s not enough. Getting one means slowly ripping the other to shreds, and there’s no way to balance it. I can’t do this anymore.” The quiet sobs she attempts to hide torture me. I take a deep breath and sigh. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I really tried. Please go back to sleep. It’s really late, and I have an early morning. Let’s talk about this tomorrow when emotions aren’t so high.” I know I’ve fucked everything up way more than it was already, and I’m powerless without a way to fix it from this far away.

  She sniffles. “No matter what, I love you, Tyler. Nothing will ever change that.” Before I can tell her how much I love her and that I promise to hold her tight tomorrow, she disconnects. Can things be any more fucked up?

  I’VE SPENT THE PAST three days adding personal touches to the townhouse to make it feel more like our home—a family home. Even though it’s temporary, I thought it would be comforting for Ty to come home and see framed photos of the two of us throughout the house. I’ve wanted to do this since I moved in but just haven’t gotten around to it yet.

  I wanted to make the reveal special by surprising Tyler with news that he was going to be a daddy surrounded by reminders of our love. Now, everything is set up and ready for the surprise he won’t see. I don’t understand what happened, but he’s giving up on us.

  He doesn’t even realize he’s going to walk away from another person who is now in the picture, and I’ll have to find a way to tell him soon but not today. Today, I need to think. I read his text from earlier, again trying to decode the hidden message.

  Ty: I’m on my way to the field. I’ll try to call you later. I’m sorry about last night. I know I’m an asshole. I love you, Charlotte.

  If the “I love you, Charlotte” doesn’t say everything, I don’t know what does. It might be silly, but that’s not our thing. If he thought we were going to be okay, he’d have used L+u. Maybe I should be happy he said anything about love at all, but I just don’t feel like grasping at straws today.

  I haven’t responded because what is there to say at this point? “No worries, it’s life. Have a nice day. I look forward to talking later to figure out how we can dismantle our lives peacefully.” Oh . . . then add, “and love u too.” Yeah, that’s not happening.

  I’ve been watching the blades of the ceiling fan spin above our bed for hours. Once I was able to move past the initial shock and the tears subsided, the urge to pack a bag and run as far from here as possible left as well. I’m not escaping. I refuse to be ashamed and hide. At some point, I know I might need to wrap my head around making alternate living arrangeme
nts, but I don’t want to.

  I’m not ready to think about that since the only change in residence I ever wanted to consider was moving to Georgia to be with him. I’d follow Tyler anywhere, and if the past few weeks have taught us anything, it’s that there’s nowhere else I want to be. I was ready to tell him that tonight, and the ball is already in motion to transition to online classes for my last semester.

  We belong together. I don’t care if we have to move around a hundred times before we can put down real roots. I’d live in a box if it meant having Ty by my side. We’re a family. I love him. I love us. We are not a lie. I know what we have is as real as it gets.

  Once upon a time, I let my emotions get the best of me and missed seeing the big picture. I doubted what I felt deep down and made rash decisions that caused a lot of heartache. I refuse to repeat the same mistakes.

  I wanted a better life, and I chose to listen to my heart. I haven’t regretted that decision yet. And even now, with the proof of the love we share growing inside me, I wouldn’t change a thing.

  I just need to think, and I need a plan, but I can’t do that here. Space from my current reality will help clear the fog.

  Plugging my phone into the charger by the nightstand, I get up. I am strong. I can be strong enough for both of us if I have to. All three of us actually. If only he knew.

  What do I have to lose? I need to figure out something. One of us has to at least try. So I’ll be the one who doesn’t give up. The darkest nights produce the most stars. Time to figure out how to be a star and light up his dark sky.

  Slipping on the leggings tossed in a chair with the t-shirt of Ty’s I slept in last night, I grab a baseball hat and purse and set out on my mission to clear the clouds in my head.

  I GOT OUT OF the field sooner than I expected and spent the entire hour of the ride in a car service back to the corporate apartment thinking about Charlie. I fucked up. Big time. Last night, I let the loneliness get the best of me and took it out on my girl. She didn’t deserve that. She’s not to blame for my weak drunken moment. My filter malfunctioned, and I told her I wanted to throw in the towel on my career. I lied; I said this life wasn’t meant to be for me, but that’s not really true. I just haven’t figured out how to balance it. She was right.

  I knew I was in the doghouse when I didn’t get a response to my text this morning. I got my bags in the truck and took off toward home as fast as possible. With forty-five minutes until I hit Columbia and all my calls going straight to her voicemail, I’m getting a sinking feeling in my gut. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe she’s still pissed that I was a dick. But even if she didn’t want to talk to me, is it too much to ask that she return one of the many texts with at least a “Fuck you”?

  The gas light on the dash of my truck flashes, alerting me that I need gas. I didn’t want to take the time to stop earlier and thought I’d try to stretch it, but I’m going to have to stop. Running out of gas on the interstate would suck up a lot more of the time I don’t have. So I take the next exit.

  While the gas is pumping, I run through my list of contacts and find what I need. Pressing the green button, I shouldn’t be surprised he picks up right away, but I am since I’ve grown accustomed to voice recordings today.

  “Hey, Stone. What’s up, man?” Hmm . . . he’s not threatening to cut off my nuts. Is it a promising sign that he’s not on the warpath or does he just not know what happened yet?

  “Jamie, have you or Trace talked to Charlie today? I can’t reach her. Her phone’s going straight to voicemail, and she hasn’t responded to my texts. I’m almost home, but dude . . . I’m worried.” Without responding, I hear him call out to Trace and ask if she knows anything. I can’t hear her response, but I’m impatient for an answer.

  “What’s she saying, man? Talk to me,” I plead.

  “Relax, Ty; we’ll help you figure this out. Trace said she hasn’t talked to her today, but that she had a lot going on getting ready for you to come home. She seems to think it’s no big deal. Charlie was fine last night, cheerful and excited to see you today. Maybe her phone’s just dead,” he says, trying to make me feel better.

  “Nah, man. Something’s not right. I talked to her last night. It didn’t go well. We didn’t have a fight, but . . . Fuck. I don’t know how to explain it. I was in a bad place, and I think I blamed her. My head was all screwed up, and instead of sucking it up, I took it out on her. I haven’t been able to reach her since. Jamie, what if she’s left? Or what if she’s sick? I just gotta get home.” Replacing the gas nozzle, I jog to get back in the truck.

  He growls into the speaker, talking in low tones. “Stone, what the fuck did you do? I swear if you hurt her . . . I’m kicking your ass. Let me know if you hear from her before I do and depending on her mental state when I find her, I’ll consider returning that favor, asshole.”

  “Jamie, at this point, I want you to kick my ass. Just fucking help me find her and make sure she’s okay. I’ll be home in thirty,” I finish, disconnecting the call before he does because there’s nothing left for us to say and there’s no use in wasting time. I should have called him sooner. Please don’t let that be another thing I’ll regret later.

  ***

  There’s no sign of Charlie’s car when I pull into my driveway. Jamie’s walking off the porch, changing his path from his own truck to mine when he sees I’m here. I jump out, hoping for answers, but with his jaw clenched, he shakes his head instead.

  “She’s not here. Her phone is in the bedroom plugged in. She slept here last night because the bed isn’t made. It looks like her shit is still here, but I don’t know where she is. I’m making some calls. We’re going out to find her, so I don’t have time to deal with you now, but you need to wait here in case she shows up.” Disgusted, he turns to walk to his truck. Then he calls over his shoulder, “And you need a new door handle and lock. I forgot my key.”

  As he climbs into the truck, I yell, “Dude, call me if you find her . . . please!” I beg. He shoots me the bird and starts his truck, glaring at me. His face and neck are red, and his body is tense as he tries to restrain himself from the impulse to kill me. I watch him drive away, thinking I should help him out by starting to dig my grave now, but I walk to the front door instead.

  The door handle hangs loosely by a single bent metal plate, and I push it open and walk into the house, not caring in the slightest about the damage. I’m immediately comforted by the smell I’ve become addicted to as soon as I walk inside. It smells like daisies and powdered sugar, my buttercup.

  Looking around the room, I smile. I don’t know how I can smile under these circumstances, but my girl has been busy. Framed photographs of us sit on the hutch under the television and on the end table next to the couch. The blanket she likes to cuddle with is folded neatly over the armrest, just the way she likes it. On the coffee table in that stupid decorative basket she loves, I see a stack of bridal magazines that makes my heart bleed. I squeeze my eyes closed so firmly, stars flicker in the darkness, but it doesn’t ease the ache.

  Scrubbing my hands across my face, I whisper in the empty space. “I’m so fucking sorry, buttercup. Please come back to me. I promise I’ll fix this. I’ll spend my entire life making it up to you. Just give me a chance.”

  Focusing, I run, taking the stairs two or maybe it was three at a time. In our bedroom, her sweet smell attacks my senses more aggressively. I move to the nightstand and pick up her phone. I check her call and texts for clues even though I’m sure Jamie was way ahead of me and did that already, but there’s nothing. Just my texts and calls earlier, and then after I’d called Jaime, there are a lot of calls from him. Jamie must have activated some sort of emergency phone chain before realizing Charlotte didn’t have her phone with her wherever she is.

  I look around. The room is tidy like normal with the exception of the unmade bed. Charlie makes the bed every morning—something it took me a while to get used to and teased her for wasting her time. She’s very particul
ar about how it’s done and the placement of the useless throw pillows. I sigh, pulling her pillow off the bed and pressing it to my face. “Charlie, I’m sorry. I’m here. I came home to see you. Where are you, buttercup?”

  I put the pillow down and pull up the covers, attempting to make the bed to her standards even though I know it isn’t. Recalling the images of the bed as she makes it, I try to place the throw pillows in order. I walk out of the room, checking all the other rooms upstairs just to be thorough, but nothing is out of place, so I head back downstairs.

  The kitchen is normal, and I’m even surprised not to find the stacks of Ziploc bags with leftover pizza in the fridge like the photo she sent me last week. She was on a pizza binge and fell specifically in love with cold pizza. For a minute, I was concerned she was hoarding leftover pizza, but it looks like she overcame it. The fridge is stocked with our normal staples and lots of fresh fruit and veggies for me I’m sure. My favorite craft beer is neatly lined on the top shelf next to bottled waters and mini juice bottles. I have to hide my eyes when I see her to-do list magnetic notepad on the side of the fridge with a note Charlie L+’s Tyler with stars and hearts doodled around it.

  “Please, please, please.”

  I push myself off the counter I had unknowingly grabbed and head back to living room, but in the dining room, something catches my eye. We never use that space. I’m not even sure why we needed a table at all, but Charlie wanted it, and so it’s here. We always eat on the couch, comfortable and casual. But the table always looked nice with the “centerpiece arrangement,” as she called it.

  Now, a gift bag sits on the table with a card and a cookie box. Maybe she’s going to a party or something. When I get closer, I see my name written on the front of the card in Charlie’s writing.