Ellipses dance on the screen before another message from her pops up.
Brat: You really do love her, don’t you?
I sigh, wondering if it’s that obvious to everyone. I shove my phone back in my pocket and signal the flight attendants to bring Charlie a blanket and me a drink.
Charlie sleeps until the captain announces that we’re starting to descend. She’s groggy when she wakes up, and I feel rather than see when reality hits. Fresh pain rolls off her and I hear her small gasp like she’s trying to take in air, but can’t.
It’ll be days, even weeks before that goes away. Even now, more than two years after Ethan’s accident, there are moments that I forget he’s gone. Moments like my mom had at breakfast a couple weeks ago.
“Just breathe,” I say against her ear, feeling her anxiety, her panic. “I’ve got you.”
Her eyes close, and she takes small steadying breaths. “It doesn’t...doesn’t feel real...”
“I know.” I squeeze her hand and hold her gaze, the anguish in those hazel eyes undoing me. Part of me thought staying away would protect her, but I realize now that there’s always going to be pain in this life.
“I keep going through our last conversation together. I can’t remember...” She shakes her head. “I can’t remember if I told her I loved her.”
“She knew you did, even if you didn’t say it.”
Charlie nods, her eyes glassing over with memories and emotions. I let silence wrap around us, knowing there are no words that can take away the pain she’s going through.
“You doing okay?” Tatum asks, reaching his hand across the aisle toward her.
She lets out a shaky breath and gives a small nod. I try not to flinch when she takes his hand.
She’s not yours anymore, my brain reminds me.
But fuck, the thought of her being his guts me.
There aren’t many words exchanged as we collect our luggage and meet the car I ordered. We sit sandwiched in the back seat, Charlie in the middle, as we drive toward her hometown.
There are multiple cars parked along the curb in front of the small one-story house as we approach, and I can see shadows moving inside.
“My uncles are here,” Charlie says as I help her out and gather her bags. “The house is going to be busy.”
“Do you want me to come in?” I ask, wanting to be here for her anyway I can.
Tatum has come around the car and places an arm over her shoulder. “Just let us know what you want, what you need.”
“I think...” A tear rolls over her cheek and she brushes it away with the back of her hand. “I think I just need to go in alone.” She looks at me. “If that’s okay.”
“Like Tatum said, whatever you need. I’ve got us rooms at the Kensington. We’ll just be a phone call away.”
“Thank you.” She wraps her arms around my neck and hugs me.
I hold her, probably longer than necessary, long enough to earn me a scowl from Tatum, before helping her bring her luggage to the front door.
The tiny house is crowded, and Charlie is swept up in a whirlwind of hugs and sobs before the front door closes on me. Damn, I want to be in there. To be her strength. And it guts me that I’m not. Maybe if I hadn’t been a pussy all those weeks ago, thinking I was protecting her by walking away, I would be.
I walk back to the car where Tatum is pacing.
“We should stay.” There’s a tick in his jaw, and he looks like a bull ready to plow through the closed door. “She’ll need...us,” he says the last word like it’s got a bitter taste.
“What she needs is her family.” I open the door and get in. “She would have asked us to stay if she wanted us in there.”
His palm slaps down on the roof in frustration before he moves around to the other side, slamming the door when he gets in and looking about as miserable as I feel.
I still haven’t forgiven the fucker for hitting her, even though I know the shot was meant for me. But I have no doubt that the bastard loves her. And even though I hate him for it, I also can’t fault him. Charlie is...everything.
“Hate leaving her,” he mutters as the driver pulls away.
Me too, but I know it’s what she needs.
I pull out my cell and scroll through my messages. “She needs time to grieve, alone.”
“Okay, Dr. Phil.” He rolls his eyes at me.
I glance over at him and narrow my eyes. “You’ve never lost anyone you love, have you?”
He grunts. “And you have?”
“Yeah,” I say simply, holding his gaze. “And it fucking sucks.”
“Shit.” He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah, I heard something about your brother. Sorry, man.”
I shrug and glance out the window. The last thing I want to get into right now is a deep conversation about life and death with Tatum fucking Madden.
After I check us into the hotel, I hand him his keycard.
“You didn’t have to do this?” he says as we ride the elevator up to our floor.
“Yeah, I know,” I mutter. “Didn’t do it for you.”
“You’re not the complete douchebag I thought. But that doesn’t mean you’re good enough for her.”
I grunt. “And you are?”
He shifts the duffle bag on his shoulder as we get off on the third floor. “I want to be. And I don’t need you coming in and messing everything up again.”
My chest constricts. “So you two are together, then?”
Outside our rooms, which are right beside each other, Tatum holds my gaze, and I can see he’s thinking about how to answer.
Finally he says, “No. Not yet.”
The asshole inside of me stirs. “Good.” I bite back what I really want to say, and use my keycard to open my door.
“You’ll just hurt her again,” Tatum says, obviously not ready to let the subject go, and I see the need to fight in his eyes.
I get it. It would feel good - no, it would feel fucking terrific right now to let out some of my tension on him. But the last thing Charlie needs is for both of us to show up at her mother’s funeral with black eyes and bloody lips.
“Enjoy your room,” I mutter. “Try and keep the porn charges to a minimum.”
“I love her.” His declaration echoes down the hall, and straight through my chest.
I guess we’re doing this. Here. Now. I toss my bags in the entranceway of my room and turn to him.
Maybe if I wasn’t a selfish prick, I’d submit, knowing in all fairness he probably is the better man. I’ve done some digging into his past. Other than a speeding ticket he got senior year of high school, the guy is as wholesome as Wally Cleaver.
But is that really what Charlie needs? What she wants?
Maybe. Or maybe what my Cinderella really needs is her prince.
“I love her,” Tatum repeats, jaw bouncing, hands flexing into fists. He looks like he just declared war rather than love, but I guess that’s what this is.
“Yeah, I know,” I finally say, gaze locked on his, and admit, “But so do I.”
9
Charlie
“Here, Dad, let me help,” I say when I see my father struggling with his tie, his hands trembling as he tries to undo his failed attempt at a Half Windsor.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you Charlie,” he says as I manage to knot it correctly. My own hands shake, but I try to conceal that from my dad. He’s been on the edge of collapsing over the past forty-eight hours, and the last thing I need is another parent in the hospital.
My body has been going through the motions, talking to the funeral director, ordering the flowers, writing her obituary, and I’ve forced myself to close off the emotional parts of my heart and just be the support Dad needs.
But now it’s the day of the service and it’s all hitting me so hard.
“I can stay as long as you need, Dad,” I tell him, meaning it.
“You have to get back to school, you’re so close to being done.”
I smooth down the collar of his shirt, unable to meet his eyes. A tear slides down my cheek. “And what will you do? Without the shop and without Mom?”
“Freddy offered me a job.”
“In Chicago?” I frown. My three uncles live there, it’s where Dad grew up. But the idea of him no longer being in Michigan, of this no longer being the place I return for holidays and breaks, it cuts deep.
But I know it’s probably for the best. At least he wouldn’t be alone. With my mom sick, he got good at taking care of the house by himself, but I don’t like to think of him all by himself in this house. And yet, the thought of him moving even further away, him selling my childhood home, well...it sucks too.
My dad places a hand on my shoulder, and he lets out a long uneven breath. “Let’s talk later, after…”
“Okay.” I wipe my eyes. Freddy’s wife, my aunt Lydia, is a little bossy, but she’s healthy, and I know she’d make sure Dad was okay. “I just...I need someone to look after you if I’m not here.”
He gives a forced smile. “I’m still young, I have some fight in me left.”
“I know, Dad. I just hate the idea of you being alone.”
His eyes well up with tears and he presses his hand to his heart. “Your mother will always, always be right here, Charlie. Always.”
“I know.” I swallow the small sob that builds in my throat.
From the breast pocket of his jacket, he pulls out a necklace. Her necklace. A gold chain with an aquamarine pendant. My birthstone. My dad bought it for her when I was born, and she wore it every day of her life. “I want you to have this.”
“You’re sure?”
He nods and when I turn he brushes my hair aside, clasping the necklace around my neck.
I move to the mirror, Dad behind me, my fingers running over the cool stone that she always had hanging so close to her heart.
“You look just like her,” he says.
“I hope I am like her, too. She was…”
“Everything.”
I nod. “Yeah, she was.”
Dad and I leave the house in our black coats and black gloves, climbing into a town car that Spencer ordered. It’s so much more than my father could have afforded on his own, and I’m grateful for the gesture.
Spencer has been so steady the last few days. So strong. When I’d first met him, I thought his charm was surface level, but I’ve seen him differently as he has so graciously supported me throughout this tragedy. I didn’t expect it - I know he has a politician’s heart, but I’ve realized he also has compassion that goes beyond volunteering at a homeless shelter. He cares about people, deeply.
He cares about me.
Without any expectations. And I wish he was by my side right now. I need his strength. I’ve tried so hard these past couple of days to be strong for my dad, and I’m not sure how much longer I can keep up the act.
The funeral hall is full when we arrive, and Dad puts his arm around my shoulder as we walk down the aisle toward the front pew.
There are so many people. So many emotions. And the framed picture of my mom in front of the casket makes my throat squeeze so tight I can barely breathe.
Suddenly I doubt my ability to read the memorial I’ve written for her. I press a hand to the slip of paper in my pocket, wondering how I will summon the courage to speak to so many people.
We pass piano students she taught over the years before she got sick, some of the nurses who took care of her throughout her many hospital stays, and other faces that I don’t know, but from their tears obviously touched in some way by my mom.
I see Tatum and Spencer in one of the pews near the back, and I manage a small smile when our eyes meet. But when I reach the front and come face to face with my mom’s casket, I feel my strength leave me. And yet it’s nothing compared to the deep sob that breaks from my dad’s chest.
It’s all too much.
My dad’s brothers are beside him when he drops to his knees in front of the casket, and I’m glad because I know I don’t have the strength to support him. I’m not sure I have enough strength to stay standing myself. But then a hand is under my elbow, a familiar scent wrapping around me, and Spencer is leading me to the reserved pew.
“I ca-can’t do this,” I whisper, choking on the words.
“You can. You’re strong, Charlie. And I’m right here.”
I look up at him, blue eyes full of the strength I need, filled with understanding, compassion. When it’s my turn to go up front and say a few words, my eyes meet Spencer’s, and I feel him silently urging to be brave. Tatum, beside him, gives me a smile that reminds me that I’m not alone in any of this.
My aunt thought it wasn’t necessary for me to give a few words today at the service, but I insisted. I am my mother’s only child, her daughter. Her legacy depends on me.
I want to make her proud.
Sucking in a shaky breath, I twist the paper in my hands realizing they aren’t the words I want to say after all. Mom was music and a clear voice, and these words feel too heavy.
“My earliest memory is of my mother singing to me,” I share with the room. “She always carried a tune, always in the right key. We didn’t always have a lot, but we always, always had music. She taught me to love it before she taught me to read. It’s a gift I am forever grateful for.”
I look over the crowd, finding my father. He’s smiling now, remembering, and that fills my heart with peace, allowing me the courage to continue, “I’m not a singer, and I can’t play the piano for the life of me. When she tried to teach me, my fingers fought the keys, whereas hers always sailed over them. But she never told me she was disappointed. Never told me I wasn’t enough.” I wipe the tears spilling down my cheeks, the memories washing over me. “She accepted me for who I was. Even if I had a chip on my shoulder, she saw it as a strength, never a weakness. Mom was soft, with a gentle grace I’ve always admired. And the world was better with her in it. I love you, Mom, forever.”
I step away, hugging my father, he kisses my cheeks, and we sit, side-by-side as one of her friends plays “Wind Beneath My Wings” on the piano. I’m grateful she volunteered to play, but my mother would never have chosen this song. It makes me wish I had spent more time trying to learn myself. When I look up at Dad though, his shoulders shake, the love he has for my mother palpable, and I realize this song wasn’t for me. It was for him.
The entire service seems to last hours, even though I know it’s only scheduled for forty-five minutes. By the end of it, I’m emotionally and physically drained. Whoever decided that it was a good idea for grieving family members to stand in line and greet a hundred-plus strangers must have had a sadistic heart. Because by the time I’ve shaken the last hand, heard the last I’m so sorry for your loss, I just want to curl up in a ball and sleep for a week, or maybe a year. However long it will take to make my heart feel whole again.
“Drink this.” Spencer is beside me, at the end of a hallway, placing a cup in my hand.
When I take a sip, the whiskey burns my throat and I relish it. We decided against a graveside burial, and most of the family and friends are still congregated in a room at the funeral parlor for coffee and cookies. The idea of walking in there, sitting at a sterile table and hearing people reminisce about my mother makes my heart ache. The whiskey, on the other hand, numbs me in the best possible way.
“You were so brave,” he tells me.
I sink against the wall, and when a woman passes us, I look to the floor, too exhausted to meet anyone else’s gaze. “My uncles are taking my dad home.”
“Do you want to go with them?” He leans close, blue eyes searching and willing to do anything I ask.
God, I love the man. And right now I need him more than I ever have.
I shake my head, taking another sip. “They’re Irish, they’ll be drinking this stuff all night,” I say, lifting the cup. “I don’t want to be there.”
Spencer’s suit coat is snug against his broad shoulders, his hair fallin
g across his brow. He steps closer to me, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear. “I didn’t know you were Irish.”
I pinch my fingers together. “This much. But according to my uncles, we’re full-blooded.”
Tatum is at the other end of the hall and I see him looking around, coffee and cookie in hand. He’s looking for me. I’m glad he’s here, but it’s not Tatum that I need.
I blink away the tears that keep pooling in my eyes.
“I’m glad he has his brothers tonight,” Spencer says. I know he’s remembering his own brother. Remembering so much.
I look up at him, both lost and found. “I’m glad I have you.”
10
Spencer
I know Charlie needs to get out of here.
Now.
She’s exhausted and needs to rest, without having to offer anyone an explanation, offer anyone - even her father - support. She needs space to grieve.
I’ll give it to her.
Give her everything.
I get her in her coat, stand with her as she says her goodbyes to her dad. Promising to have her back tomorrow. And then she’s in my rental car, and we’re leaving the funeral home, and I pull up a playlist, the one I made for today. For her. For whatever might come next.
Little darling, it's been a long cold lonely winter.
Charlie sighs as “Here Comes the Sun” begins to play, and she unrolls her window even though it’s February and it’s fucking freezing out and there is frost on the ground and ice on the window.
I realize she unrolls the window because a crack of light breaks through the clouds.
“The snow is melting,” she murmurs. “Spring is coming.”
I look over at her, our hands held tight as I drive through the town that holds so many of her stories, the good and the bad, and I am in awe - of her beauty and her strength and her pure heart.
And I wonder how the fuck I ever let her go. How the hell I let her walk away. Because I know that even though she is way too good for me, if I could do it all over again, I’d find a way to be the man she needs.
Losing Princeton Charming Page 5