by Gina Azzi
“Fine.”
“What’d you learn?”
He shrugs.
We sit in silence as I stop at a red light.
Frustration grips my throat, and my fingers tap out a beat against the steering wheel. When did it become difficult to chat with my son? Ollie used to tell me everything about his day. So many details I had a hard time not tuning him out. Now, he offers me nothing but the obligatory one-word responses.
“Did you have fun with Charlie?” I try again.
His head swivels towards mine, and a smile crosses his face. “Yeah. She’s the best.”
I grunt my acknowledgement like a Neanderthal. My frustration increases.
How the hell is Charlie, who has spent less than a week with Ollie, getting this reaction out of him, and I can’t get him to tell me about school?
What is wrong with me? Shouldn’t I be happy that Ollie is connecting with someone? It doesn’t have to be me. But why is it her? She’s not going to stay and when she leaves for New York again, is Ollie going to be heartbroken?
The thought unsettles me because the truth is, I’ve come to look forward to seeing Charlie every day when I arrive home from work. I like knowing she’s in my house, a small part of my life again. When she leaves…
My hand grips the steering wheel until my knuckles pop.
When I pull up in front of Keith’s house, Ollie leans over the center console, offers me a quick peck good-bye, and races to the front stairs.
Keith’s mom waves to me from the porch and I wave back, waiting until they are both inside before I pull away.
The silence swirls around me, and some of the craziness from my day, from my week, from this fucking year, seeps out of me.
Besides Ollie, the best thing to happen to me lately is seeing Charlie again. Having her support during this crazy holiday period has been reassuring. Of course I can count on her, rely on her. Charlie’s dependable. But she’s more than that. She’s the woman who makes my heart gallop. The one who makes my son light up. She’s the woman I compare all other women to, and in three years, none of them, not a single one, has measured up.
Blowing out a deep breath, I pull into my driveway and park.
I climb out of the car and eye the front of my house, frowning when I don’t see Charlie’s mom’s car. Did she already leave?
Pushing into my house, I freeze as Charlie gazes up. She’s lacing up her boots, seated on the bench just inside the door.
“You’re still here,” I say, surprised.
“I, uh, I was just going to head out.”
“No, please, stay. We never picked a day for dinner this week.”
Charlie winces. “I know. I’m sorry. I was going to suggest yesterday, but I forgot I agreed to dinner with my mom and her new…man friend.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Marianne’s dating?”
“I know!” Charlie half-groans, half-laughs. “I’m happy for her. Honestly. It’s just, it’s a little weird, seeing her with someone who isn’t my dad…”
“Ah, yeah. That will take some getting used to. Hey, where’s Marianne’s car?” I glance out the front window to the empty curb, wondering how the hell I missed it when I first arrived home. “How’d you get here?”
“I grabbed an Uber.”
“What?” I ask, guilt blazing through me. I’m not even paying her to sit for Ollie. I mean, I tried, but of course, she refused and seemed offended by the offer, reiterating something about friends again. But I don’t want her to spend money to watch my son. “Charlie.” I pull my wallet out of my back pocket.
“Stop!” She stands, glaring at me. “Put your wallet away. I want to help you guys. Honestly.”
“Why?” I ask, unable to check my curiosity. Why the hell would she want to help me after…everything. While I’m grateful for her help, her kindness causes my guilt to swell. Over three years ago, I knew I fucked up where Charlie was concerned. But now, staring into her bright blue eyes, the truth is even harder to swallow.
Her eyes deepen, her expression softening. “Because I can tell you’re overwhelmed.”
I close my eyes, feeling my color drain from my face. Am I that obvious? Has Ollie noticed? I’m barely keeping my head above water, but I can’t be the guy who’s nearly drowning. My career depends on me not being that guy.
“Hey.” Charlie reaches out, touching my wrist.
My gaze slams into hers, and I lose my breath at the concern, the care, the goddamn empathy in her eyes. She’s doing this for me. Even after everything, she still cares.
“Stay for dinner. Please.” I slip my wallet back into my pocket.
A small smile curls the corner of her mouth. “Okay,” she agrees, sitting back down and removing her boots. “But only if you order Romero’s.”
“Pizza, really?”
“I miss Chicago deep dish.”
“Fair enough,” I agree, pulling out my phone and placing an order. Half plain, half Hawaiian, the same as we used to.
Charlie grins as I rattle off the order. She starts for the kitchen, and my jaw tightens as I zero in on her ass. Clad in tight jeans that mold to her body, I yearn to reach out and run my hands over her delicious curves.
“Beer or wine…or something stronger?” I ask, ending the call with Romero’s.
“Wine, please.”
“Red or white?”
Charlie spins around, leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen. She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her breasts up. “I don’t remember you being this accommodating. I just remember you making decisions.”
I grin. “I’ve changed.”
“So have I.” She says the words playfully, but the look on her expression is serious, a warning.
“Red or white?”
“Red.”
I pull out a bottle of cabernet-sauvignon and a corkscrew. We enter the kitchen, and I uncork the bottle and pour two glasses. Charlie settles herself onto a barstool, and I pass her a wine glass, taking the seat across from her.
“I like your kitchen,” she says, glancing around the space.
I scan the minimalist design, clean lines, no hardware on my cabinets. Top of the line appliances, a Wolf range, double oven, the works.
“I renovated.”
“I see that.” She holds up her wine glass, and I clink mine against hers.
She takes a generous sip and I stare, mesmerized, as her eyelids flutter closed and a soft moan escapes her throat.
Jesus. My balls tighten, and my arms brace against the island.
I remember that sound. I fucking dream of that sound.
Charlie’s eyes open and when she sees me staring at her, they widen.
I know I should drop my head but I don’t. I continue to stare at her. God, she still undoes me without even knowing it. For a second, all my past mistakes come roaring back, clouding my mind and buzzing in my ears. I let Charlie go because keeping her only would have held her back. But sometimes I wonder if she had stayed, could I have made her happy? The way I never could for Sophie. Could we have been enough for each other?
“Why’d you renovate?” she asks, pulling me from my disheartening thoughts. Her voice is rougher than a moment ago and I wonder if I affect her as much as she affects me.
I take a long drink and clear my throat, try to clear my head. “Sophie picked out the first design,” I admit, not wanting to bring up my ex-wife, but not knowing how to avoid talk of her either.
Charlie nods as if she understands, but I know she doesn’t. No one possibly could. Not unless they had a wonderful partner and a fantastic life, and then it was all ripped away by a fucking drug addiction.
“Well, it’s beautiful.”
“Thank you.” I shift my weight on my barstool. “Tell me about Marianne’s man friend.”
Charlie throws her head back and laughs. Her fingers are splayed wide on the counter, her nails tapping against the base of the wine glass. “It’s awful. But in the best way possible.”
I grin. Man, I missed the w
ay she tells stories. There are always a million contradictions that should drive my lawyer mind nuts, but with Charlie, it’s endearing because she’s so damn heartfelt.
“She’s happy. I think she was really nervous about me meeting him. His name is Jim. He’s lovely. Charming. And he makes her laugh a lot more so, in my book, he’s a great guy.”
“Good. That’s good. I’m happy for Marianne, too. It’s been, how many years?”
“Almost nine.” She clears her throat, picking up her wine glass and taking a long sip.
Not wanting to linger on a topic that makes her uncomfortable, I blurt, “Tell me about…your life. New York, design.”
Charlie’s eyes flare with excitement, and I fall into them, wanting to hear every word that drops from her mouth, wanting to know everything she’s willing to share.
“It’s…great.” She laughs. “I love New York. I never realized I could feel so at home any place other than here but…” She shakes her head. “New York is amazing. My program was awesome. Super competitive but such an incredible opportunity. I got to work on real accounts at top firms, some of my professors were professors of practice, so their network is unbelievable. I made some amazing friends. I just, I finally feel I’m where I’m supposed to be, you know?”
I nod, smiling at her even though my chest feels funny. Too tight. She feels home in New York. Her life has moved on, just the way I always knew it would. It’s supposed to. I wanted this for her. But then why the hell is my stomach filling with stones of disappointment?
“That’s really great, Charlie. I’m happy for you.”
“Thanks. You too. Things seem to be going well… I hear you’re up for partner?”
I take another drink. Shouldn’t I feel more excited about that? Shouldn’t I be beaming energy out of my eyeballs the way Charlie is at the prospect? I’ve worked my ass off for years to be in this position, and now I’m finally here and I feel…nothing.
“That’s good, isn’t it?” Charlie prods, a flicker of uncertainty rippling over her expression.
“Yeah,” I blow out a sigh, reaching to grip the back of my neck. “I’m sorry, Charlie. It’s been a shit week, and my head’s just all over the place. Things are fine. I am up for partner. Ollie’s been doing really well in school and at soccer. Things are just…what they are.”
Charlie frowns before biting her bottom lip.
At the gesture, a thousand unbidden memories flicker through my mind like a movie reel, and I pull myself closer against the kitchen island.
She opens her mouth to say something and I pause, waiting for her words. But her phone beeps, and her attention shifts to the message on her screen.
She bites her bottom lip harder, her brows furrowed in concentration as she taps out a reply.
“Everything okay?” I ask, concerned by the expression on her face. Who is it?
“Yeah,” she says, nodding slowly. She chews on the ends of her hair the way she always used to when she was worried.
At first, the movement makes me smile because it’s so…her. But then I realize something must be causing her stress. My concern heightens, and I reach across the table, gently running my fingertips over the back of her hand.
She glances up, her hair falling from her mouth.
“You sure?” I ask.
She nods again, her blue eyes darkening. For a moment, it’s like we’re suspended in air, in this moment, as everything else seems to fade away.
I memorize Charlie’s sweetheart face, the emotion swirling in her eyes, the fullness of her lips. Hers is a mouth I’ve kissed so many times, and even though it’s been years, I still remember its taste. I tilt forward, pulled by the hitch in her breathing.
Her phone rings and she winces.
“Do you mind if I take this?”
“Of course not,” I say, drawing my hand away.
She slides off the barstool, and I note the hurt in her expression as she heads toward the living room, bringing her phone to her ear.
“Trent?” she says, and my chest plummets to the floor.
Does she have a boyfriend? Is it serious?
My curiosity spikes as my jealousy flares.
Do not eavesdrop. It’s none of your business. She’s isn’t yours anymore.
She never was.
6
Charlie
“Hey Char,” Trent, my NYC BFF, partner in crime, and study buddy says. Trent is the only person who ever called me Char, short for Charlotte, instead of Charlie—the name my family calls me. Apparently, he had a bad breakup with a guy named Charlie, and the name is now permanently destroyed.
“I just saw the email,” I wail, dipping into Evan’s living room and sinking to the edge of his couch.
“Yeah, I got it, too.”
“Does that mean Garner & Gibson isn’t hiring any new graduates?”
“They filled their quota,” Trent explains. “I’m sorry, babe. I know your heart was set on them.”
“They didn’t take anyone from our program?” I ask, unsure if I want the answer. If Garner & Gibson didn’t hire any new graduates from my design program, okay. But if they chose someone who just isn’t me…I may feel a tiny bit heartbroken.
Trent sighs heavily, and I know he knows more than he’s letting on but doesn’t want to crush my spirit.
“Trent Johnson,” I say his name sharply, the way his boyfriend Kevin does when Trent forgets to take out the trash or squeegee the shower doors.
Trent cracks. “Cora Sinclair.”
“I knew it!”
“She was the top of our program.”
“I know,” I draw out the word. Cora Sinclair deserves the position. She’s hardworking and nice and irritatingly put together. Like, all the time. But she’s earned it. “Just her?”
“Just her.”
“Okay. I’ll start focusing elsewhere. I need to send out more resumes. At least tell me you’ve heard back from Baker Designs.”
“I did,” Trent squeals.
“Shut up. Dude, tell me everything.”
Trent fills me in on the unpaid three-month internship he’s taking with Baker Designs — a company specializing in lighting. “But,” he concludes, “I’m really hopeful that if I do a great job, I could be a permanent hire by spring. And obviously, I’m going to do a great fucking job.”
“Obviously.” I laugh. “That’s amazing, Trent. I’m really happy for you.” I grin at Evan’s empty living room because I really am giddy for my BFF.
“Thank you, thank you. I just wanted to make sure you weren’t drinking your feelings or even worse, eating them.”
“You haven’t given me a chance. It’s been like, thirty seconds since I got the email.”
“Don’t fall off the wagon.”
I snort. “I’ll be fine. It’s disappointing but not devastating.” Even though a part of me is gutted. Garner & Gibson was my dream company with my dream job in my dream city.
Sometimes, dreams are overrated. Am I right?
“Okay. But if you find yourself reaching for Ben & Jerry’s, call me.”
I laugh. “Don’t worry about me. I’m actually about to dig into some Chicago deep dish—”
“It sounds dirty when you say ‘deep.’ I’m not sure how I feel about it.”
“With Evan. So you should go celebrate your good news with Kevin.”
“Hold the phone. Evan? Like, Evan, Evan? The hot daddy who broke your heart and introduced you to orgasms?”
I blush from Trent’s very accurate description, curse myself for eating the worm in the tequila bottle and getting so blitzed that I don’t remember telling Trent all about Evan until he brought it up nearly every day thereafter, and clear my throat.
“Holy shit. Yeah girl,” Trent cheers. “Are you at his house? What is he wearing?”
“What’s who wearing?” Kevin’s voice calls out from the background.
“Evan. Char is at his house,” Trent answers.
“Seriously? Wait, what is she weari
ng? Is it a date?” Kevin presses for details.
“I gotta go,” I tell them, knowing their conversation can go on forever.
“Call me tomorrow. I mean it. I hope we’re both hungover,” Trent cheers loudly before ending the call.
Gripping the phone in my hand, I lean forward and brace my elbows against my thighs. It’s fine. I mean, I know it is. I’m sure I’ll find a job somewhere. No one really works their dream job at their dream company right out of school, right?
I’m just like everyone else. Why did I think I’d somehow luck out and secure the position? In the end, I didn’t even get the interview. On some level to some rational person, I’m sure I’m being dramatic. But why doesn’t it ever just work out for me the way it does for other people? With me, every step of every process is a challenge. My second year of college, my dad passed and with his death, I learned that he squandered my entire college fund on something I never thought him capable of. Like a substance abuse problem. Serving and bartending and a gazillion student loans put me through school, but because of it, I didn’t graduate until I was nearly twenty-six. I thought being accepted into the design program in New York was a change in my luck. What if it’s not?
Panic flares in my veins. What if I can’t find a job anywhere? What if I have to go back to serving and bartending?
But this time with a mountain of student loan debt with exorbitant interest rates on top of it?
Oh my God. What if I can’t pay my student loans?
“Charlie?” Evan asks, a thread of concern in his voice.
My head snaps toward his as his voice yanks me from my downward mental spiral.
His eyes are dark, tumultuous. His mouth is pressed into a thin line. He’s standing at the end of the coffee table, staring at me, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks every bit the fierce, formidable, badass lawyer who stands up in court rooms and argues for second chances.
My skin tingles under his watchful gaze, and awareness skates up my spine. This is the man I remember. The one willing to jump in and try to solve everyone and anyone’s problems, even mine.
“Are you okay?” he asks, a muscle under his right eye ticking.
I nod.