Chapter Fifty-One
My days are full with writing and friends and family and chores and regular life things. I’m working on that whole be-kinder-to-myself thing. I’m active on social media in the #fatfashion circles. I’m helping more around the house. Things are good—and yet I know they could be even better. If only…
No.
Let it go, Charlie.
So I take on a grocery shopping trip. Though Mom is still on her diet, she has agreed that I can prepare some of my own meals. Little victories. And little things to keep me busy.
I drive to the grocery store in the next town over—it’s a nicer store, it will take me more time to get there, and there’s zero chance of running into Brian. Plus, I love their baked goods section and I want to treat myself to a cookie. Because #Saturday.
Outside the store, I grab a cart and push it toward the entrance, where I notice a table set up. Probably Girl Scout cookies. They’ve been selling them everywhere lately and so far, I’ve resisted buying any boxes, but given that I decided I would get a cookie, it only seems fair to grab myself a box of Thin Mints.
When I get up to the table, I’m startled to see that it’s not Girl Scout cookies at all; it’s a table with birdhouses on it—and Brian’s moms, Susan and Maura, are seated behind it.
“Charlie!” Susan exclaims. She runs out from behind the table and gives me a hug. “We haven’t seen you in a while. How are you?”
“I’m doing all right,” I say, anxious. “How are you?”
“Maura and I are doing well, thank you. We do miss seeing you around,” she says. “Don’t we, Maura?”
Maura gives me a smile. “We do.”
“We don’t know what happened with you and Brian—”
“Sue, please!” Maura interjects.
Susan waves her hand at Maura. “I’m just going to say this one thing.” She turns to me. “Like I said, we don’t know what happened, but I hope we’ll see you at the opening of the art show next week. Brian’s got a whole section featuring his work.”
“Sue!” Maura says, a bit more sternly this time.
“I know, I know,” Susan says, then turns back to me. “I probably shouldn’t get in the middle, but I just think it would mean so much to Brian if you came. Consider it, all right? The info is on the school’s Facebook page!”
“I’ll think about it. Thank you,” I say, my stomach tight. “I should get going. It was good seeing you both.” I wave at the two of them and head inside the store, feeling very jittery.
I text Amelia. I just ran into Brian’s moms. They were so nice to me. I’m horrible.
She writes back immediately: You’re NOT horrible!
Susan gave me a hug, I write.
She likes you, Amelia writes. And you know what that means, right?
No. What? I ask.
Brian didn’t badmouth you to them. Like, at all.
Oh. I hadn’t thought of that.
He still likes you, Charlie, Amelia writes.
You really think so? I ask.
She writes back, I think the ball’s in your court, lady. You’ve just gotta make a move.
But what if I’m really bad at basketball? I write.
Amelia just texts me back a flood of eye-roll emojis and I know what I have to do.
New Charlie has got to channel that girl at dinner who told him I bought new bras. Be bold. Be confident. Say yes.
Chapter Fifty-Two
There’s a beautiful bouquet of lilies, my favorite flower, on the dining room table. I’m nosy, so I check out the card that’s with them, wanting to see which one of my mom’s suitors has sent them (and to read what the message says).
I’m surprised when the card has my name on it, and the message reads:
Congratulations, Charlie!—Mom
P.S. Don’t be mad that I opened your mail.
An open envelope lies beside the flowers. The return address is Charter Oak Publishing—the writing contest! I rip the letter out of its envelope, hands shaking, and skim what it says.
Dear Charlie,
We are pleased to announce that you have been selected as the winner of the Charter Oak Publishing Young Authors’ Writing Competition.…
And I stop reading and start jumping up and down.
I won. I won! I won!!!
I text my mom to thank her for the beautiful flowers and she sends me back a string of firework emojis, and then I call Amelia and we’re both squealing.
I’m so happy that I decide to text Brian, too.
It’s the first intentional communication we’ll have had since that day at work in the van. But…be bold, right?
I send him a picture of the letter: Bri! I won the writing contest!
I hold my breath waiting for a reply that I fully realize may never come.
Only…it does.
He writes back, Shit, Charlie! Congratulations! I knew you would. He adds, They still send letters?
I laugh and write, You know how obsessed writers are with the printed word. I add a shrug emoji and hit send. Then I write, I don’t think I ever properly thanked you for your support. But it meant the world. Thank you. I owe you.
He writes, Nah, you don’t owe me a thing. You just needed to believe in yourself. And maybe to be reminded to stop and put the top down and let the wind in your hair, you know?
I smile at the memory. Deep breath.
I write, So I’m learning. Can we do that again sometime? Just you and me?
A long, agonizing pause before the three dots show up. And then: Only if we can listen to the Smiths.
And my heart soars.
Hope.
There’s nothing left to do but be bold. For real. In person.
As an aspiring writer, I am hyperaware of tropes, and one I love to hate is the grand gesture. I shared this with Brian one day in the form of a long-winded rant. Grand gestures always put too much pressure on the person on the receiving end of them, and they’re totally unfair! They ask way too much! They often make the person feel embarrassed and totally put on the spot! They do more for the person doing the gesturing than for the person receiving the gesture! And on, and on, and on…
Then I confessed that even with all that knowledge, I had a hard time not swooning over them. Like the promposals at school. And Brian sheepishly admitted the same, saying he loved watching YouTube videos of couples who had planned to propose to each other at the same time.
It was one of those conversations that was seemingly small but made me feel so understood.
As I try to figure out how, exactly, I am to fix this situation with Brian, I find myself returning to that conversation, turning it over and over in my head until I realize I need a grand gesture. I need to go all in. I need to show Brian how I feel.
I decide to make a grand gesture and show up at the art show.
The town’s annual art show honors the most talented students in each grade by showcasing their work at the local library—yep, that library, where Brian and I first kissed, because life is toying with me. Awards are given out for the most remarkable pieces, and only the most talented students have an entire display devoted to their work. It makes perfect sense that Brian’s work is among the best.
I show up early. My hair is curled and I’ve changed my outfit about a hundred times but finally settled on a simple summer dress that Brian told me I looked pretty in. I have my notebook with me, the gift from Brian, and I’m thankful to have something to hold on to. It gives me purpose. Before I go inside, I sit in my car, hyping myself up. I ask Amelia for a brief pep talk where she tells me I’ve got this. (I don’t feel like I’ve got this.)
I watch a bunch of families walk up to the library and tell myself I can watch three more families go in and then I have to, too. Two more…one more…go.
I do. I walk in and look around and don’t immediately see Brian or his work. It’s then that I realize I don’t even know if Brian will be here. I’ve assumed he’d be here because it’s opening night (so
to speak—it’s like five-thirty), but I can’t know for certain.
I’m thinking this as I turn a corner, and there he is. He’s looking down at his phone, but he glances up because I let out a small gasp when I see him.
Brian, surprised, smiles when he sees me, then makes his face neutral again. “Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I say, biting my lip. He looks good. Like, really good. Of course. Because this is his night and I’m totally hijacking it for my own selfish reasons and oh my God, what am I doing?
“What are you doing here?” Brian asks, but not in an accusatory way or anything. In a soft way.
“I came to see you.”
He raises his eyebrows. “You did?”
“Yeah. I mean, I ran into your moms the other day and they told me your work was going to be featured here, and I love the art show, and I love what you do, and I love your work.” How many times can I say love in one breath? Jeez. “So yeah. I wanted to come see it.”
“Oh,” he says. “Thank you. They’re around here somewhere.”
“Great. Uh, and—and I’m also here because I wanted to see you.” I pause. “I miss you.” When Brian doesn’t say anything right away, I decide I have nothing to lose.
Be bold.
All in.
Okay.
“And I’m sorry. I let my insecurities get the best of me and just completely take over. I wasn’t able to get out of my own head or see what was so clearly right in front of me. Which sounds like a cliché. And, like, it is. But it’s still the truth, and Brian, you were so good to me, in ways I never even imagined. We worked and what we had was just so beautiful and wonderful and magical. You made me so, so happy. I was…scared. Or jaded. I don’t know. Both, maybe, but mostly I was wrong—unbelievably, embarrassingly wrong—and I will shout it from the rooftops if I have to. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have broken up with you the way I did, of course not, but also I shouldn’t have broken up with you at all. I didn’t want to; I just let my horrible self-doubt get the best of me and I let you go and I’m sorry. You mean so much to me.”
It all comes out so fast, all the things I’ve been thinking but not saying, all the things I’ve been holding on to. I have no idea what Brian will say back, but I needed to tell him.
“Charlie, I’ve thought about it a lot, and I think I understand now,” Brian says softly. “It wasn’t right, no, and it really hurt me. But the place your feelings came from was so deep and dark and real, and I get that. I get that you’ve had experiences that made you suspicious of people, of the world. I get you. I do. I only wish I had understood that better then. So—yes, of course, apology accepted.”
I give him a halfhearted smile. Still so good to me, even after everything.
“Thank you.” I look at him, and then I see it: behind him, there’s a painting. It’s a boy with his arm around a girl and her head is leaning on his shoulder. They’re watching the world, which is on fire. I point. “Wait. Is that…us?”
He turns to look at where my finger is pointing, and then he looks back at me and he shoves his hands in his pockets. His cheeks are flushed. “Yeah. It is.”
“That’s us,” I say, stepping closer to the painting. And it is. The boy has jet-black hair, and he’s wearing a hoodie (Brian’s favorite one, actually), and the girl, she’s got curly brown hair that’s almost black but not quite, and she’s wearing a dress—this dress. The one that I’m wearing.
“It’s us at the end of the world. I painted it the night after your birthday. Because I just knew,” Brian says. “It’s you and me, you know?”
I turn around to look at him.
“Oh my God,” I whisper.
And then I remember what’s in my hands.
I unwind the strap that’s holding the delicate leather-bound notebook shut and flip to its first ivory page. There are four words on it, written in ink.
“Awhile ago, you asked me if I’d had a chance to use the notebook yet, and I told you it was hard for me to commit to any kind of writing in nice ones like this. The pressure, and all that. Do you remember that?”
Brian nods, looking at the notebook and then up at me. “Of course.”
“I’d been putting it off and putting it off because I wanted whatever I wrote to be super important. And I realized something, and it made me want to do something big. Like, grand gesture big.” I’m breathless trying to explain.
And Brian laughs a little. “Okay…?”
“So here.” I shove the notebook toward him, trembling a little as he takes it. “It’s not a stunning painting of the two of us at the end of the world or anything, but…”
He looks down at the page where I’ve scrawled the words—the ones that bare my soul, the ones that feel important—and then looks up at me. “It’s better.” His gaze falls to the page again and he smiles to himself, as if not believing what it says and needing to read it again, and then he closes the notebook and touches my cheek, the way he does, the way he always has. “I love you, too, Charlie.”
My lip quivers, and I nestle my face against his hand and say it. “I love you, Brian.”
He pulls me to him and kisses me, and the world really is on fire. It’s the best kiss of my life. Better than the kisses I’ve written about. Better than the kisses I’ve dreamed of.
We keep our faces close after we part, foreheads touching. I feel the notebook pressed against my back, and I squeeze my eyes shut. This is real.
“So does this mean you forgive me?” I ask.
He laughs, and I open my eyes. “I’m getting there.”
I laugh, too, and it’s then that I see a red ribbon beneath the painting of us.
“What’s that?” I ask, motioning toward the ribbon. His glances toward it.
“Oh.” He grins. “Came in second.”
I smile at him. “Not to me,” I say.
And I kiss him.
And kiss him.
And kiss him.
And kiss him.
When I pull away slightly, Brian just looks at me. “Why’d you stop?”
“Because you said your parents are around here somewhere. And we’re at a civic event.”
He grabs my hand and wordlessly pulls me outside the library—the May sunshine hanging low in the blue sky, the flowered trees dancing in the gentle breeze, the green grass so lush you can almost feel it. “Better?”
I look around and then smile big.
“What?”
“Brian,” I say. “This is it.”
“What’s what?”
“This.” I motion at the ground and the area around us. “It’s where we had our first kiss.”
Recognition washes over Brian’s face and his lips spread into a wide smile.
“Us,” he says.
I pull him to me. “Us.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
There’s a pile of golden retriever puppies on me.
I repeat: there’s a pile of golden retriever puppies on me.
“Am I dead?” I ask, nuzzling one—Cinnamon, because the dogs are each named for different spices—into my neck. “I think I’m dead.”
Brian reaches over to check my pulse with one hand while petting Thyme with his other. “You seem pretty alive to me.”
I put Cinnamon in my lap and hold out a limp wrist toward Amelia. “Please. Am I alive?”
“You trust her assessment but not mine?” Brian teases.
Amelia sticks out her tongue. “I’m her best friend. And don’t you forget it.” She reaches over and presses two fingers on my vein. “Okay, yes, totally still alive. Unless I’m doing this wrong. In which case, maybe dead?”
“It doesn’t even matter!” I shriek. “This is the best day ever!”
“Best date ever,” Amelia corrects me. “Isn’t that right, Paprika? Yes it is! Yes it is!”
Kira grins. “I’m so glad you guys are enjoying ourselves.” Then she leans down to give Rosemary a kiss. She’s let us all into the puppy playroom at the shelter for the best double d
ate in the history of mankind. Bless Kira.
Brian rubs his face in Thyme’s soft fur. “What’s not to love about this?”
I sit up and look Kira in the eye, pointing right at her. “I would die for these dogs.”
“But aren’t you dead already?” Amelia asks.
“I’d die again, then!”
Brian hands Thyme to me, so now I’ve got two puppies in my hands and I’ve never been happier. “Please don’t,” he says. “I like you alive.”
“Sorry, I don’t make the rules.” I give each dog a kiss.
“You know, we really should get going soon. It’s already after hours,” Kira reminds us.
Amelia looks at her skeptically. “But babe, I think we live here now.”
“Do we really have to go?” I ask.
“Well, I am hungry,” Brian says. “Especially being around all these delicious-sounding names.”
I sigh, putting Cinnamon on the ground and watching as she runs over to her brothers and sisters and they start to wrestle. “I suppose our time’s up, then.”
“Where to?” Kira asks.
Amelia and I look at each other. “Jake’s? Jinx. Double jinx! You owe me a coffee!” we both say at the same time.
Brian looks over at Kira. “What do you think? Should we leave them here? I’m not sure they should be out in public.”
She grins at him. “I’ve got to get them out of here before I get in trouble, but after that, who knows?”
We rise to our feet and Brian and I go outside, leaving Kira and Amelia to lock up. The air is warm and thick—it’s almost summer and I can already sense it.
The smell of the popcorn at Crazy Skates, Ana’s signature perfume, Carmen’s cherry ChapStick, as we skate around the rink a dizzying number of times. The sound of the giggles from the elementary-school-age athletes at the day camp where Kira will serve as a counselor. The photos of Benjamin suspended in the zero-gravity machine at Space Camp (weird and delightful and perfectly Benjamin). The feel of my hand wrapped around Brian’s during the firework chasing, the mini-golf games, the long road trips to the beach, the late nights roasting marshmallows, and the dozens of other summertime adventures we’ll have—including lunch dates at the museum where he’ll be interning. The taste of the tart strawberry, the sweet vanilla, and the rich chocolate ice cream we’ll sneak bites of in the shoppe (yes, with the extra p and e) where Amelia and I will be working as part-time ice cream scoopers, with flushed cheeks, sun-kissed skin, and hearts full of brand-new memories to relive again and again as only best friends can. I’m on the cusp of what I can only imagine will be one of the best summers I’ve ever had. I smile to myself just thinking of it.
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 30