55. Chapter 55
Chapter 55
Charlotte
A heavy pounding drew me from my stupor. I glanced around the room, only now noticing that the sun had set and I was sitting in darkness. I rubbed at my eyes, lowering my head to my palms and letting out a soft groan that seemed to echo throughout the apartment. My head throbbed with the familiar ache that came from crying, and the pain sent a warm trickle of irritation down my spine.
I hated that I’d cried—I had no right to. Not only was whatever I was feeling unjustified, but it was entirely my fault. Whatever. I wiped away the traces of residual moisture on my cheeks and squashed down the flood of feeling that rose past my heart. No more tears. I nodded, the movement sending a nauseated lurching through my head, and I stilled.
I was about to reach for my phone to check the time, when the pounding started up again—the door, not my head. My head whipped towards the noise, and I grimaced at the pain even as my traitorous heart swelled in my chest. I pushed to my feet, trying, and failing, to silence the barrage of questions circling my head.
Was it him?
I stood in front of the sofa, smoothing down the front of the now creased grey trousers I’d been wearing since this morning. My hands paused midway down my thighs. I wished I’d changed. I bit my lip, casting away the thought. It was too late now. Taking a deep breath, I only moved towards the door once I’d filled my lungs to the point of pain.
Why was he here?
To check in on me? To apologise? To make the grand romantic gesture that all leading men seem contractually obligated to make? My mind was a mess of possibilities as I approached the door. But when my fingers brushed against the polished silver doorhandle, the cacophony of noise in my head vanished, leaving me with only the quiet certainty that, for the first time in weeks, I didn’t want to see him.
Yes, I’d misunderstood. Got my hopes up. Read too much into things, but—he’d hurt me.
It was too soon.
Even if he was here to apologise—I grimaced as the memory of the afternoon battered into me.
He’d hurt me.
My fingers withdrew from the handle and I stepped away from the door just as a loud voice called out from the hallway: ‘We know you’re home, Charlotte. Let us in!’
My shoulders sagged as the distinctly feminine voice upset the stillness of my apartment and I screwed my eyes shut, angry and bewildered by the way my body seemed to both relax and ache with the knowledge that it wasn’t him on the other side of that door.
But why was Louise here? Had Aiden sent her? If he had then—
Muffled whispers brought me out of my thought spiral and my attention was drawn, once again, to the front door. I took a tentative step forward, dipping my head slightly to peer through the peephole, only to find Louise and Claire in what looked like a whispered argument. Louise was pointing towards me, or rather, my door, while Claire stood across from her, arms folded in front of her chest as she shook her head vehemently at whatever Louise was saying. Taking a deep, decisive breath, I jerked the door handle and pulled the door open.
‘Finally,’ Louise groaned, spinning to face me. ‘We’ve been knocking for—’
But whatever she’d been about to say was swallowed by the concern that clouded her face. Wordlessly, she stepped inside, dropping something to the floor, and wrapping her arms around me.
‘W-what are you doing here?’ I croaked. My words were gravelly, and I rubbed at my dry throat.
‘Becky,’ Claire replied, following Louise into the apartment and carefully closing the door behind her before she joined our embrace.
***
Pulling my compact from my coat pocket, I lifted it to examine the purple shadows under my eyes. I’d done my best to cover them with some artful concealer application, but the colour still bled through like an angry bruise, only accentuated by the green of my eyes.
It was midafternoon, the Monday after—well, the Monday after. I grimaced at my reflection, at the remnants of red that still tinged the whites of my eyes, before snapping the compact shut. Shoving it back into the depths of my coat pocket, I shook the tightness from my shoulders as the elevator doors slid open and flooded the compartment with the artificial yellow light of the foyer.
My eyes darted to the timepiece that hung above the desks at reception as I made my way through the revolving doors and into the crisp winter morning. Ducking my chin a little, I allowed my curls to spill over my shoulders. I’d worn my hair loose for what was possibly the first time in my career at Jones & Morgan LLP. But, it turns out, heartbreak is exhausting, and forcing myself through the rest of my morning routine hadn’t left me with energy or patience enough to wrangle my hair into one of my typical updos.
The warmth of the café‘s interior enveloped me as soon as I stepped through its doors. Drawing me in, in a way that is both a welcomed relief from the cold and stiflingly uncomfortable in my winter layers.
‘Hi Charlotte,’ Ruth called from behind the counter. ‘The usual?’
I nodded my agreement, offering her the best smile I could muster, but from the way she’d cocked her head to one side, I’d guessed it looked as odd on my face as it felt to pull it. With a sigh, I moved into my spot in the queue and allowed myself to be swept up into the rhythm of the café. I’d never spoken to Ruth. Not really. Not unless you counted me placing my orders and the occasional ‘have a lovely day,’ which I didn’t. Still, she remembered my name and my order, and from what I’d overheard from her exchanges with other, more conversational customers, she seemed nice.
‘Thanks, Ruth,’ I said, my voice raspy as I spoke aloud for the first time that day.
‘No problem,’ she answered brightly, already turning to offer her warm smile to the next person in line. ‘Have a good one.’
‘You too,’ I said, fitting the black plastic lid firmly to the top of my paper cup.
Just four more hours and I could go home. I swallowed against the apprehensive tightness that clogged my throat. Freeing one of my hands to pull out my keycard, I swiped it over the sensor at the turnstile and made my way back up to the fourth floor.
I lost myself in contract revisions, and by the time it had reached five o’clock, I was exhausted. With a sigh, I sank back into my chair and reached for my long-forgotten coffee. Taking a sip of the now cold liquid, my gaze travelled across the floor, passing over the few Christmas decorations and the People’s Team’s shoddy attempts at holiday cheer. I straightened in my seat, about to dive into the next round of revisions, when a familiar coiffure of blonde hair turned the corner from the kitchenette and made its way across the floor.
No.
I snapped my laptop shut and lowered my gaze. Ducking my chin enough that my hair fell forward, forming what I’d hoped would be a protective barrier between myself and Ben, I packed up the rest of my things. I knew that, come Friday night, there’d be questions about my boyfriend, or most notably, my lack thereof. But I wasn’t about to face those questions now and deal with whatever Ben would feel compelled and entitled to say, or the pitying glances from others on my team.
With a furtive glance over the top of my monitors, I watched as Ben lowered himself into the chair at his desk a couple of rows away from mine and pulled on his headset to join a call. Time to go. I rose from my seat, not even bothering to put on my coat, grabbed my things and made my way towards the elevators, pausing only to bin the wasted coffee as I passed the kitchenette.
Unlocking my phone, I scrolled through my message notifications. There were several in the group chat, a few private messages from Becky, and one from Nan. But that was it. My finger hovered over my chat with Aiden for the briefest moment before I forced finger away from the reality of his silence.
My spirits buoyed as I read the messages from my friends and memories of my weekend with them wrapped around my battered heart in a warm embrace. Much to my irritation, there’d been a lot of crying. Everyone had said it was “okay” to cry, and their permission and acknowledgement of what I was feeling was enough to disrupt the levee of my emotions. So, I’d cried, oscillating between the sour tears of heartbreak and salty tears of frustration.
And while I was crying, they’d alternated between Aiden-bashing—even Louise, comforting me—mostly Claire, and delivering some tough love—Becky, who had joined via FaceTime and stayed until she’d fallen asleep, phone in hand.
By Sunday morning, I was all cried out and all that remained was my humiliation. I couldn’t believe that I’d got things so wrong—that I’d read him so wrong.
Shaking my head, I reached into my bag for my earphones and pulled up my music app, opening the playlist Becky had sent through this morning. I’d be okay. If the weekend had shown me anything, it showed me just how much love I had in my life. Not romantic love, sure. But maybe that would come… in time.