The Charlie Method (Campus Diaries #3)

Chapter Thirteen Charlotte

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHARLOTTE

Imagine my glory at your table

A FTER MORE THAN A WEEK , I CAN SAY WITH A HIGH DEGREE OF certainty that my biological brother is not interested in reaching out to me.

The Method told me I could live with that outcome, but…it still sucks.

I’ve never been an overly optimistic person. I’m not a cynic either. I suppose I’m just a realist. I recognize there’s going to be really great things that happen and not so great things that happen. But I can’t deny I was fully entrenched in the optimism camp with this one.

I truly believed he would want to meet me.

Faith knocks on my bedroom door on Wednesday evening, catching me mid–moping session. “Are you ready for the meeting?”

“No,” I say glumly.

“Well, I don’t mean figuratively, but, like, practically, are you ready to go downstairs, or do you need to pee or something?”

I climb off my neatly made bed and walk to the desk to grab my laptop and phone. “No, I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“What’s wrong?”

“He left me on read.”

“Who?”

“Bio bro.”

“Ah. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine. Whatever.”

I smooth out the bottom of my white cashmere sweater. Faith always makes fun of me for how often I wear white. She has no idea how I manage to keep these things clean.

“No, it’s not fine, whatever ,” she says in a firm voice, pulling me into her arms. “C’mere, Ms. Mopey.”

When I sag into her embrace, she rubs my shoulders in a comforting gesture.

“I’m sorry, babe. I know you really wanted this to work out. But just because he saw your message doesn’t mean he’s never going to respond. How long have you been on read?”

“Well, I sent the message ten days ago, and he read it nine days ago.”

“Oh.” She blinks. “Okay. Doesn’t bode well.”

I can’t help but laugh. “See?”

“Look, a week and a half isn’t unheard of for someone to not get back to you. But if he doesn’t, then he doesn’t. It’s his loss. You’re fantastic.”

“I am fantastic.”

She grins. “And modest too.”

“Most modest person you’ll ever meet.”

We link arms and head downstairs to endure another sorority meeting with Agatha being, well, Agatha. At least we have an interesting agenda this time. Yara, who’s in charge of the decorations for the gala, created a PowerPoint presentation, and I love me a good PowerPoint. Especially from Yara, whose slide headings are top-notch.

“All right,” she announces, standing at the projector while everyone shifts their gazes to the screen. “Centerpiece options forthcoming.”

The first slide appears.

DO I BELONG IN THE CENTER OF THE TABLE?

Faith leans into my arm and laughs against my sleeve. I hear some giggles from the freshmen, AKA the inferior scum of the earth leaning against the wall. When I glance over my shoulder, I see Blake standing behind me, grinning. She looks cute today, her hair arranged in two braids that hang down her shoulders.

“Okay, here’s option one,” Yara says.

The next slide pops up, showcasing a tall clear vase with a white satin ribbon around the middle, tied into a neat bow. It sits on a round mirror that reflects the blooms inside the vase: baby’s breath, fern fronds, and a few pastel-pink peonies for a pop of color.

Option one’s heading reads:

I’M NICE, BUT I COULD BE NICER

“This doesn’t wow me,” Sherise admits, chewing on the cap of her ballpoint pen.

“It’s the worst of the bunch,” Yara agrees. “But it’s the cheapest.”

Option two is labeled:

I’M NICER

This frosted-glass vase, sitting on a lace runner, offers pink roses surrounded by sprays of white baby’s breath. It’s better than the first one but not as spectacular as option three, which draws oohs and aahs from everyone.

IMAGINE MY GLORY ON YOUR TABLE

This option sticks to our white and pale-pink color scheme, only gold accents have been incorporated into the palette.

“This one is a bit pricier,” Yara starts, her gaze flitting toward me.

“How much pricier?” I ask, my fingers poised over my keyboard. I take my job as VPF very seriously. Because Agatha forces me to.

Yara stalls for time. “Well, I know we allotted a strict centerpiece budget, and this is definitely over budget, but—”

“How much over budget?”

“About twenty percent,” she mumbles without looking at me.

“Absolutely not,” I say instantly.

“But look at it!”

I glance at the screen, stifling a groan when Yara taps her laptop and another slide appears, featuring all three centerpieces lined up in a row.

There’s no question the gold accents draw the eye.

Agatha tips her head toward me. “Can it be done?” she asks briskly.

“If you want to take that twenty percent from one of the other budgets, like music, then sure, we can make it work.”

“Don’t even think about slashing the DJ budget!” Robin exclaims. Music is her domain.

Agatha looks at me again.

I shrug. “There’s only a certain amount of money in the house bank account. I can’t just miraculously make money appear. So if you’re not taking from the other budgets, your only other option is to ask someone to chip in their own funds.”

“Let me talk to my mother,” Agatha says. “We’ll put a pin in the centerpieces for now and revisit next meeting. Maybe one of the alums will want to kick in some extra for the gala budget—”

A loud buzzing from Blake’s vicinity interrupts her.

Agatha gives her a withering look. “Silent mode.”

“Sorry,” Blake murmurs. She frowns at her phone before putting it on silent.

As the agenda switches to the gala menu and everyone starts arguing whether it’s a smart idea for one of the courses to be a spicy dish, I notice Blake constantly looking at her phone.

“Everything okay?” I whisper to her.

“Just my stalker” is what it sounds like she mumbles.

I don’t have time to question her because a screaming match has now broken out.

“No one is saying spicy food is bad, Dana! I love spice! All I’m saying,” Noelle continues in exasperation, “is that we’re dealing with a guest list full of old ladies, and not all of them might be able to handle spice. Old people can’t digest properly.”

“Ugh, that’s a fair point,” Dana relents.

“Great. Then let’s stick to fucking chicken marsala.”

“Fine.” Dana glances at her laptop. “Let’s talk about dessert.”

Blake clears her throat before Dana can continue. “I’m just going to step out for a second, if that’s all ri—”

“No,” Agatha snaps.

“Yeah, Logan,” Faith rebukes her. “Nobody leaves a meeting prior to dismissal unless it’s in a body bag.”

I almost choke on my laughter.

Agatha glares at Faith. “Just shut up, Faith. We don’t always need to hear your smart mouth.”

Fortunately, the rest of the meeting goes off without another hitch, and I’m breathing a sigh of relief after Agatha dismisses us. Blake seems eager to leave too, though the agitation she’s transmitting tells me she’s stressing about a lot more than Agatha.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, practically chasing her out of the dining room.

“I have to go handle something.”

“That sounds fun,” Faith chirps, coming up on Blake’s other side. “What are we handling?”

“Oh God, nothing. Please don’t make me do this in front of an audience.”

Faith and I exchange a look.

Then walk even faster.

The freshman attempts to outrun us to the door, even tries closing it after her, but Faith ran track in high school, and I’m just freakishly fast. We hurry after her onto the porch, skidding to a stop when we spot the strawberry-blond giant on our front lawn.

“Do you ever give up?” Blake demands, stomping down the porch steps toward him.

Isaac Grant shrugs, emphasizing his impossibly broad shoulders. “No. I play football. It’s a game of inches.”

She makes an aggravated noise, planting both hands on her hips. “What does that have to do with me?”

“You’re my inch.”

“I am not your fucking inch, dude. Go away.”

Faith and I snicker from the porch, only to shut up when Blake turns to glare at us.

“I’m just saying, I know you like me.” Isaac flashes a cocky smile, his perfect teeth gleaming in the moonlight. “So let’s quit playing games. Here we are, inches from the end zone.”

“Go home,” she grits out.

“One date. Just agree to one date, and I’ll go.”

“Dude, this is not the way to convince someone to go out with you. I’ll stop stalking you if you let me take you to dinner. ” Blake snorts in irritation. “I’m not interested.”

“Look, angel—”

“Angel? Don’t nickname me.”

“Too late,” he says smugly. “Angel. Listen to me. I’m only asking for one date. Oh,” he amends, “and you have to promise to actually have a good time.”

“I can’t promise to have a good time. What if it’s a shit date?”

He capitalizes on her error, beaming at her. “Excellent. So you’re agreeing to the date.”

“What? No!”

They’ve attracted an audience, and I’m not talking just me and Faith. Other Delta Pis have streamed out to investigate the commotion, along with a handful of curious people from other houses on the Row.

I have to admit, Isaac does pose a pretty delectable sight. Six foot six. Muscular. Piercing eyes and square jaw. The guy is a walking wet dream.

For most women anyway.

“One date,” he pleads.

“I don’t even know you,” Blake grumbles.

“That’s the purpose of a date. To get to know me. I promise you, I’m tremendous.”

“Who refers to themselves as tremendous ?”

Faith snorts against her hand.

“Come on. What will it take? Do you want me to shout it out to the whole street? Get on my knees?”

“Please don’t—”

He drops to his knees. “Blake Logan,” he declares. “Angel. You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.”

Wow, he’s laying it on thick.

Wait. Should I be jealous here? I mean, he and I were hooking up only a couple weeks ago, and he’s not even looking my way.

Do I want him to look my way?

Are you nuts? Of course you don’t.

Common sense returns to me. Right. Just look at the guy. I don’t need this kind of drama in my life.

“Please put me out of my misery and go out with me,” Isaac is imploring.

“Dude, I don’t—”

“Help me out here!” Isaac’s arms are stretched wide as he addresses the onlookers. Man has the wingspan of a jetliner. “Citizens of Greek Row!” he shouts like a Roman gladiator. “I enlist your help!”

There’s a beat of silence, and then someone from the direction of the Sigma Nu house hollers, “Jesus fucking Christ, just go out with him and make this stop.”

“Angel,” Isaac says again.

“Oh my God. Fine,” Blake blurts out. “ Fine .” She stalks over to him and tugs him by the arm, forcing him to stand.

His face lights up. “When is our date?”

“I don’t know. Just go away.”

“Friday night. I’ll text you.”

“Whatever. Just leave.”

She spins around and marches back to the house.

Grinning from ear to ear, Isaac struts to the sports car I’m very familiar with and peels away.

In the foyer, Blake seeks out Agatha’s disapproving gaze. “I’m sorry. In case you couldn’t tell, I didn’t invite him.”

Our VP, Sherise, grins at Blake. “Girl, that was Isaac Grant. You get yours, Logan.”

“No,” Agatha says tightly. “We don’t need these football behemoths sullying our house name.”

Sherise surprises everyone by talking back to our president. “Come on, Agatha. Even you have to admit, that was pretty impressive.”

“Hard disagree. Those football fuckboys are embarrassing.”

“Well, we can’t all be courted by the unsullied lacrosse guys,” Faith pipes up.

“Shut up , Faith,” Agatha growls before huffing away.

After the group disperses, I pull Blake aside, lowering my voice so nobody overhears us. “You know you don’t have to go out with him if you don’t want to, right? You can say you only agreed to shut him up. You don’t need to follow through.”

She shrugs. “Might as well. He’s at least entertaining.”

“I know. Just be careful, okay?”

“What, you’re worried I’m going to fall in love with him?” Blake sounds amused.

“He’s Isaac Grant. I’m pretty sure half this college is in love with him.”

“It’s one date, Charlotte. You don’t have to worry.”

Maybe, but I am. I’m worried this is nothing more than a thrill-of-the-chase thing on his part. I’ve heard about this guy’s sexual escapades for more than two years now. Hell, his sluttiness is what attracted me to him in the first place. Isaac doesn’t do girlfriends. And yes, there’s always the possibility that he’s met the one woman who will capture his heart and end his man-whore ways, but that usually only happens in rom-coms and romance novels. The jerk usually remains the jerk, and a fuckboy doesn’t change his stripes.

“Blake. Do you still need a ride to the dorms?” asks Dana, striding toward us. Like Blake, she also doesn’t live in the house.

“Yes. Thank you.” Blake glances at me. “Oh, before I go, I forgot to ask you. Do you want to come to the game tomorrow night? I’m going with my cousin.”

“What game?”

“Hockey.”

I make a face. “Pass.”

“Oh, come on,” she coaxes. “It’ll be fun. I promise.”

“Maybe. I’ll text you in the morning.”

Once I’m in the privacy of my bedroom again, I open the BioRoots app to check my inbox. Still empty. Although the lack of notification could’ve told me that.

I distract myself by opening the app that does have a notification, which I ignored when it came in last night because I was working late at the lab.

I will say, I’ve been getting quite a lot of mileage out of this chat. To the tune of at least two orgasms each time I talk to Lars or Bjorn. My Swedish heartthrobs. My online lovers.

But this new message changes the game.

They’re looking to take this offline.

They want to meet up.