Chapter 3
CHARLIE
I would have berated myself for a lot longer for that brilliant crash and burn, but I still had to help Raja break down the room.
“That was interesting,” they said, stacking chairs together. “But you did well, Chas.”
“Thank you.” I grab a few discarded handouts from the floor, twisting them in my hand as I wait.
They have more to say. It’s in the set of their shoulders. Their careful words.
“If I remember correctly, you were living in Kansas City and just moved here.”
“Yes.” I press my lips together to keep from saying more. But the hope that they won’t put it all together is fading fast.
“And you arrived today?”
“I meant to get here earlier, but things happened.” I wave a hand around. “So, yes. Today.” I stare at a stray handout that tried to escape through the back door. There’s a footprint in the middle. Sorry, little guy. You almost made it to freedom.
“But you somehow know Coach Rathborn?” Raja asks.
My head jerks around. They know Coach Rathborn? Raja isn’t from the area originally. They mentioned during one of our prep meetings that they moved to Dunklin County a few years ago to be closer to their sister.
They must read the question on my face. “My nephew was on the wrestling team last year. Now it’s your turn.” When I don’t respond because I’m not sure what to say at this point—they’ve shared so much and I’ve shared nothing—they clear their throat. “Chas.”
I sigh, finally meeting their gaze. “Coach Rathborn—Brad—is my father’s best friend.”
Their eyes widen and I can see the pieces falling into place. Will I get fired? Not likely. Even though I omitted a few things in my interview. And our subsequent meetings.
“Your father is Charles Smith. Principal of James Buchanan High School.” It’s more of a statement than a question, and they don’t wait for a response. “Husband to Minerva Anne Smith, the mayor of Dixon Hills.”
“Assistant principal.” The words are said under my breath. Then louder, I say, “Raja, I—”
They motion with their hand, stopping my words. “Let me finish. I understand why, I think. But this puts me in an awkward position. And you had to have known it would.”
Known? No. Suspected? Yes.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying very hard to mean it.
“There are issues right now in front of the Dixon Hills city council that— But it’s done.
Chas?” Their eyes drill into mine. “No more lies. Or omissions. We need to be able to trust each other. You came highly recommended, so I took a chance on an outsider.” Who isn’t an outsider isn’t said, but it’s implied. “Don’t make me regret this.”
When I reach my small apartment, I’m exhausted. Ignoring the boxes everywhere, I sink into my bed, which is the only thing I managed to put together so far. It’s early afternoon, but I’m already done with this day.
I worked so hard to be seen as an adult. And undid all of that in a matter of hours.
Now I’m the mayor’s son.
Chuck and Minni’s kid.
I scroll through my texts with Brad. Intentionally bypassing the picture.
Long blond hair. Blond, not blonde. That should have been my first clue.
Tight jeans.
Ass I’d like to tap.
I’d get on my knees for this guy.
I give in and stare at the picture of Brad’s monster dick straining the confines of his pants, my mind struggling with the implications. I thought maybe I’d gotten it wrong, but I was the only guy there with long hair.
This is not me and my overactive imagination.
Brad Rathborn got hard while fantasizing about a guy.
While fantasizing about me.
Later that evening, being the adult I am, or at least trying to play the part, I drop in on my parents. I want to be the first to break the news. I hope I’m not too late.
The scent of oregano and tomatoes greets me when I arrive, along with hugs worthy of a WWE Bearhug. My mom smiles through her tears as she squeezes my face between her hands until I announce I’m not visiting but home for good. Mom stares at me.
“Surprise,” I say, my voice too wobbly for my liking.
Mom opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Is that a first? Her gaze darts to my dad and back to me. “I need to check on dinner.” Then she rushes off.
None of this makes sense. My parents have been begging me to return home since I left five years ago. I follow her into the kitchen, my dad right behind me.
The house is cozy with a quaint farmhouse décor. Wood-grain furniture with stone-and-brick accents extend through the house. The sense of relief at being home, some place familiar and safe, battles with the knot of failure in my stomach.
Mom slams pans around as if she’s planning on using them as weapons.
Then she turns, nothing in her hands thankfully, and studies me.
The way her lips are pinched tight sparks off memories of the talk we had after I received a D sophomore year of high school.
My only D. No surprise it was in Speech I.
Or that she made me take Speech II the next year.
“Mom,” I say cautiously. “I thought you’d be happy.”
She leans back against the butcher-block counter and raises a brow at my dad. He ducks his head. Either he’s trying to hide his smile or trying to stay out of the trajectory of my mother’s ire. “Chuck?”
He sighs, scratching the side of his face. But the smile he gives me is genuine. “Welcome home, Charlie.”
“Chas,” I correct automatically. “Thanks, Dad.”
“Right. Sorry.”
My mom takes a deep breath and pushes away from the countertop.
I step back—and, hey, I’m not proud of that fact.
My mom would never hurt me, but she’s always been a force to be reckoned with.
That makes her a great mayor. And honestly, it also makes her a great mom. She never backs down from a fight.
“Of course I’m happy you’re home.” She grabs a baking sheet from her collection on the counter. “Why didn’t you tell us you were moving back? We could have helped. Prepared—” She waves her arms around like she’s searching for answers to the universe or why her son would do this to her.
This is the reason I didn’t tell them. Not the only reason.
I wanted their anniversary party to be a surprise.
But I also didn’t want a fuss. Everything planned out for me.
A welcoming committee—possibly the entire town—waiting with open arms. What if I changed my mind— My eyes dart to my mom as something that feels suspiciously like guilt swirls in my gut. Oh.
My mom doesn’t do well with uncertainty. I swallow the guilt and plaster on a reassuring smile. “I’m here to stay, Mom. At least for now.”
She nods and turns to stir the sauce. My dad and I exchange looks. Is she okay? He must understand some of what I’m thinking because he shrugs.
Her back stiffens, her shoulders roll, and shit—this time I don’t move as she turns and smiles. “You’re impulsive, honey. That’s not a bad thing. But you can’t come and go on a whim.”
My mouth drops open. “I didn’t leave on a whim.”
The hot sun on my face. The gasps from the crowd. The scent of popcorn, orange soda, and vomit. The taste of bile in my throat. Mint chiffon forever stained and Dani Rae’s look of total horror as I reach for her and slip on my own mess.
I blink, trying to dispel the memories, and cross my arms. “I left because I needed a fresh start.”
Her lips purse again as if she’s trying to hold in her thoughts. Thoughts I don’t want to hear, so I’m grateful for her restraint. “And now?” she prompts.
“And now, I’m back. I appreciate you and Dad wanting to help me, but I’ve got everything handled.”
She studies me for a moment, and then her eyes soften. “What happened with that boy?”
No. No, no, no. I’m not talking about Syd. “Nothing.” But her point, whether she intended it or not, is clear. This is what I do. Run away when things get hard.
“Never shit where you eat, Chas,” my dad says with a chuckle.
Um. Gross.
Mom makes a sound of disgust. “Charles.”
My dad only laughs. “What? It’s a saying.”
At least her annoyance is now directed at him. He just shrugs. “Back in my day, when you found a job, you stayed at it. Kids today go from job to job like a butterfly flying from flower to flower to find the sweetest nectar.”
I want to yell at him that the world isn’t the same. But I’ve been trapped in that conversation before, and my dad could go on for hours. Hours.
“Focus, Chuck, you’re veering off topic,” Mom says, handing him a loaf of French bread. “And start the garlic bread.”
He nods, gathering everything he needs and then slicing the bread. “All I’m saying is dating someone you work with is never a good idea.”
I know he’s right. Syd is proof of that. How many times had he patted my head? “That’s our Charlie. Good thing he’s cute,” or “The adults are speaking now, Charlie.” The five-year age gap wasn’t much, but it was enough.
And after we broke up, it was a thousand times worse. The comments, carelessly thrown out before, now had a purpose. Humiliate Charlie. After months of seeing his smarmy face and listening to his smug comments, I couldn’t take it anymore. I was miserable.
His parting shot of “Run home and lick your wounds, Charlie” hit their mark.
But I still don’t regret leaving. “You’re right, Dad,” I say, smiling at his raised brows. “Getting involved with someone you work with is messy.”
“Are you staying for supper, Charlie?” Mom asks.
The impulse to say no is strong. I’m an adult. I can fix my own meals. And although I’m stubborn, I have my limits. Why would I want to eat ramen by myself in an apartment full of unpacked boxes when I could have my mom’s lasagna? “I’d love to.”
“Wonderful.”
She gestures toward my dad and the bread. Right. If I’m staying, I’m helping. After he butters each slice, I add garlic salt. The oven dings right as we finish. It’s already preheated. I didn’t even notice Mom turning it on. But my brain is stuck on my dad’s words.
“No need to worry,” I say, meaning the words with every fiber of my being, “I learned my lesson. Coworkers are off-limits.”
And to myself, my promise goes farther. No dating. No men. Focus on me. On adulting without distractions. Coach Rathborn—Brad’s—crooked smile pops into my head. I’d get on my knees for this guy.
And sure, it’s a nice fantasy, but Brad—even if he was, by some miracle, interested—is the last person I’d ever get involved with.
He immediately breaks the rule about no coworkers—although technically, I’m more like his boss.
He’s older. Much older. He’d never take me seriously.
How could he when he’s only ever known me as a kid?
And why am I even thinking about it?
Dad stands, stretching his back with a grunt. “I just messaged Brad. He’s on board.”
I jerk my hand as if I’ve touched something hot, knocking the garlic salt off the island.
My stomach lurches as I try to make sense of my dad’s words.
Grabbing the container off the floor, I set it back in place and jam my hands in my pockets before I can do any further damage.
“On board?” My voice squeaks so I clear my throat and try again. “What do you mean?”
“A welcome-home dinner.” At my panicked look, he adds, “Don’t worry. Family only.”
I swallow, attempting a smile. Normally, I try to nix any celebration that focuses on me. But my thoughts are too jumbled.
I’m distracted all through dinner. My mom shoots me a worried look—right. My dad just asked again if I was all moved in, and normally, I’d react with more than just a shrug.
But how can I focus on that when my brain is bombarding me with things like Brad’s smile? His woodsy scent that drew me in like a moth crushing on a scorching hot flame. His deep chuckle I felt all the way to my toes.
And his texts. Life is seriously unfair.
Coach Rathborn is family. My dad’s best friend. A sexy man with a brightly lit sign flashing over his head: WARNING: OFF LIMITS.
I smile at my mom to show her I’m perfectly fine.
Afterall, I’m an adult. I can handle this.
My phone beeps with a text. It’s from Brad.
“Is everything okay?” Mom asks with worry in her eyes.
“Everything’s fine.” But is it? I check the text again, trying to ignore the flutter of excitement that runs through me. At least this time, I know he has the right person.
Brad: Hey, Chas. Can we meet at the diner tomorrow? My treat.
Dixon Diner. Named after Charles Dixon, the founder of Dixon Hills. It’s the town hotspot—not counting the bar on a Saturday night. How can I sit across from Brad and remain calm and professional, given everything I can’t unknow? I’d get on my knees for this guy.
Ugh. Why is adulting so hard?