Chapter 13 A HANDSOME DISTRACTION
Chapter 13
A H ANDSOME D ISTRACTION
“Hope this’ll do,” Noah says about thirty minutes later. She’d followed him around the bar and up two sets of green-carpeted stairs to one of the rooms.
“Yeah, I’ll survive,” she says sarcastically. It’s more a suite than a room, with a cozy sitting area facing a fire, a beautiful four-poster bed decorated with elaborate pillows. Gold-and-purple wallpaper creates a sense of royalty in the room. A tall mirror wrapped in a gold frame hangs by one of the windows. She could squeeze her hotel room in London into this space three times over.
She hasn’t asked the cost of the room, but it would be mortifying to ask now. “I have to say ... the pubs here continue to surprise me.”
“We’ve figured out a thing or two in the last thousand years. You’ll find some earplugs by the bed, in case you go to sleep early. We have a few that like to get rowdy on the weekends downstairs.”
Even then, Charli can hear the commotion of lunch down below. “I don’t sleep that well anyway.”
He checks the heat on the radiator. “You and me both, Charli. I’ll need your passport and email address, but I’m not going to charge you for the night.”
Her brow furrows. “No, you can’t do that.”
He steps closer to her, which forces her to lift her chin higher. “It’s my inn. I can do whatever I please.”
“No, really, I insist on paying.” She still doesn’t want to ask how much, but she certainly can’t let him pay. Can she? And why is he even offering?
“Suit yourself. We’ll get your card at breakfast.” He turns away.
“I’m serious. I’m paying.”
“Okay, then.” He finds her eyes. “Anything else I can do for you? Need any recommendations for the day?”
“I’m going to poke around,” she says, “see what I can figure out on my own.”
“Great.” He walks to the door, stops short. “You won’t let me buy you a room. Why don’t you come down about seven tonight and let me buy you dinner. I’ll take good care of you. And you’ll like the menu.”
She appreciates his persistence and smiles into his charming eyes, wondering where the two of them are headed and perhaps even slightly eager to find out. “Yeah, okay. That’s nice of you.”
After he closes the door, Charli looks around. Kicks her shoes off and lies down on the bed for a while, considering how she can make the best of her time. Let’s say her third great-grandfather Miles/Samuel did attend Winchester College, which is what she’s betting on, then what else can she do while she’s waiting on Sarah? She pulls out the picture of Miles and the girl and stares at it, as if there may be more clues. She could have been looking at the wrong set of archives. The LMA only included London.
She searches the internet and finds that the Hampshire Record Office is nearby. It closes at four, so she’d better get on her way. Out the door fifteen minutes later, she hikes up High Street, making a mental note of a couple of boutiques she’d like to swing by on the way back. After all, she doesn’t have a change of clothes. As if she needs an excuse.
The Hampshire Record Office is in a building built with no regard for art. She’s amazed at how much it reminds her of the place in London, though this one is much tinier. She finds people waiting in chairs like they’re in an American DMV office. She takes a number and waits her turn.
A half hour later, she’s called back and follows instructions to a door marked with the number seven.
“C’mon, yeah,” a wily young man with a puffy nose says as he waves her in.
Charli takes a seat opposite him. “Hi there, how are you?” She’s doing her best to be kind, the whole get-more-bees-with-honey thing.
“Lost on the lotto last night, but other than that, I’m surviving,” he says. “And you? What can I help with?”
Charli starts by recounting her visit to the LMA and tells him about the tie. “I’m hoping that you might have something that can help. You don’t have facial-recognition software, do you?”
The guy runs a finger under his puffy nose and then: “You’re joking, right?”
Charli shows her teeth, thinking that she’s starting to get British humor. “I was hoping that maybe you could search some names for me.”
“Happy to.” He tries Miles and Samuel Hall and even throws in Shamuel for good measure. “No one born between 1850 and 1880 with that name. Let’s stretch it out a bit, see if this old computer can keep up.” He types away. “There’s a Samuel Hall born in 1817. Could that be him?”
“It would make him one of the oldest living men in history, as he died in 1925. That’s the only other piece of information I have. But maybe he was named after this one. What information can you give me on that Samuel Hall?”
He types for a while, then pauses to scratch his nose, making it even redder. “He was never married and no children. There’s not much. Let me print it out for you. I’m sorry I can’t be of more help.”
“Thanks for trying,” she says, as the printer kicks to life.
By five she’s returned to the pub with a bag of clothes in hand. The lunch rush is long gone, and only a few patrons linger, sucking back cask ales and chatting boisterously with friends. Noah isn’t there, but a woman slightly younger than Charli is singing along to an Eric Clapton song.
When she sees Charli, she cracks a grin. “You must be Charli. I’m Victoria, Noah’s cousin.” Curly red hair cascades down her back. Her striking emerald eyes have a confident way about them, as if she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be standing behind that bar. Even grateful to be there.
“He told me to take good care of ya,” she says.
“I’m sure he says that about everyone.” And before Victoria can verify that notion, Charli says, “You have beautiful eyes.”
Victoria turns up a smile. “Thank you very much. Can I do anything for you? Looks like you found the good shops.”
Charli holds up her bag. “That I did. And no, no thank you. I’ll be back down for dinner.”
Noah seats her by the crackling fire at seven sharp. He furnishes her with a menu and a bottle of sparkling water and disappears back behind the bar. They’re already crowded, the only empty tables featuring R ESERVED signs on them. Candles are lit up everywhere, and she wonders how this place hasn’t burned down in the hundreds of years it’s been around. She might have expected some Riverdance music from the speakers, ignorant though that may be, but instead she hears the familiar growl of Dave Grohl from the Foo Fighters singing about the wheels coming down.
Victoria appears next to her with a pad in her hand, ready to take her order. Her red hair is now pulled back behind her.
Charli points to the specials on the board. “I’ll try the hake.”
Victoria scribbles. “And a beer?”
“I’m all beered out. Do you have wine?”
“I know what you mean. Can you imagine growing up in this place? Of course we have wine.”
Charli settles on a Chablis, which she knows is French chardonnay, and sits back in her chair, pulls out her phone, and connects to the Wi-Fi. Viv has texted with enough emoji to knock down a cell tower, followed by: I made partner!!!!
Before the pity party that appears on the horizon comes to full form, she tells herself that she wants to be the kind of person who can be happy for people—especially her best friend. And she is, in a way. Viv has worked incredibly hard since law school, and she’s such a great person and deserves this. And Charli wishes her own reaction could be one of pure elation. But it’s not.
It’s mixed with all kinds of raw ugliness inside. There she is back on the sidelines again, watching everyone else do their thing. She’s not sure what’s worse, the fact that she’s not doing anything great in her life, or that she can’t seem to find enough joy in her heart to feel happy for her best friend, who achieved her career dream. Yeah, the second part is worse, she decides. What kind of monster makes it about themselves in a moment like this?
But damn right, she’s going to at least respond, and then she’ll beat herself up the rest of the night for being a bad friend. Maybe her own arsenal of emoji will make up for it. She launches perhaps her strongest emoji campaign to date and follows it with: I’m so happy for you!!! Can’t wait to celebrate as soon as I get home. Let’s talk tomorrow.
She mindlessly thumbs through social media as she further mulls over how disappointed she is at how her life has turned out. Maybe there is some reason. Maybe she does have murderous blood running through her veins. Does that let her off the hook, though? She pauses to consider her life expectancy. She’s twenty-nine now. If she’s lucky, she’ll die in her seventies. And she’ll be pissed if she makes it to ninety. Either way, she’s looking at fifty more years of letting people down, including herself.
As if she hasn’t had enough, her Insta feed knocks her down even lower. According to this repugnant picture she’s looking at, her friend Alice is pregnant with number three. Look at her disgusting smile while she pats her belly in this shot that her happy husband is photobombing. Alice doesn’t have to work, because she married an entrepreneur who has started an app of some sort. She already has two boys that look like mini Greek gods. She has a nanny, so that she can continue to go to the gym every morning—or prenatal yoga or whatever—followed by spa day and mom day and whatever-the-fuck-else day. Alice can go walk into traffic. And Charli would happily tell her that to her face.
Then there’s Melissa, doing her thing on TikTok. She started a business at the same time that Charli was going to open up the bookstore. But they chose two different paths. Melissa opened a food truck. A food truck! All of a sudden there was a second and third and a fourth truck in her TikTok videos, where she’s showing off her generous chest while she pretends to cook all the food herself. Charli bets she can’t even spell spatula . Now her feed is covered in inspirational quotes by Brené Brown and the Atomic Habits guy. Ugh.
The sad truth is Charli can’t see herself ever having some sort of success story. Maybe that’s why she pulled the plug on the bookstore after the debacle with the lease. Her failure was already written in stone.
Charli knocks back her first glass of wine. “May you all have minor traffic accidents.”
Another glass of wine in, and she’s successfully numbed some of the pain. When Noah appears with her food, she’s ready to eat ... and that means more than the food.
The fish is smothered in a lemon caper sauce. The veggies are a sautéed mix of spinach, green beans, and purple cabbage. The sliced and roasted potatoes look to die for. And the handsome bartender looks like he could go down easy.
Charli gestures toward her plate with confident flirtatiousness. She feels at home in these early stages of a relationship, where she can turn it on for a while. Dare she even call it fun.
“Definitely not the boiled-potato-and-ham dinners I’d imagined on the plane,” she says.
“You might be thinking of the Irish,” he says. “We definitely know what we’re doing here.”
She lifts her eyes to him. “You do, don’t you?”
“Anything else for ya?”
“This is great. Thank you.”
He nods, almost says something, then walks away. She goes about enjoying her food.
Noah returns after her last bite, almost like he’s been watching her. The rest of the tables are full, and he’s been running around trying to keep everyone happy. His staff seems to know what they’re doing, though. He sits across from her, like there’s no one else in the whole place.
She finishes chewing a bite and dabs her mouth with her napkin. “Oh, just have a seat. Invite yourself right in.”
“Well, it is my table, you know.”
“Oh, you mean you own it?” Charli asks.
“I do. Well, partially. With the rest of my loony family.”
Charli reaches for her chardonnay. “We have that in common.”
“Don’t we all?”
A pause fills the space, but it’s nothing strange.
“Wanna go have a drink somewhere?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I need another one right now. Two glasses of wine are about all I can handle.” She hears a slight slur in her words.
He’s not giving up, though. “Okay, then, wanna come watch me drink? Or we can take a walk.”
Charli looks at a few of the tables, notices the servers moving quickly. “Aren’t you busy?”
“It’s my pub. I can leave if I want. Besides, Victoria can run this show by herself.”
“Yeah, she seems like a good one to have around.”
“You have no idea. What do you say?”
She pauses long enough to make him sweat. “Yeah, okay.”
“Superb, let me make sure the place doesn’t burn down while I’m gone.”
After going back to work for a while, he reappears while pulling on a green waxed jacket. “You ready?”
“I didn’t settle the bill ...”
“I told you, it’s on me.”
Okay, nice guy or not, he’s clearly making a move on her. Which doesn’t exactly feel threatening? Charli thanks him and leaves a few pounds on the table for the server. He holds the door for her and follows her out into the night. Helps her with her jacket as a wispy cool breeze rushes by. It’s quiet out, only a few people passing by, talking in whispers.
“Kind of empty for a Thursday night,” she says.
“Aside from the pubs, it’s a sleepy town. Early to bed, late to rise.”
Charli senses he’s about to ask about her, so she deploys a distraction. “What’s Victoria’s story? She seems like a good person.”
“Oh, she’s great. Kind of the light of our family. Well, despite some tough times growing up. Her mother, my aunt, died young, and her father turned to the bottle. My parents basically raised her. She’s been working the bar almost as long as I.”
“Pretty much a sister, then.”
“That’s right.”
When Noah and Charli find their stride, he asks, “So what’s the meeting at the college about?”
There he goes, starting to dig. “I’m trying to track down my third great-grandfather. I think he went there.” For one wee second—they say wee in England, right?—she almost tells him more but decides she doesn’t want him to think she’s a kook. In fact, she wants to glaze right over this topic.
“Ah, gotcha.” She sees something pass over him, a thought that pulls him away from the present. He recovers quickly. “You seem a little young to be into genealogy.”
“You’re into pigeonholing me, aren’t you?”
“I love this about American women. You don’t hold back, do you?”
“You’re aware that you responded with yet another stereotyping statement?”
He cracks a smile that is so genuine that she knows he’s doing his best to flirt with her. “For a pretty girl, you sure are sharp.”
She lets her jaw drop dramatically. “Do you want to be smacked on the left or right side?”
He touches his left cheek. “Please forgive me. I’m being silly.”
She lets him off the hook. For a moment. “So how many young American women researching their families have you bought dinner for this week?”
“I’ve not bought dinner for a woman this year.”
It’s the first time she sees him as truly human and wonders if he’s more damaged than she originally thought. Taking the upper hand, she hits him with a few surface questions. He’s nice to talk to. Sweet without being boring, and smart without rubbing it in her face. He mentions that he lived in the US for a while, and she pushes for more. This is the part she’s good at, those first few dates when she’s getting to know someone. She enjoys the back-and-forth.
“I attended Pepperdine, then moved to San Jose to work in tech in the Silicon Valley world.”
And the layers peel back ... “Oh, look at you. What did you do?”
“I worked for Oracle first and then joined a start-up called KComm that was helping small-time investors develop apps. I was a liaison between the coders and the salespeople, spending a good bit of time on the road, trying to get the company off the ground. I met a girl and almost got married. But now I’m back.”
“What happened?” she asks, feeling more confident by the minute.
He sighs as if the answer will require more than he has in him. But he tries. “My family has owned this place since the first beer was poured in the fifteen hundreds. You might have seen the plaque on the wall. I grew up there, worked there long before it was legal. It’s all I knew, and I wanted something else. Built a somewhat American life in California, got hypnotized into buying an engagement ring, and then my father got sick.”
“I’m sorry,” Charli says, feeling like a monumental jerk. “Is he ...?”
“Oh, he’s still kicking. I’m not sure the whole Russian army could take him down.”
“Is that saying a lot?”
They share a grin that can only exist between allies. “Anyway, he had an ugly fight with cancer, though. My family has this amazing way of throwing a leash around me and keeping me close. But that’s okay. I’m accepting my place here. I’m needed, and that’s always a good thing.”
She goes thousands of miles away for a moment, thinking about her own father, hoping that he’s hanging on. And she’s trying not to even go to the fact that she’d used a fake cancer excuse to get here ... what an awful thing to do.
“What happened to the girl?” Charli asks, returning to the moment.
Noah swallows, and she can see some past pain flare up in his eyes. “Turns out she was sleeping with my business partner—and friend.”
How nice it is to have someone to tell war stories with. “That’s awful. How’d you find out?”
“They were perfectly fine not telling me. I suppose we might have gone on with the wedding had my dad not gotten sick. But when I asked her if she’d move to Winchester with me so I could help him with the pub, she broke off the engagement. A few days later, after she’d moved out, I found a poem he’d written her. A very shitty poem. I confronted them and got out the truth. Wasn’t too hard to go back home after that.”
“I’m sorry,” she says. But what she wants to say is, This is exactly why you have to be careful.
“I’m just glad we didn’t get married and have kids before I figured it all out. Anyway, enough of that. Let’s pop in here.”
He opens the door of a seafood restaurant and guides her in. Chefs in white work behind the bar in an open kitchen. He knows everyone and introduces Charli before they finally take a seat near the window. “You sure you don’t want a drink?”
“Maybe in a little while.”
They fall into easy conversation. She likes talking to him. But it doesn’t take him long to start prying into her life, so she raises the deflector shields.
“Are you on vacation from work? How long are you here?”
She answers the easier question first. “Fly back Sunday.” A wave of shame hits her as she says, “I edit advisory reports ... that are not interesting.”
“Ah.”
“Yeah, that’s enough of that. It’s hopefully a bridge to something else. There was a time when I was going to open a bookstore, but it fell through in October.”
He puts his focus on her, leaning in. “What happened?”
Part of her wants to share, as she hasn’t talked with anyone about it in a while—maybe this year. “My landlord got into some legal trouble, and I lost the lease. I was devastated and pulled the brakes on the whole thing before we even opened the doors. The writing was on the wall, you know. If it wasn’t the lease, it was going to be something else.”
“That could have been the right call, you never know. Maybe it wasn’t the right time; or perhaps you’re meant to be doing something else.”
“Yeah, I suppose.”
“What did you do with all the books?” he asks. “Had you already ordered them?” He comes off as truly curious, and it’s certainly cathartic to talk about, especially with a stranger.
“The shelves were about half-full. Thankfully I was able to return some for a refund. Others I sold and gave away to charity. There are stacks in my apartment. I play a little game sometimes. I grab one and try to find the perfect person to give it to on the street.” A twinge of joy rises in her, thinking about some of the people she has surprised.
He gives her a look of far too much admiration. “That’s kind of ... incredible.”
She shrugs and looks away.
He draws her back in. “You like books then? I can’t ever find the time.”
“It’s all about priorities,” she says. “I read two or three a week.”
“Two or three a week?” he says incredulously. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s not something I have to work at. It’s just ... what I love to do.”
He stares into and through her eyes as if they are windows. “I can only imagine the places you’ve gone in your imagination. I suspect that much reading teaches you a lot about the world.”
He’s saying the right things, and she’s pretty sure it’s not an act. “I think it’s nice to dive into other people’s worlds, see how they think. If anything, I’m maybe more open-minded than some.”
While pondering her response, he has a lightness about him, as if quenching his curiosities couldn’t be more satisfying. “If you’re not careful, you’re going to reignite my love of reading. What would you put in my hands if I was a stranger on the street?”
Her eyes go wide. “Oh ... I ... you have to let me think on that one.”
He crosses his arms. “I’ll be right here.”
“Oh, now?”
“Yes, now. Put a book in my hands.”
“Fiction or non?”
“Fiction.”
She closes her eyes and wanders along the shelves that occupy her mind. Alice Hoffman comes up, but she shakes the idea away. This is a guy who doesn’t read anymore. He needs something easy, a book that appeals to males, probably a male author. And a story that will carry him away as if he’s watching a movie.
Titles flash by in her mind. She could easily suggest some espionage—a Daniel Silva or John le Carré. But no, they’re not quite right.
This is fun, she thinks, almost forgetting that Noah is on the other side of the table, waiting. He’d love Shantaram , but it might be too daunting of a tome for his first book in a while. Same with Kane and Abel , another that she’d recommended dozens of times.
“Okay, I have questions,” she says. “Do you need guns and car chases? Are you a sci-fi kind of person? Horror? Mystery? And if mystery, noir or cozy?”
“I’m open. I will read whatever you suggest.”
She stares at his face and then around his head, as if the answer is in his aura. It’s like she’s back in one of the bookstores where she worked, and just like back then, she wants to get it right. There’s a certain pride when a returning customer tells you that your pick was spot on.
“Okay,” she says. “I got it. Chris Whitaker, We Begin at the End , about a guy who returns home after decades in prison. It’s fast moving, yet thought provoking. What was the girl’s name, the outlaw? Oh, Duchess Day Radley.” Charli beams as she recalls the character. “She’s one of the most interesting characters created in the last ten years.”
He’s smiling, but she can tell that it’s not because she’s picked the perfect book for him. It’s likely because he’s just seen who she really is. Now that she’s back in the real world, it’s embarrassing.
“Sorry, I get carried away.”
“Don’t you dare be sorry.”
Charli thinks she feels the temperature rise.
After a long staredown, he asks, “What’s next for you then, Charli? Genealogy?”
She takes a moment to recalibrate. “Uh, no. I’m not showing much promise in that department. The bookstore thing killed me. I’m afraid to take another chance.” She never shares this much information, but the fact that he’s history starting tomorrow makes him extremely safe territory.
“You can always try again,” he says.
“Yeah, I suppose. I don’t know.”
“You know what my father used to say? Failure is a step in the right direction.”
Charli laughs out loud. So much so that it feels like the entire restaurant turns to them. “If he’s right about that, I’m a whole lot of steps into the right direction.”
When their smiles tame down, he says, “I, for one, can’t wait to hear what you do next. I’m expecting big things.”
She’s pretty sure that’s the nicest thing anyone has ever said to her, and every bit of her below the table squirms.
“What was the name of your bookstore going to be?” he asks, showing incredible persistence.
What the hell, she might as well tell him. “The Iambic Inkpot ... is what it was supposed to be.”
He repeats her words. “Are you serious?”
“That’s what I wanted to call it, but I was outvoted by my family and friends.”
“What in the world does it mean?”
“I’m a big Shakespeare fan, and he wrote in iambic pentameter. You have the unstressed beat followed by a stressed beat, which mimics the human heartbeat. To be, or not, to be.” She makes her best heartbeat sound. “ Duh dum, duh dum. Of course, there are variations, and you can break the rules once you have mastered them. It has this beautiful cadence to it.”
He’s looking at her, and she doesn’t know what he’s thinking, but this feels like it’s happening too fast, even if their time together has a short expiration date.
He finally says, “What’d you end up naming it?”
“The Merchant of Boston.”
“Ah, after The Merchant of Venice .”
“And I thought you were just another pretty face.”
His cheeks swell with ... what is it? Joy? Is he really having that much fun? She’s pretty good at first dates, but he has a way of making her feel even more confident than usual. He’s definitely not the only one having fun.
He’s first to say something. “You’re amazing. You know that, right?”
“Ehhhh. You’re catching me on a good day.” Her hands become clammy.
He’s not finished. “You’re amazing and you don’t even know it. How endearing.”
“Anyway, that’s a pretty tall cathedral over there.”
He gives a light chuckle. “All right, all right. I get it. So, first time to England?”
“You’ve overcorrected, Noah. We don’t need to keep it all surfacy. But I don’t do the mushy stuff either. Can we meet in the middle?”
He nods and grins as if he’s accepting the challenge. “Tell me about your favorite book.”
“We don’t have to keep talking books. But I will.”
“Then let me have it, your favorite of all time.”
She feels like someone has just asked her to sprout wings and fly. “No one can have a favorite book. I don’t believe in that.”
His head kicks back. “Is it something you have to believe in?”
Just like that, they slip into the pocket of what Charli finds to be more truly enjoyable conversation. They talk a long time, barely pausing to take a breath. It’s as if they’ve both been craving to find someone to talk to, and now that they have, there’s no stopping them.
They talk and laugh for two more hours, all the way until they’re the last people in the place. Walking back, she asks, “Where do you live, by the way? Not above the pub.”
He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think I could do that. I’m down by the river. Charli, you should hang around after your meeting tomorrow. Let me show you the city, help you with your research. I’ll take the day off.”
She waves a hand through the air. “That’s nice of you, but I have to get back.”
He nods kindly. Knows exactly when to push, when to let go.
“You’re something, Charli. Offer stands if you change your mind.”
When they get back to the pub, she’s expecting a kiss ... or something. This kind of sexual tension doesn’t happen every day.
“I enjoyed it, Noah. Definitely better than watching the BBC back in my room.”
“Yeah, I hope so.”
Wait, isn’t he going to make a move? He looks like he’s holding back. Should she do something? Inviting him up seems like a bad idea, considering it’s his pub. And she can’t bear the idea that he’d reject her. No, if he wants her, he needs to be the one to make the move.
The three feet between them seems to grow as they stare at each other. What is going on behind those eyes? Is he really done? Had she read way more into this than she thought?
“Anyway,” he says. “I’ll see you for breakfast, yeah?”
“Yeah, I think ...” Her forehead crinkles. “I think so.” He’s going to walk away? So much for her little foreign fling.
He raises a hand in the air and gives a quick wave. “G’night.”
She watches him turn and wants to throw her purse at him. How dare he? Is he playing her? Is he hoping she’ll run after him? Well, he’s got another think coming.
Charli turns and heads upstairs, mesmerized that she can’t even land a one-night stand. Probably because she got all squirrely when he was saying nice things. Why does she have to do that?
Once she’s in her pajamas, she sits on the couch and turns on the fire. As it comes to life, she calls her father. “Hey, Daddy, just checking in.”
“So you’re in Winchester now. I got your message.”
“Yeah, what a wild couple of days.” She tells him about discovering the tie and how Sarah put off the meeting. “We’ll see what happens tomorrow. At this point, I want to find his real name and who his parents might have been.”
“Sounds like you’re getting closer.”
“We’ll see.” As she’s speaking to him, she finds it once again ridiculous to think that what she’s doing could have any impact on him whatsoever. How could she be so gullible?
“So how about you?” she asks. “How are things?”
“Oh, you know. Staying busy.”
He can’t even lie. That’s how badly he’s doing. A pang of sadness shows itself in her gut.
“Can I ask you something?” she says, unable to keep avoiding the question.
“Yeah, anything.”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but have you ... you haven’t considered hurting yourself, have you?” As the words fall from her mouth, she can’t believe she’s asking them. She can’t believe it’s come to this, or that her sadness now fills every cell in her body as she waits for an answer.
“Oh, c’mon, Charli. You don’t need to worry about me.”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
He pauses long enough for her to get her answer. Her heart rate slows to a crawl.
“I’m working on things, okay?” he says. “I know I’ve been a little down.”
“Hold on, Daddy. What I’m doing could be good for us all, and even if not, I’ll be back soon, and we’ll figure it out.”
Another long pause. What’s he doing? “Daddy?”
“Yeah, I’m here.”
Yeah, but for how long?
“Daddy, just ...” She doesn’t know what to say. “We’ll figure this out.”
“Will you stop?” he asks with a dose of anger.
The last thing she wants to do is make it worse, so she nods to herself and whispers, “Sorry.”
“Thank you for caring, honey. We all have our demons, don’t we?”
“I can’t wait to see you Sunday night. Let’s go out to dinner, maybe Pammy’s.”
“Yeah, that sounds nice. But you need to go to bed. Big day tomorrow. Will you keep me updated?”
“You know I will.”
Even imagining losing him makes her chest cave in. He might not have always been there for her when she was young, but he’s tried. And she can’t stomach the idea of a world without him in it.