Chapter 64
CHAPTER 64
CHARLOTTE
During the long drive from Los Angeles back to the small town I once called home, I think of all the things I’ve learned from the people written memoirs about. Whose lives I’ve seen up close and personal.
Odds don’t lie. People do.
The cold only hurts if you let it.
People’s opinions are like air.
I had to win. There was only victory or death.
Most people fear failure. I fear never having tried.
I usually listen to podcasts or audiobooks when I drive. But during the hours it takes me back to Idaho, I’m alone with my thoughts.
My parents know now. Their concerns had been palpable on the phone, especially when I confirmed that I had indeed been dating Aiden.
Their response hurt like a wound, a splinter I can’t seem to get out. Knowing that, just as in the past, I once again made them targets of lunchroom speculations and embarrassment at work. That I’ve given them reasons to worry again.
My parents had had to endure televised scenes where Blake and I got intimate. Nothing explicit. Hints. Moving covers. Stupid smiles and winks.
I’d been so in love.
And then I’d been betrayed.
I’d been wrong to trust him. Wrong to trust my own emotions, to surrender to them so fully, and to let them lead me when I should have done more thinking instead.
I dodge more phone calls during the long drive. The latest is from the New York Globe journalist, Audrey. I saved her number the other day so I could easily screen it.
A little later, a text comes in. I read it when I stop to get gas, avoiding the other fifteen or so on my phone. Including more than a few from Aiden.
Audrey: I’ve seen the tabloid news today. I want you to know that it affects nothing, as far as I’m concerned. I still think you should tell your story. Or just have a chat with me, off the record. It’s up to you.
The last few words are ironic. Nothing is “up to me” in all of this. I don’t have any control, like so many times before. Just like all those years ago.
What emerged back then was a version of me I didn’t recognize.
But many other people saw it as the real story.
Aiden calls again, just as I roll into Elmhurst. I ignore his call again. Let it ring and ring, each vibration in my cup holder echoing inside my little car. Each feeling like a tiny knife cut.
Elmhurst looks exactly the same. It always does, every time I get back. Nerves make my stomach tight.
My parents’ house, the house I grew up in, is at the far curve of the cul-de-sac. Painted white wood, red brick, green lawn. Mom’s planted daisies in the flower boxes outside the front door.
My tears well up at the sight. I have so many good memories of this house. And then bad ones, too. From when I retreated inside its walls like an injured animal, hidden away to lick my wounds.
After that, I only returned between jobs. To go through the boxes of my things that Dad still keeps in his garage and to pack whatever I’d need ahead of my next adventure.
I’ve been without a home since I left this house.
Never stayed long enough to make a base, never bought my own furniture, never settled into routines. In some ways, I’ve been running from both my past and this place. From having to come face-to-face with people who know what happened.
I park my old Honda next to my parents’ shining SUV. Mom rushes through the front door before I’ve even shut off the engine. She’s got her reading glasses on, her hair in a giant claw clip, with a pair of rubber sandals on her feet.
I open the car door. “Hi.”
“Sweetheart.” She pulls me in for a hug, and she smells like the perfume she’s used for over twenty years. I close my eyes and the tears spill down my cheeks.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” I whisper.
“I know. I know,” she says. “But it’ll be all right. Come on in. There’s food for you.”
I meet up with Esmé the next day. We walk around Elmhurst. I was the one who suggested it, even if it chafes. I think better when I’m moving.
I ask her not to judge me.
“Charlotte,” she says, her familiar smile wide. “I never judge you.”
“I know. But… still. I needed to say it.” Then I take a deep breath and tell her everything, from the very beginning. Every detail that’s mine to share.
“I can’t have it happen again,” I pick at a fray on the hem of my jean jacket. “When I can, once he responds about the memoir and I get the green light to submit it to Vera, I think I’m going to ask her for another ghostwriting gig.”
Esmé’s eyebrows pull together. “But what about the pitch you told me about? For a non-fiction book of your own?”
I look past her to the green space at the center of Elmhurst. I’ve been to many Fourth of July celebrations there. School fairs, little league baseball games, and once when a circus came to town.
I haven’t told Esmé I’ve already written the beginning of the book.
“I know, but I want to go somewhere. Be sent somewhere. Disappear for a while.”
“Like you’ve done for years,” she says softly.
I sigh. “Yes. I suppose.”
“This guy… he wanted you to tell your story?”
“Yes. Forced my hand.” I lean back on the bench and look up at the sky. Blue peeks out through the fluffy expanse of rapidly moving clouds. They never stay long in one place, either.
“He was wrong to do that,” Esmé says. “No one should force you to give a tell-all interview or anything. Not even a guy you’re dating. But I do think… And don’t hate me for saying this, okay?”
“Okay,” I say. “I won’t.”
“This guy could be bad news or the love of your life, I really don’t know. But Charlotte, you’ve endured a lot without ever speaking up.”
I look at her. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve never tried to change the narrative.”
“Because I can’t. I couldn’t back then, and how could I now? People have already made up their minds.”
“People can change them,” she says. “Not that their opinions should matter. Not really. It’s more that… people in production manipulated events so they could sell good TV. It wasn’t the truth. ”
“I’m well aware of that.” My voice comes out low. “It’s just, how would it help if I tell my side of events? It would just attract even more attention.”
“It would,” she agrees. Logical, as always. “In the moment. But after, the hype will die down, and you’ll be left with more peace.” She nudges me with her elbow. “Maybe. Not that I know if that’s true.”
I shoot her a crooked grin. “Way to caveat your advice.”
“I always do,” she says. “Give someone very direct, potentially life-changing advice, and then bookend it with ‘but what do I know?’ so they can’t hold it against me if it backfires.”
“Clever.”
“I know.” She nudges me again. “This isn’t like last time.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Really? Because my parents have already gotten calls from two of my aunts and one uncle, wondering if I’m well. If I know what I’m doing. Why would I ever date the man who runs the production company for The Gamble .”
“Right. And what happens later? They go on with their lives. And you’ll have to go on with yours.” Esmé wraps an arm around my shoulders.
I’m glad she’s here.
She lives back in Elmhurst now, having returned just a few years ago. At the time I didn’t understand the decision. Why would you give up Seattle for a small town?
But in the distance, birds sing high up in the trees. A couple of boys pass a soccer ball on the field.
“You can’t make life decisions based on other people’s fleeting thoughts,” she tells me.
I’m quiet for a long moment. “You’re right. It’s just… it’s scary to be vulnerable.”
She chuckles faintly. “Of course it is. Do you think it’s any different for the rest of us?”
“Why… do you all do it, then?”
“Because the cost of doing nothing is too high.” She looks down at her hand, resting on her lap. Her wedding band glints in the sunlight. “It took me a very long time to open up to Tim. Somehow, he had the patience to let that be okay.”
“I’m sorry I’ve been a shitty friend,” I say.
She straightens. “What? Of course you haven’t.”
I nod at her. “I have. And probably a shitty daughter, too. And cousin, and granddaughter. I’ve spent so many years running and checking in only when it suited me. Not when the other people might have needed me.”
“You’re giving yourself too little credit,” she tells me. My beautiful best friend, one who’s helped me through so much of life’s hardships.
A fierce desire to be there for her in return hits me. Her life is beautiful, happy, and safe—but I will be there regardless, should that ever change.
“I’m sorry.” I grip her hand and take a deep breath. “I also think you may be right.”