Chapter 23 Charlie #2
"If that's what you need," Bash says with infuriating calm.
My heart pounds in my chest. This isn't what I wanted. I reach for Bash's hand, but before I can stop this ridiculous testosterone showdown, Mrs. Harper intervenes.
"Ethan James Harper!" Her voice cuts through the tension like a knife. "Sit down this instant. You are making a scene in public, and I raised you better than that."
Ethan remains standing, his fists clenched at his sides.
"I mean it, young man," Mrs. Harper continues, her voice brooking no argument. "Or. You and Olivia should go check out the jazz quartet in the lounge. Now."
For a moment, I think Ethan might refuse. Then his shoulders slump slightly, the fight draining from his posture. "Fine. This dinner was boring anyway." He turns to Olivia. "Let's go."
Olivia rises, smoothing her dress with practiced poise.
They leave, Ethan bumping Bash's shoulder as he passes. Bash doesn't flinch.
The awkward tension in the wake of their exit lasts all of five seconds before Addie puts her phone down and announces, "That was better than any reality TV show I've ever seen."
"Adeline," Sarah warns, but I catch the smile she's fighting.
Emily's laugh bubbles up, breaking the tension like a balloon popping. "Damn, Ethen sure knows how to kill a nice dinner. Does he practice being an ass, or does it just come naturally?"
"Emily," Mom scolds, but there's no heat in it. She looks almost relieved, as if Emily has given voice to what everyone's thinking.
Mrs. Harper reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. Her eyes are filled with genuine regret. "Charlie, I am so sorry. That was completely unacceptable behavior. I don't know what's gotten into him lately."
"It's really okay," I assure her, though we both know it's not. "It's not your fault."
"Still," she sighs, "I thought I raised him better than that."
Bash settles back into his chair beside me, his leg pressing reassuringly against mine. I turn to him, suddenly exhausted by the whole evening. The wine buzz has faded, replaced by a bone-deep weariness that makes my outfit feel too tight.
"I think I'm ready to head back to the house," I say quietly.
He nods, obviously hearing the exhaustion in my voice. "Of course. Let me settle the bill—"
"Already taken care of," Dad interjects.
Emily drains the last of her wine. "I was thinking of checking out that nightclub on 43rd Street. It has an ice bar! Does anyone want to join? Might help wash away the taste of Ethan's tantrum."
I shake my head. "Not tonight, Em. I just want to curl up somewhere quiet."
"Boring," she teases, but her smile is gentle. "Rain check?"
"Definitely."
Addie perks up, setting her phone down. "A nightclub? I'm in."
"Absolutely not," Sarah and Bash respond in perfect unison.
I watch with amusement as Addie launches into a detailed argument about why she should be allowed to join Emily at the nightclub. Her logic involves comparative European drinking ages, the fact that she wouldn't actually drink, and how she's "practically an adult" at sixteen.
"I just want to photograph the ice sculptures," she insists, gesturing with her phone. "It's for my portfolio."
Bash crosses his arms. "Nice try. You're staying with the adults."
"You're killing my artistic development," Addie grumbles.
"I'll live with that burden," he replies, completely unmoved.
Sarah sighs. "She tried this in Vail last year. Ended up sneaking out with some ski instructor's son."
"I was fifteen then mom," Addie continues to argue. "I've matured exponentially since."
"Clearly," Bash deadpans, and I have to hide my smile behind my napkin.
"Yes and now you’re sixteen and the drinking age here in America is still twenty-one, last I checked." Sarah states
Addie visibly deflates in her seat, knowing that neither her mom nor Bash are budging on the decision.
Sarah's expression softens. "How about we hit that chocolate café tomorrow instead? The one with the funny-named hot chocolate flavors?"
Addie lets out a dramatic sigh. "Fine. But I'm getting the one with the extra whipped cream and the chocolate-dipped marshmallows."
"Deal," Sarah agrees. She glances at Bash and me. "Mind if we ride back with you two?"
"Of course not," I say, grateful for the buffer of their company after the emotional whiplash of the evening.
As we gather our coats and say our goodbyes, Bash helps me into my jacket, his hands lingering on my shoulders. "You okay?" he asks softly, for my ears only.
I nod, leaning back against his chest for a moment. "Better than okay, actually. For the first time, I really don't care what Ethan thinks."
"Good." His lips brush my temple. "Because like I’ve said before, he's an idiot."
"A complete idiot," I agree, turning to face him. "Thank you for not punching him, by the way. Though I wouldn't have blamed you."
"Don't thank me yet. The night's still young." His eyes crinkle with that smile I'm coming to crave. "But I figured the waiter wouldn't appreciate bloodstains on the tablecloth."
I laugh, feeling lighter already. "Always so considerate."
Outside, the night air is crisp and clean, snowflakes beginning to drift lazily from the dark sky. They catch the glow of the streetlamps. Bash's hand finds mine, warm and solid, his fingers intertwining with my own as we crunch across the freshly dusted sidewalk toward the car.
Behind us, I can hear Sarah's exasperated mom-voice clearly rising above the hushed winter ambiance as she scolds Addie for attempting to immortalize our dinner drama on social media.
"No Instagram, no TikTok, no Snapchat, no whatever-else-you-use that I'm too old to know about," Her tone firm. "That's their family drama, not content for your followers."
"But Moooooom," Addie whines. "I could go viral! Do you know how many views 'Hot Uncle Nearly Causes Scene with New Girlfriends Cheating Ex' would get? I'm just saying, it's premium content."
Their bickering fades into the background as Bash tugs me slightly closer, his thumb still tracing small circles on the back of my hand. He leans down, his breath warm against my ear as he squeezes my fingers gently.
"Let's get you back home, Shortcake," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
Home. The word reverberates through me, settling somewhere deep in my chest. It feels right in a way I hadn't expected—warm and certain, like stepping into a room I've always been meant to find, and I know this whole situation is starting to be entirely too real.