Chapter 36 Charlie #2
"Please stop." I step closer, making sure he hears me clearly. "You're responsible for your choices, Ethan. Not hers. What she did was criminal. What you did was just... human."
He looks at me, surprised. "You don't hate me?"
I consider the question seriously. "No," I say finally. "I don't hate you. For a long time, I was angry. Hurt. But now?" I shrug. "Now I just feel like we just weren't meant to be."
"Because of him?" There's no bitterness in the question, just resignation.
"Partly," I admit. "But mostly because of me. I've changed, Ethan. I know what I want now, and who I want to be. And I think you held me back from that without either of us realizing it."
He nods slowly. "He doesn't."
"No," I agree. "He doesn't."
"He seems like a good guy," Ethan says grudgingly.
A smile tugs at my lips. "He is."
"I'm happy for you, Charlie. I mean that." He straightens, squaring his shoulders. "And I promise, I won't cause any more trouble. I just wanted you to know I'm sorry."
"Thank you," I say softly. "That means a lot."
An awkward silence falls between us. Then Ethan clears his throat. "We should probably get back before Sebastian comes looking for you."
"Probably," I agree with a small laugh. "He's not the most patient person."
"Can't blame him," he says under his breath.
We walk back to the dining room together, not touching but not hostile either. There's a finality to this conversation that feels like closing a door on a long chapter of my life. Not slamming it shut, but gently clicking it closed and locking it forever.
When we enter, Bash's eyes find mine immediately, questioning. I give him a reassuring smile as I claim my seat beside him.
"Everything okay?" he murmurs, his hand finding mine under the table.
I lace our fingers together, feeling the steady warmth of his palm against mine. "Everything's perfect," I whisper back, and for the first time in a long time, I mean it completely.
Across the table, Ethan takes his seat, looking lighter now. Our eyes meet briefly, and I see acceptance there. Maybe even the beginnings of peace.
Bash's thumb traces patterns on my hand as my father stands to make a toast. The candlelight catches on the facets of crystal glasses, sending rainbow prisms dancing across the white tablecloth.
I lean into Bash's side, feeling his solid presence beside me, and I think: This is what contentment feels like. Not the absence of challenges or the promise that nothing will ever hurt again, but the knowledge that whatever comes, I won't face it alone.
And that's more than enough.
The Harpers leave with a strange mixture of awkwardness and reconciliation hanging in the air. Mrs. Harper hugs me tightly before departing, whispering another tearful apology in my ear. I squeeze her back, silently letting her know that I don't hold her responsible for Olivia's actions.
Mr. Harper shakes my hand formally, his eyes conveying gratitude that I didn't press charges against his son. "You've always been good to our family, Charlotte," he says. "I hope we'll see more of you next year."
Then it's Ethan's turn. He steps forward hesitantly, but this needs to happen, this final goodbye that feels more like closure than our conversation in the kitchen did.
"I wish you nothing but happiness, Charlie," he murmurs. "You deserve it."
I watch him shuffle his feet, hands awkwardly hanging at his sides.
"Thank you," I reply. "Take care of yourself, Ethan."
Ethan then turns to Bash, extending a hand with a hint of resignation.
"Take care of her," he says, his voice tight. "She deserves someone who sees her value."
Bash's face remains neutral as he accepts the handshake. "I know exactly what she's worth," he replies, the slight edge in his voice subtle but unmistakable.
I slide my arm around Bash's waist, leaning into him slightly.
Ethan nods once, understanding passing between the men. Without another word, he follows his parents out.
Once he's stepped away, there's a lightness between us that hasn't existed since before our breakup. The weight of what-ifs and might-have-beens has finally lifted.
The door closes behind them, and before I can even process the emotions swirling through me, Bash pulls me into his arms. His kiss is possessive yet tender, a wordless claim that leaves me breathless. I smile against his lips, loving the way he makes me feel.
"Okay, you two," Mom interrupts with an amused sigh. "Now let's go to the living room and open our Pre-Christmas Christmas presents."
Emily lights up like she's still seven years old. "Yes!" She grabs the bottom of her ball gown, bunching the elegant fabric in her fists, and takes off toward the living room. "Last one there has to clean up all the wrapping paper!"
Dad laughs. "Some things never change."
The living room glows with warmth from the crackling fireplace. Our family's towering pine tree decorated with a chaotic mix of handmade childhood ornaments and elegant glass baubles dominates the corner. Presents in varying states of wrapping expertise are piled beneath it.
We settle into our usual spots. Mom and Dad on the love seat, Emily cross-legged on the floor closest to the tree, and me on the oversized armchair.
Bash hesitates until I pat the space beside me, which is really more of an invitation to squish in together.
He slides in, his arm automatically wrapping around my shoulders.
"Emily goes first," Dad announces, following our longstanding tradition.
Emily doesn't need to be told twice. She crawls under the tree like a little kid, emerging triumphantly with an armful of carefully selected packages. Her eyes sparkle with childlike excitement as she arranges them in front of her, patting them possessively.
"These are all mine!" she declares with unbridled enthusiasm, her voice carrying the same eager tone she's had since we were little sneaking downstairs at 5 AM on Christmas morning.
The shimmering lights from the tree catch in her hair as she meticulously organizes her haul, occasionally shaking a box near her ear with suspicious precision.
We watch as she tears into the wrapping paper with gleeful abandon, shreds flying in every direction.
Her fingers work with practiced efficiency, destroying the meticulously applied tape and carefully folded corners that had taken Mom at least twenty minutes per gift to perfect.
From Mom and Dad, she receives a sleek leather portfolio embossed with her initials in elegant gold lettering.
Emily runs her fingers reverently over the buttery-soft material, her nostrils flared as she breathed in the rich aroma, eyes closing momentarily as if the scent of fresh leather might seep into her bloodstream and transform her into an instant executive.
The portfolio comes complete with a matching pen and notepad set.
"Mom, Dad, this is gorgeous," she gushes, hugging the portfolio to her chest. "It's exactly what I needed for those client meetings I've been stressing about."
Mom beams. "We thought it might give you that extra boost of confidence."
I catch Emily's eye and smile, knowing how much this means to her. She's been working so hard for her promotion, and this gift acknowledges her ambition in the perfect way. It's so like our parents to choose something thoughtful rather than flashy.
Emily plucks up my gift to her next, a small box wrapped in shimmering silver paper.
"From Charlie," she announces, tearing into it with her usual enthusiasm.
"Charlie!" She gasps, carefully turning the pages. "This must have cost a fortune!" My gift to her is a first-edition copy of Pride and Prejudice, her favorite novel, that I hunted down at a rare bookstore while I was with Mom and Dad in New York earlier this year.
I shrug. "What's the point of a corporate job with corporate pay if I can't spoil my little sister occasionally?"
Emily's eyes well up with tears before she composes herself and moves on to Bash's gift. Her eyebrows shoot up when she unwraps a small box to find a delicate silver bracelet with a tiny snowflake charm.
"I know we just met," Bash says, suddenly looking uncertain, "but Charlie mentioned you collect charm bracelets, and I thought—"
Emily cuts him off by launching herself at him for a hug. "It's perfect! And look—" She points to the tiny inscription on the back of the snowflake. "It has the date of this trip. I love it!"
Mom goes next, carefully unwrapping each gift with precision, saving the paper for who-knows-what future use. From Dad, she receives a weekend spa getaway for two at her favorite resort in Santa Fe. From Emily, the ceramic mugs and wooden tea chest.
She holds the frame to her chest. "This is going on my bedside table at home." I've given her a cashmere sweater in her favorite shade of deep burgundy and a framed black-and-white photo of the four of us from last summer, taken on a rare day when we were all together.
When she opens Bash's gift—a set of artisanal cooking spices from around the world, each with a handwritten card explaining its origin and best uses—she beams at him.
"Sebastian, how thoughtful! I mentioned my love of international cooking just once."
Bash grins. "I pay attention."
Dad's turn reveals his practical nature. From Mom, he receives a new set of professional-grade golf clubs he's been eyeing for months. Emily presents him with the handcrafted wooden box from Theo, filled with whiskey stones.
"And you'll come with me?" he asks, looking genuinely touched. I've given him tickets to see his favorite jazz quartet when they're in New York next spring.
"I wouldn’t miss it," I promise.
Bash's gift to Dad is a vintage bottle of Macallan to replace the one we finished the other night and a leather-bound journal with a mountain range embossed on the cover.
"For your hiking observations," Bash explains. "Charlie mentioned you keep track of wildlife and plants you see on your treks."