Chapter 54
— Chapter 54 —
Whenever I think about what happened, it feels like it’s still happening, as if it’s a movie playing continuously in a corner of my mind. Sometimes, on the rewatch, I notice things I didn’t before. Sometimes everything feels faded. Other times it’s painfully bright.
“You’re too drunk,” Charlie says while I dig through my purse. He’s very close and his breath smells sticky sweet.
“My car,” I say, holding up my keys, the ring dangling on my index finger.
“You can’t drive.”
I drop my forehead into my hand. What I mean is that I’m going to sleep it off in my car. What I mean to say to Charlie is that I am not his problem and I don’t want to be in his care. But I can only see the pictures of what I want to say. The gray velour seats, stray french fries on the floor mat. I can remember the smell of stale air in my car and what it feels like to have the seat belt buckles on the back seat press against my rib cage while I’m trying to sleep. I am stumped on how to get my pictures into his brain so he’ll understand.
I feel the pull of the key ring from my finger, and when I look up, Charlie is standing, slipping my keys into the inside breast pocket of his jacket.
“Come on, little sister,” he says, loud enough for the bartender to hear. For everyone around him to hear.
He is a saint, that one , they’ll think. Taking care of his drunk baby sister. Or, if they know Steena, Taking care of his wife’s drunk sister. He is a prince among men, that Charlie Wells. But I know. I know. I know that I should not get in the car with him.
Charlie grabs my elbow and pulls me to standing.
“Never let them take you to a second location,” I say, words slurring. I look to the bartender, but he laughs like I’ve told a joke. He thinks we’re doing a bit. Everyone knows Charlie. Charlie knows everyone. Anyone here would let Charlie Wells drive their daughter home.
It feels like my ankles forgot how to lock. They only remember how to bend. Charlie puts his arm around me and walks me to the door as if we are reenacting a scene from Weekend at Bernie’s and I am the corpse he is wrangling. In the parking lot, I think hard about that seat belt buckle pressing into my ribs. I wish for it.
“Charlie. My car. For sleeping.”
“I’ll bring you back to your car tomorrow,” Charlie says, adding “little sister” as two women in shiny tops and tight jeans do a quick jog to the door. It’s so cold that the air makes splotches on their bare shoulders. It’s so cold and my car will be cold and Charlie is barely letting my feet touch the ground. I didn’t know he was so strong. He’s not very tall or very big, but he is holding most of me.
He cups the back of my head with his hand as he helps me get in the passenger seat of his BMW. “Uh, watch your bean, kiddo,” he says, very loudly, and I think there is probably someone else in the parking lot to see his performance.
“No,” I say, but it is only a whisper.
He drives us to his office. Parks around the back of the building. It’s parking for the dentist, not for him.
“No.” I used to hold my breath when I passed this building as if I could protect myself from evil spirits.
“You’re too drunk, Freya. I can’t take you to your house like this. Your parents will throw a fit. I can’t take you to mine. Your sister will kill me. Let’s make you some coffee.” Charlie smiles that million-dollar smile. The one that lets him breach contracts and landmarks and people.
No. No. No. No. This time I’m sure I just think it. I don’t hear my voice at all.