13. Charlie
Charlie
I can't stop watching Tess from across the hotel ballroom. She's standing by the french doors, the June sunlight in her hair, but something's off. She’s smiling but I’m not buying it. It's the same smile she's been wearing all day—polite, pretty, and completely impenetrable.
I take a sip of my champagne and try to pinpoint when exactly she started acting like I was a stranger.
The Ritz-Carlton in San Francisco doesn't disappoint—crystal chandeliers, cream and gold décor, and enough flowers to fill a botanical garden. Jack and Sky spared no expense, but I barely registered any of it during the ceremony. My attention was entirely on Tess, seated beside me with her legs carefully angled away from mine. She’s wearing one of the dresses I bought her—a light blue dress that she looks absolutely amazing in.
I think back to two weeks ago at the wedding on Whidbey Island. We’d had so much fun together, dancing and talking to so many people. And then later that night…those images have been going through my head nonstop since it happened.
But today she's different.
I make my way across the room to her as she’s chatting with an older couple I don't recognize.
"Excuse me," I say, touching her elbow lightly and looking at the couple. "Just wanted to come over to introduce myself. I’m Charlie Astor.”
"Charlie, this is George and Linda Evans," Tess says, her voice carrying that formal tone she's had all day. "They are long time friends of my parents."
"A pleasure," I say, extending my hand. George is silver-haired with wire-rimmed glasses and a firm handshake.
"Charlie Astor," Linda repeats, her eyes lighting with recognition. "Of Emerald City Coffee?"
"Guilty as charged," I smile, trying to keep things light.
"Your new roast is divine," Linda says. "We’ve been drinking it every morning lately."
"I'm thrilled you're enjoying it, Mrs. Evans," I say.
"We actually have a new single-origin coming out next month from a small farm in Colombia.
The flavor profile is extraordinary—notes of dark chocolate and blackberry with this incredible caramel finish.
I'd be happy to send you a bag as soon as it's released. "
Linda's face lights up. "Oh, that would be lovely! And do call me Linda, please, dear."
“Of course, Linda. I’ll get your address from Tess. I can’t wait to hear what you think about it.”
"Very generous," George nods. "I've been following your company's growth. Impressive trajectory."
I launch into my standard coffee chat, the words flowing without much thought while my attention stays fixed on Tess. She's looking everywhere but at me, her fingers fidgeting with the stem of her champagne flute.
George eventually glances over Tess's shoulder and brightens. "Oh, there's Ray Burgess. We've been looking for him all day." He turns to us apologetically. "Would you excuse us?”
"Of course," Tess says warmly.
"Lovely meeting you both," Linda adds as they drift away.
And then we're alone. The silence between us stretches uncomfortably.
"So," I say, trying to break the ice. “Is everything okay?”
"Fine," she says, that same practiced smile still in place.
"Tess, come on. You've barely said ten words to me all day."
She takes a deliberate sip of champagne. "I'm just being professional. Isn't that what you wanted? A professional date for your very important weddings?”
"Professional date?" I blink at her, genuinely confused. "Is that what this is about?"
She shrugs one shoulder, still not meeting my eyes. "Isn't it? You needed someone presentable for these events, and I was...convenient."
The word stings. I step closer, lowering my voice so the nearby guests can't hear.
"That's not—Tess, I didn't ask you because I needed just anyone. I asked you because I wanted to spend time with you. Specifically, you."
Her eyes finally meet mine, searching for something. Whatever she's looking for, she doesn't seem to find it. She takes another sip of champagne, creating distance without moving an inch.
I run a hand through my hair, frustration building. "Look, can we go somewhere and talk? There's clearly something wrong, and I'd like to understand what happened between Whidbey Island and now."
"Nothing happened." Her smile is so brittle I'm afraid it might shatter her face. "I just realized I need to keep things in perspective."
A waiter passes with a tray of champagne. I swap my empty glass for a full one, needing something to do with my hands.
"And what perspective is that?" I ask.
“We’re just friends, Charlie. And nothing else.” She says in a way that doesn’t even feel friendly at this point.
I’m just about to explain that that’s not how I see it at all when she asks me to hold her champagne while she goes to the bathroom.
“Of course. But I’d really like to talk about this when you get back.”
She nods curtly and heads toward the restroom and I'm left holding two champagne flutes, watching her weave through the crowd. My phone buzzes in my pocket—a text from Stuart asking if we’re staying the night. I ignore it. Something's wrong with Tess, and I can't focus on anything else.
Fifteen minutes later, I find her examining a display of engagement photos of Jack and Sky.
"You disappeared on me," I say, handing her the champagne I've been carrying around. "It's probably warm now, sorry."
"You didn't have to keep it." She takes it anyway, her fingers carefully avoiding mine.
The crowd is now making its way into the ballroom. "We should probably head into the reception," she says, clearing not wanting to continue our earlier conversation.
The grand ballroom has been transformed for dinner, with round tables surrounding a polished dance floor. Our place cards put us at table seven, alongside three other couples and—to my chagrin—Claire Richmond and her date. Shit…this isn’t going to help at all.
I pull out Tess's chair, my hand brushing the small of her back reflexively. I feel her tense up beneath my hand and she sits quickly, breaking the contact.
Throughout the salad course, Claire launches into stories of "the good old days," each one making me increasingly uncomfortable. I try to change the subject several times, but Claire has always been relentless when she wants attention.
"Charlie was absolutely hopeless when we first met," Claire tells the table. "Remember that time you tried to cook me dinner and nearly burned down your apartment?"
"Vaguely," I say, my eyes on Tess, who's pushing broccoli around her plate and hasn't looked at me in ten minutes.
Under the table, I touch her knee gently. "You okay?" I whisper.
She nods without turning. "Fine."
Claire’s date, Dave something-or-other, seems as uncomfortable as Tess. He’s in a conversation with another couple at the table, probably in an attempt to remove himself from our conversation.
The newlyweds finally make their entrance, and everyone stands to applaud. Jack catches my eye and gives me a thumbs up.
During the main course, I make an effort to draw Tess into conversation, asking about her upcoming performances, a topic that usually animates her. She gives me brief, polite answers before turning to the woman on her other side.
I feel an uncomfortable clenching in my stomach, a mixture of concern and growing frustration. I know we need to talk but she obviously doesn’t want to.
The bride and groom take their first dance, and I lean toward Tess. "Save me a dance?"
She stares at the dancing couple. "I'm not really in a dancing mood today."
"Oh, c’mon. We had a great time dancing at the last wedding."
"I just don't feel like it, Charlie." Her voice has an edge.
I sit back, genuinely confused now. "Did I do something wrong? Because if I did, I'd really like to know what it is."
She finally turns to look at me, and I catch something in her eyes—hurt, maybe? "Not everything is about you."
The words sting more than they should. "I never said it was. I'm just trying to figure out why you've been acting like you'd rather be anywhere but here. With me."
Tess sighs, her shoulders dropping slightly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be poor company. I'm just...tired."
But I can tell it's more than that. This is deliberate distance.
Jack appears beside us, slightly flushed from dancing. "Charlie! Get your ass to the bar. The guys are all doing shots.”
"I don't think—" I begin, but Tess interrupts.
"Go ahead," she says with a forced smile. "I'm going to visit the ladies' room anyway."
Jack pulls me up, oblivious to the tension. "Everything good with you two?" he asks as we head toward the dance floor.
"I honestly have no idea," I answer, watching Tess disappear through the ballroom doors, wondering if she's running from the reception or from me.
I return to our table after ten minutes of obligatory dancing with Sky's cousins to find Tess's chair empty, her napkin neatly folded beside her barely-touched salmon. Our table is now a graveyard of half-empty wine glasses and abandoned dessert plates.
Claire gives me a little wave from across the table, and I give her a half smile in return. I've got bigger problems than awkward small talk with Claire. Like figuring out why Tess is treating me like leftovers that have gone bad.
I grab my water glass and scan the ballroom. The dance floor has filled with the usual wedding crowd—elderly couples swaying gently, enthusiastic children spinning in circles, and drunk groomsmen with loosened ties attempting dance moves that died in the '90s. There’s no sign of Tess.
The bar area yields nothing but drunk dudes getting drunker. I check the quiet lounge area where a few older guests have retreated from the music, then the outdoor terrace with its view of the San Francisco skyline. Still no Tess.
Did she leave? The thought sits heavy in my stomach.
I'm about to pull out my phone and text her when I spot her across the reception hall, standing in a corner with two older women I don’t know. One wears a boring, structured navy dress that screams old money; the other is practically dripping in gold jewelry.
What stops me in my tracks isn't finding Tess—it's how she looks. She's laughing, her head tilted back, eyes crinkled at the corners. Her entire body language has transformed. Gone is the rigid posture and tight smile she's worn all day. This is the Tess I know—animated, engaged, present.
Just not with me, apparently.
I approach slowly, catching snippets of their conversation.
"—his canter was so smooth, it felt like we were barely moving," the jewelry woman is saying.
"How incredible," Tess responds, her cheeks flushed. "Have you shown him yet? I’m sure the two of you will rack up the ribbons."
When Tess sees me her smile dims instantly, like someone turning down a dimmer switch. I move beside her, not quite touching her but close enough to feel the way she subtly shifts away.
Tess fiddles with a bracelet on her wrist, a nervous habit I've seen her do several times today. "Charlie, this is Caroline Roberts and Chloe Sullivan. We know each other from some horse shows."
I reach out my hand and shake each of their hands. “Charlie Astor. Glad to meet you.”
They smile politely at me and then immediately launch into a detailed discussion about a show that is coming up soon outside of Seattle.
I stand there, feeling increasingly like an outsider despite my attempts to nod at appropriate intervals.
When I place my hand lightly on Tess's back to include myself in the circle, she steps forward, breaking the contact.
It's so subtle the other women probably don't even notice, but to me, it's as obvious as if she'd slapped my hand away.
"I'm going to grab a drink," I announce, interrupting whatever Mrs. Roberts is saying about the classes she’s riding in. "Can I get anyone anything?"
The older women politely decline.
"Tess?" I look directly at her, daring her to meet my eyes.
She glances up briefly. "No, thank you."
"They have that Pinot Grigio you like," I add.
"I'm fine with my champagne." She lifts her nearly empty glass and turns back to Mrs. Roberts.
I retreat to the bar, ordering a double of Macallan. The bartender slides it across the polished surface, and I take a larger sip than I should have.
"Woman troubles?" he asks, with the knowing look of someone who's witnessed countless wedding dramas from behind the safety of a bar.
"Is it that obvious?"
He shrugs. "Only to those of us who've been there."
I down the rest of my drink and order another, turning to observe Tess and her horse friends.
They've been joined by a fourth woman, younger, wearing a red dress cut low enough to catch the attention of several nearby men.
But it's Tess who draws my eye. The way she uses her hands when she speaks about something she's passionate about.
The slight tilt of her head when she listens intently.
I finish my second scotch and decide that enough is enough. I make my way back to the group.
"Ladies," I say, forcing brightness into my voice, "I hate to interrupt, but they're about to cut the cake, and I promised Jack’s mom I’d take some candid photos. Tess, would you mind helping me? You've got a better eye for composition than I do."
It's a thin excuse, but a reasonable one. Tess hesitates, clearly trying to find a way to decline without seeming rude.
"Oh, you must!" Mrs. Sullivan insists. "We've monopolized you long enough, dear."
Tess's shoulders tighten almost imperceptibly. "Of course," she says tightly. "Excuse me, ladies."
She follows me toward the center of the room, maintaining a careful distance. When we're out of earshot, I stop and turn to her.
"Are we going to talk about what's going on?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
"There's nothing to talk about," she says, scanning the room as if looking for escape routes. "And they're not cutting the cake yet. The photographer is still setting up."
"I know. I just needed an excuse to get you alone for five minutes."
She crosses her arms. "Charlie?—"
The DJ's voice booms through the speakers, announcing the cake cutting, and Tess's expression shifts to relief.
"Show time," she says, already moving away from me.
I stand there for a moment, watching her weave through the crowd, putting as much distance between us as possible. The frustration that's been building all day flares into something sharper. I'm not imagining this. She's deliberately avoiding me, shutting me out, and I have no idea why.
What I do know is that I'm done playing this game. Whatever is going on with Tess, it's time she tells me directly instead of treating me like some stranger she's stuck with at a wedding. I follow her, my patience wearing thinner with each step.