Chapter Twelve
Charlotte glanced at the clock. It was nearing eight, and her heart fluttered with a blend of anticipation and nerves. The apartment hummed with the quiet energy of preparation, every surface polished to a gentle shine, every cushion plumped just so.
She checked her phone again, the screen lighting up to reveal a new message that had not been there a moment ago. It was from Grant. “Catching the eight o’clock train, it’s running late,” it read, his words brief but sending a ripple of excitement through her.
“Will you need directions from the station?” she texted back quickly, her fingers tapping out the message with practiced ease.
“No need,” came his reply moments later. “I’ve got your address, remember? I’ll hop in a taxi. See you soon.”
Charlotte smiled, set the phone down, and wandered to the window.
Streetlights cast pools of amber light onto the pavement where the day’s bustle had given way to the evening’s more languid pace.
The thought of Grant navigating these streets to come to her filled her with a warm sense of connection.
He’d be here, in this very room, sharing a meal she’d prepared with care, and sharing stories yet untold between them.
With a contented sigh, Charlotte turned away from the window and moved back towards the kitchen.
There was still work to be done; the last touches on dinner, the lighting of the candles.
Her movements were lighter, her steps surer.
This was no ordinary night, after all. It was a threshold, and she was ready to welcome whatever came next.
The savory aroma of roasting chicken wafted through the kitchen, promising a delicious meal.
But as the minutes ticked by, an undercurrent of unease began to stir within her.
She paused as she was putting the finishing touches on a salad, her eyes looking up to the clock on her stove.
It read 9:07 p.m. A knot tightened in her stomach.
Grant should have been here by now. No, he needed more than an hour; he wasn’t coming from Manhattan, but Connecticut.
“Traffic in the city would most likely delay him, especially on a Friday night,” she murmured aloud, a half-hearted attempt to quell the disquiet that threatened to bloom into worry. She chewed on her lower lip, considering. He said he was taking a taxi; why wasn’t Ming driving him?
Charlotte shook her head. No sense imaging intrigue where there wasn’t any. Grant’s trip into the city was at the last minute. Ming probably wasn’t available. Grant was likely in a taxi now on his way to her. She picked up a magazine, absently flipping through it to pass the time.
After she looked through that magazine and two others, she checked the time again. 9:40.
“Maybe there weren’t any taxis available,” she reasoned, trying to convince herself more than anyone else. It was Friday. It wouldn’t be fair to assume that the taxi schedules were suited to her or Grant’s schedule.
With a deep breath, she stood up and looked for something else to keep her busy.
She rearranged the silverware next to the plates that sat expectantly on the dining table.
She straightened the napkins, folded them just so, and adjusted the centerpiece—a simple vase with a handful of fresh wildflowers she’d picked up along with the Italian bread.
But no matter the task, her thoughts circled back to the time, to the idea of Grant’s taxi weaving through the city—and to the unspoken question of when he would walk through her door. It wasn’t like Grant to be late without so much as a message, especially not when he knew she was waiting.
“Maybe I should call,” she murmured, glancing at her phone on the coffee table. She snatched it up, thumb hovering over his contact name, before she set it down again. Did he confuse the time? she asked herself.
The clock ticked on, each minute stretching out like a taunt.
The hands reached ten o’clock, and still, no Grant.
Her heart sank. Surely she hadn’t mixed up the dates?
His meeting was tomorrow but he said he was coming tonight, right?
She was positive she had the date and time right.
He had called her and asked her to have dinner with him.
She suggested that she would prepare dinner for the two of them.
Grant agreed. The thought of dialing his number again tempted her, but then doubt crept in like a cold draft through unseen cracks.
What if I’m wrong? What would he think? “Probably that I’m crazy,” she whispered to the empty room, her gaze flitting between the phone and the clock as if one of them might offer counsel.
“Just another thirty minutes,” she decided with a nod to herself, a silent promise to uphold this made-up rule.
Charlotte returned to the kitchen, the savory scent of chicken filling her senses and offering a small comfort.
It was ready, had been for a while, and yet the plates remained untouched, the candles unlit.
She left the pan in the oven on warm and busied herself with trivial tasks: she refilled the water pitcher, wiped an already clean countertop, anything to keep her hands occupied while her mind raced.
“Another thirty minutes,” she repeated, the mantra giving structure to the wait, even as hope waned and the tick of the clock grew louder in the void of his absence.
Her heart clung to the hope that there was still time, that any moment now he would burst through the door with an apologetic grin and a story of unforeseen delays.
But her rational mind began to align with her intuition.
She couldn’t shake the feeling that there was more to this absence than mere happenstance—this weight in her gut was heavy with significance.
Charlotte waited impatiently, counting down the time until she could call him. As soon as the clock read 10:30, she reached for her phone. She tried his cell phone, but it went straight to voicemail.
Something was wrong. Charlotte could feel it in her gut.
Thinking she could call his home in Connecticut, she realized she didn’t have his home number or an address.
She didn’t even know where his office was located, other than in Manhattan.
And even worse, she had no clue what the name of his firm was.
Had he played her?
If so, what had he gained? Just her company and companionship.
They’d barely even kissed. No, this wasn’t adding up.
She refused to believe that Grant was some callous player, collecting hearts like trophies.
In her heart, she knew there was an explanation for Grant not showing up for dinner; she just couldn’t come up with a reasonable one that made sense.
And without a trail to trace him—no number, no address, not even the name of his Manhattan firm—she was left floundering in this emotional limbo.
“Where are you, Grant?” she whispered to the empty room, her voice barely louder than the soft rustle of curtains. The question hung in the air, unanswered.
She wasn’t one to give up, but it was after eleven, and unlike a typical New Yorker, Charlotte didn’t like to have supper this late. She went to the kitchen, put away the dishes, and the chicken into a container to reheat tomorrow.
What started as a wonderful day was ruined, she thought as she rinsed out the pan.
Charlotte flicked off the kitchen lights, the sharp click punctuating the silence that cloaked her apartment.
Her fingers lingered on the switch for a moment, as if she were reluctant to let go of the possibility that the evening could still be salvaged.
But the shadows that now crept in seemed to solidify the reality; Grant was not walking through that door.
He better have a damned good reason for not showing up or calling her. Or maybe he was just a jerk.
Charlotte was tired. She went into the bathroom and pulled her hair into a messy bun. She removed her makeup, washed her face, and brushed her teeth. Once in her bedroom, she slipped off her clothes and got into her pajamas before climbing into bed.