17. Charlie
Yellow.
So much yellow.
Yellow walls. Lemons. Sunshines. Sunflowers.
There isn’t a part of this restaurant that isn’t in yellow.
And if there is one color I hate, it’s yellow.
“Okay,” I say to myself. “Let’s do this.”
I crank up the ‘00s hip-hop and RB playlist on my Bluetooth speaker before bringing over the ladder and paint supplies to begin “Operation White Walls.”
I can never repay Mona for leaving everything here and keeping this restaurant in perfect working order. And not just in working order; some of this stuff is brand new. I don’t know how I missed that on my walkthrough, but I’m not going to say no to state-of-the-art ovens.
Everything else is updating or cosmetic. New plates, cutlery, and mugs. Actually getting POS systems that take credit cards. Maybe new upholstery on the booths, but that’s only if there’s time and money.
And most importantly: painting. Though that’s easier said than done, considering I’m about to go through roughly ninety-two gallons of white paint to transform this place from the yellow submarine to my dream restaurant.
This is by far the biggest project, and I’ve been putting it off for weeks. But we’re a little more than week away from opening, and I can’t procrastinate any longer. And yes, I could have asked Mellie to help me, but the poor girl spent ten hours deep cleaning the kitchen, pantry, and coolers. I felt bad asking her to say.
So it’s just me. Time to paint until I pass out from exhaustion or the fumes—whichever one happens first.
Though judging by my last few weeks, the exhaustion is going to win. I never realized how tired I’d be opening this place up. Like, I need a nap every day to function. It doesn’t help that my stomach has been hating me so much I can barely eat.
Oh well. I don’t have time to think about any of that now. I have walls to de-yellow.
“Knock, knock. We heard there was a paint party happening tonight?”
The voice startles me, and I turn to see three women walking in carrying pizza, paint brushes, and drinks.
“Izzy? What are you doing here?”
“What does it look like?” She holds up the drinks she’s carrying. “You’ve met Betsy and Amelia, right?”
I wave at the two women who I’ve met in passing a few times. “Hi. Yes. But you didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?”
“Um…” They all look at each other, none of them seemingly able to say anything. Which is very, very, suspicious. “We were in the neighborhood.”
“In the neighborhood? On a Friday night? With the exact things I need to paint?”
“Exactly,” Betsy says as she grabs a paint brush. “Now where do you want us?”
They quickly disperse, not making eye contact with me as they find a wall to start painting.
“Hold it!” I yell. They all turn, guilty looks in their eyes. “Everyone sit.”
I see their shoulders slump as they do as I ask.
“I don’t know y’all very well. However, I’m going to go out on a limb and say that I doubt you all had a sudden urge to paint a restaurant tonight.”
“That’s not true,” Betsy says. “I love a good sip and paint.”
“But you’re right,” Amelia says. “Simon suggested we come down.”
I throw my hands in the air. “Of course he did.”
That asshole is playing dirty. Every day over the past week since the wedding he’s been stopping in and asking what he could help with. Each day I’ve told him no. Each day he’s refused to listen.
Mellie thinks it’s hilarious. I think it’s infuriating.
But he hasn’t helped by actually getting his hands dirty. No. That’s not how Simon Banks does things.
One day landscapers showed up asking what I needed help with for the front of the building. The next day a guy from a print shop magically appeared asking me how he could help with my menu and signage needs. And yesterday I was woken up to the sound of an asphalt truck paving the parking lot. Now that one I think was Magnolia Properties, but I could also see Simon doing it.
When he came in earlier today and saw the cans of paint, he tried to convince me to let him hire people. I immediately kicked him out.
“Y’all, I appreciate the sentiment, but you don’t have to do this,” I say. “It’s Friday night, and I’m sure you have much better things to do than help a stranger paint.”
Betsy shakes her head. “We don’t. All the kids are hanging out at Amelia’s house while the guys play poker at mine. I wanted an excuse to leave.”
“Plus, it’s about time we get to know you,” Izzy says. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re a damn good cook and you have our Simon smitten, it felt like time we got to know the newest Rolling Hills resident.”
“What?” My voice comes out in a weird high-pitched tone I barely recognize. “Simon is not smitten.”
The three of them clearly don’t buy my bullshit. Probably doesn’t help that my attempt at a poker face is being ruined by the thought of the near kiss from the other night.
“Your words say one thing, but your face says another,” Izzy says with a smirk as she grabs a paint brush. “I should know. Been there, done that.”
“It’s not like that,” I protest. “Simon and I…well, it’s complicated.”
Amelia laughs as she stands up. “Most love stories are.”
I shake my head and wave my arms. “Oh, no. That’s where you’re wrong. Simon and I are no love story.”
That’s one emotion I know I’m not confused about. I don’t love Simon. Yes, I might have felt something that wasn’t hate when he pulled Billy away from me. And when he held me in his arms and calmed me down. And when we nearly kissed. But that’s not love. Appreciation. That’s what it was.
You can’t love someone you hate, can you? Because I do hate him. At least, I think I still do. It’s becoming more confusing by the day. Because that’s what Simon does—he burrows his way into your life and makes you forget things like how he hurt you.
But then he flashes that damn smirk, and I have to remind myself to not melt.
“You tell yourself what you need to,” Amelia says. “I just know he’s been different since you came into town. And I don’t believe that’s a coincidence. I’ve known the man for nearly thirty years, and he’s never been like this before.”
“Like what?” I ask, curiosity getting the best of me.
Apparently that was the wrong question to ask.
“Enamored.”
“Charmed.”
“Slightly obsessed.”
“And he calls you Bug!” Betsy exclaims with hearts in her eyes. “I heard the guys say he calls you Bug, and I think that’s freaking adorable.”
“Yes, he does. But it’s not adorable.”
“It kind of is,” Betsy says. “I know you hate him, or something, but it’s…I just never pegged Simon as a nickname guy. That’s very big Book Boyfriend Energy right there.”
I laugh, because he’s the farthest thing from a book boyfriend. Or any kind of boyfriend.
Though if he put half the energy he does into annoying me into being a boyfriend, he’d be a pretty damn good one. Attentive. Gorgeous. Never boring. And the sex? My cheeks flush just thinking about that one night…
“Uh-oh!” Izzy yells, pointing at me. “I think she just realized it.”
“What?” I ask. “What did I just realize?”
“That Simon isn’t as bad as you think.”
“That’s—” I stop mid sentence, because fuck…she’s right.
Dammit to hell, Simon Banks…you’ve done it again.
The girls left about an hour ago—we got very little done—but I still had some juice in me. Which means I need all of the ‘00s hip-hop to get me through this one wall.
By the power of T-Pain let me finish this tonight!
My hips start swaying as I roll the white paint up and down. With every brush and elimination of the yellow, my soul becomes a little more filled.
The company tonight has a lot to do with that. Those women are amazing. We laughed. We ate. We drank. Well, they did. The thought of a hard seltzer made my stomach flip. Yes, they might have brought up uncomfortable feelings I’m not ready to talk about yet when it comes to Simon, but they did it out of a good place. They want him to be happy. And even though we just met, I think they want the same for me. Spending time with those women made me feel a little more at ease about moving here.
Besides Mellie, I’ve never had a lot of girlfriends. A few in high school and college. But never a tribe like that. And it didn’t feel overwhelming or like I didn’t fit in. I felt like I was supposed to be with them. And even more so, that this is where I’m supposed to be.
“You were always so cute when you danced like no one was watching.”
The sound of Simon’s voice scares me so much I not only jump out of my skin, I throw the wet paint roller, which somehow hits my face and chest before falling to the floor.
“Shit! Simon! What the fuck?”
He snickers as I do my best to wipe away any paint on my face. “I heard music and peeked in to see some familiar dance moves. Though I thought you only danced in your kitchen.”
His fingers come up to my face, and for some reason, I slap it away. “What are you doing?”
“You missed a spot.”
I stare at him as his fingers come across my cheek, wiping away the paint. His touch is comforting. The way he’s looking at me is heated. And my mind? It’s confused and rattled.
At any point he could lean in and his lips would be on mine, and I don’t think I’d push him away.
I should. But I won’t.
Dammit, this has to stop. I can’t keep going on like this. The push and pull and the confusion and want and hate and lust is too much, and I feel like I’m going to explode.
“No!” I yell, quickly walking away—and immediately missing his touch. “Simon this has to stop.”
“Agree, I think it’s about time we get everything on the table. The weather is about to cool down so I don’t have many shirtless running days left.”
I’m simultaneously disappointed and relieved.
The two of us sit down at a table across from each other, stares barreling into each other as to who’s going to go first.
“Ladies first,” he says.
“Fine,” I say. “Who was she?”
He tilts his head, acting confused. “Who was who?”
My eyes roll as I take a seat across from him. “You know who I’m talking about.”
“I promise you I don’t.”
I laugh. “You’re going to sit here, when we’re actually airing this dirty laundry out, and you’re going to continue to play dumb about what started this whole chain of events.”
“Charlie, I swear to you, I have no idea who, or what, you’re talking about.”
The use of my real name takes me off guard.
“You’re being serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
“Can I refresh your memory?”
“Please do,” he says. “I’m all ears.”
My heart is racing as I approach Simon’s house. I look up to the roof where we sat last night, and it’s like I can feel him kissing me all over again. Who knew a kiss could linger for hours after it happened?
But it has. I could barely sleep last night after I left. I’ve only had a few kisses in my life, and none were anything like that. It was…I don’t know if I can describe it. I’ve never felt so cherished, or wanted, in my life.
And I want more of it. And I want it with Simon.
Which sounds ridiculous. This is Simon Banks, and part of me still can’t believe he’s interested in a girl like me. But he is. I truly believe that now.
I know he said we’d see each other before he left, and I know I should have waited for him to text me, but I couldn’t wait anymore.
Apparently this is what it’s like to be head over heels.
I’m all smiles as I walk up his front steps, avoiding a few beer cans and other trash that’s still lingering from last night. The door is wide open, and just as I’m about to take a step inside, I’m nearly run over by one of his roommates carrying a huge box.
“Is Simon here?” I ask.
“Upstairs.”
The house is chaos as I walk through the entryway. Boxes are everywhere. People are in and out as they carry things to cars and trucks. No one is even looking at me as I make my way up the staircase toward what I now know is Simon’s room. His is the only door shut, which I don’t find odd, but I also don’t feel comfortable just walking in.
I raise my hand to knock, but before I can, it opens. Only Simon isn’t the one standing across from me.
It’s one of the girls that was dancing on the makeshift stage last night.
And she’s wearing one of his shirts.
And that’s all.
“Hi!” she says, her bubbly voice sounding like nails on a chalkboard. “Are you looking for someone?”
I swallow and force back tears. “I’m looking for Simon.”
“Oh. He’s in the shower. Can I tell him you came by?”
I shake my head and start backing away. I don’t say another word as I race down the stairs and sprint out of the house to my car. I peel away, but only make it down the street before I pull into a parking lot and just cry.
And cry. And cry some more.
He made me believe I was different.
He made me think I was special. He told me I was. He made me feel like I was.
I wasn’t just the poor, chubby girl who no one gave a second look to. I was someone. Someone special.
Then he kissed me. He kissed me like no one had ever kissed me before.
And it was all just a lie.
Because once again I’m not the girl guys like him go for. I’m just the one they have a good time with and get their rocks off by fucking with.
Once again, I’m not enough.
I’m crying so hard I barely hear the sound of my phone ringing. I do my best to stop crying when I realize it’s Connor calling.
“Hello?”
“Hey. You need to come home.”
This gets my attention. Something in Connor’s voice is freaking me out. “Why? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Mom. It’s not good, Charlie. Just get home. Now.”
“My mom died a week later. My brother was sixteen, and I was suddenly his legal guardian. I had to drop out of school and start working full time to support him.”
The tears are pouring from my eyes, but I keep on going. “So thanks. In the blink of an eye I lost my two best friends in the entire world. One because of an illness that fucking sucks and the other because of a man who couldn’t keep it in his pants.”
Simon doesn’t react to my choice of words, or my retelling of one of the worst moments of my life, instead just moving next to me and taking my hands in his. And because I’m too much of an emotional basket case right now, I don’t fight it.
“I’m so sorry about your mom,” he says. “I didn’t know.”
“I never told you,” I say. “I didn’t want anyone to know.”
“You should have,” he said. “I would have been there. I would have come to you. Been there with you. You shouldn’t have had to go through that alone.”
I laugh through the tears. “And bring your blonde, thin, perfect girlfriend? Or did you miss that part?”
He shakes his head, and I can tell he’s trying to suppress a laugh.
“Are you laughing?”
He shakes his head. “No. Yes. But not in the funny way.”
I pull my hands away from his hold. “Please. Elaborate.”
“I don’t think you want to know.”
“Yes,
I fucking do!”
“Are you sure? Because you’re not going to like what I have to say.”
“Try me.”
“Okay,” he says, pulling out his phone.
“What are you doing?”
“Finding evidence to prove my innocence,” he says. After a few more scrolls, he holds up a picture to me. “Is this her?”
It’s a blast from the past as I stare into the eyes of the woman who sent me into the lowest point of my life. But there she is. Older in this picture, but still just as beautiful. She’s standing next to Simon, but they aren’t alone. It’s her, Simon, two people who are old enough to be Simon’s parents, and three other women.
Oh shit…
“Was that the girl you saw?”
There’s a coldness to his voice. His gaze is hard. Then there’s the dread, shame, and growing embarrassment that’s running through me.
“Yes.”
“Then you’ve met my sister Maeve.”
My jaw drops a little as I do my best to remember that night. “Your sister?”
I watch as his jaw clenches and his face starts to flush.
“Yes,” he says, but not before letting out a frustrated breath. “She and her friends randomly came into town the day of the party.”
His words are clipped. My mind is racing, replaying everything from that day.
“She was wearing your shirt.”
“Because she forgot to pack something to sleep in.”
“She was dancing by you when I came in. I saw her.”
“Yes. On the end. Not by me. Now her friends? They were a different story. One had a big crush on me.” Simon’s voice is as loud as I’ve ever heard it. “If you remember that night, I didn’t touch any of them. I told you that. Point blank. Because there was only one girl I was interested in. And I thought after I kissedher and told her as much, she’d have believed me. Apparently I was wrong.”
The crack in his voice at the end cuts through me.
“I—” I don’t have words as shame courses through me. “I’m sorry, Simon.”
He stands up, and for the first time in his life, he doesn’t say anything. He just hangs his head as he starts slowly walking to the door.
“Simon!” I follow him to the door. “Please say something.”
He stops, but doesn’t make eye contact with me. “No.”
“No?”
He turns around and when he finally looks up, I see a tear well in his eye.
The tear I put there.
“If I stay here another minute, I’m going to say something I can’t take back.” His voice is low, and I can tell he’s doing his best to keep it steady. “I’m going to leave before I do or say something I’ll regret.”
“Simon…please…”
He doesn’t answer my plea. He doesn’t say another word as he walks out of the diner.
The day I cried over Simon was the most tears I’ve ever shed—even over the day my mom died. Simon broke me that day, and I didn’t think I’d ever put myself back together.
Now here I am, crying over him yet again.
And I only have myself to blame.