Chapter 16
Sixteen
CHARLOTTE
Orange, autumn-tinged morning light creeps in through the curtains, carrying a cool breeze through the open window.
Fall is here. I can smell it.
It’s time to grab pumpkins for the front porch and candy for the neighborhood kids. Time to decide if I’m going to make a serious costume effort or fall back on my trusty witch’s hat paired with my black dress covered in silver charms, the one that’s always reminded me of Stevie Nicks.
The thought sends memories from last night rushing through my head, making me acutely aware of the warm, muscled body wrapped around mine.
Nix…
My cheeks heat, and a satisfied hum pulses in my veins.
We were naughty last night.
Very naughty.
A part of me wants to go back to being naughty…or back to sleep, whichever comes first. It wants to stay in this delicious moment, feeling cozy, relaxed, and safe in his strong arms.
But now that I’m awake, the rest of my brain is insisting we get down to business. It wants to think about everything that happened last night. About the bar and after the bar. About my crumbling resolve, my rash decisions, and all the things I said.
God, the things I said…
The lines I crossed.
The promises I broke.
Promises to myself, ones the logical parts of me agreed were for the best, at least until after the stress of my ex’s wedding was behind me. But last night I took my vow to hold Nix at a distance, crumpled it up, had kinky sex on it, and threw it in the trash.
I wince as I replay all the things I confessed in the Ranger Rover before I dragged Nix up to my bed. I didn’t hold back, that’s for sure. Not even a little bit. Holding back seemed silly at the time—pointless even—but now…
Well, now, the sun is up and demanding I think this through with a clear head.
But my head isn’t going to clear while I’m tangled up with Nix, still high from last night’s cornucopia of orgasms and pheromones.
Nope. It’s time for some alone time.
And coffee.
Very hot, very dark coffee.
Moving slowly, I slip out from under his arm, then out of bed, easing off the mattress with a held breath.
As I pad over to my bureau to grab a pair of yoga pants to pull on with the T-shirt I wore to bed, I glance over my shoulder, but Nix hasn’t stirred.
He’s still out cold, sleeping the still, boneless sleep of the very young or the very tired.
But then he did engage in a lot of physical activity last night. The man played an entire game of grueling pro hockey before the sex Olympics even got started.
He’s definitely going to need strong coffee this morning, too.
I decide I’ll bring him one, as soon as I decide if what I did last night was crazy.
Downstairs, I start the kettle and load fresh grounds into the French press. When it’s steeped the perfect seven and a half minutes, I pour a mug. I cradle it between my palms, letting the heat seep into my skin as I wander out into the backyard, leaving the French doors open behind me.
The mosquitoes are brutal in Louisiana, even in mid-October, but the fall chill this morning has them lying low, a mercy I appreciate as I wander barefoot through the grass.
It’s cool and damp under my bare feet, reminding me of mornings just like this as a girl, following my mother out to pick flowers for the flower arrangement we’d work on after breakfast. I’ll always treasure those memories, but as an adult, I craved more than beauty in my garden.
I’m the kind of person who enjoys a harvest to put on the table.
In the summer, I have tomatoes, basil, cucumbers, lettuce, and herbs running wild around the periphery of the beds. By this time of the year, all of those except the hardier varieties of lettuce are gone, replaced by root vegetables I’ll be harvesting into November if the weather holds.
I pause by the edge of the tilled earth, amazed as usual, at how quickly the weeds invade.
Turn your back for a day or two, and suddenly three-inch spikes of bright green are poking up between the kale and carrot tops.
But at least the carrots and cauliflower remain unmolested by critters this year.
I finally followed my aunt Jasmine’s advice and planted a “trap crop” of mustard greens.
A “trap crop” is a lower-cost plant sewn specifically to lure the bugs away from the high-value veggies.
Mustard greens are a fantastic one. Not only do they offer protection against aphids and cabbage worms, but they also attract beneficial insects, like parasitic wasps that lay their eggs in aphids, further reducing the critter population.
As my gaze tracks over their rumpled, pockmarked leaves, I silently thank them for their sacrifice.
Not every beautiful thing is beautiful on the outside. Some things are beautiful because of how much they give, the way they lay their lives on the line for the survival and flourishing of others.
The thought reminds me of Nix, of the way he puts his safety on the line for the vulnerable.
At first, I assumed he must have a touch of a savior complex, which isn’t the worst thing, I guess, when it comes to complexes.
It’s noble to want to help people, even if your ego is more involved than it should be, and we all fumble for control in an out-of-control world in our own ways.
But now that I know him better, I realize his ego has little to do with why he lifts his fists.
He’s one of those rare people who sees that the game is rigged, but chooses to stand and fight for justice anyway.
He’s an idealist, but not one of the na?ve ones.
He’s stared clear-eyed into the past, absorbed its wisdom, and deduced that the chances of the human experiment ending on a high note aren’t looking great.
Most people who reach that place throw up their hands.
They grow nihilistic or bitter. Or they numb the pain from all that clear-eyed seeing with their drug of choice, whether it be sex, booze, success, or simply staying so busy there’s no time to think about what we’re doing here if it’s all so hopeless.
If all the things we’ve been told to want are hollow, and no one has the answers.
If no one even seems to be looking for the answers anymore…
I should know.
When I brushed up against those same dark thoughts as a younger woman, I doubled down on work.
I took on more clients, more employees, growing my business until the chaos was just barely manageable.
And when it eventually became manageable enough to let the old fears in through the back door, I turned my attention to finding the perfect love society promised would banish the darkness once and for all.
I did my best to find that with Teddy, and when that failed, I went through a sad, fractured time.
But eventually, I renounced the lies I’d been raised to trust, stopped believing anyone was coming to save me, and learned to love myself.
To deeply love myself, in an honest, integrated way that finally put my feet firmly on the ground.
And there, in that sacred place, I found the peace I’d been looking for.
It was there inside me all along, an abiding love that will never lie or leave.
And yes, sometimes I still want to be held.
I still want passion and companionship. I still want to walk down a NOLA street, laughing with a man I love to kiss, giddy about what comes next.
But in the past, what came next was never what I’d hoped for. It was never what I’d been promised, so long as I followed the rules and was a very good girl. A good woman, but not too much of a woman. Not too bold or too loud or too successful or too old.
God, never that.
And yet, here I am, so close to society’s definition of “past her prime” that I’d started to give up hope. I knew that on some level before Nix, but what I didn’t realize was that a part of me was…relieved.
Happy, even.
It was glad to be done, to be allowed to give up on that stupid “happily ever after” dream that had already stolen so much of my life.
No, I didn’t really want to be alone forever, but alone was so much better than any romantic “love” I’d ever known.
And I’m not really alone. Not really. I have my friends and family.
I have volunteer work and my business, and a place in a community that values what I have to give.
And now, maybe, if I’m brave enough, I might also have a man who adores me, who wants to give me pleasure and laughter and support without asking me to be something I’m not.
It feels too good to be true.
It’s fucking terrifying, and not just because I know how much it would hurt to lose something so sweet.
It’s terrifying because I would be tempted to betray myself to keep it.
I would be tempted to slide back into little white lies, and trying too hard, and giving too much, and lavishing praise where praise isn’t due, to protect the fragile man holding my future in his hands.
And when he left, the way they always do, I’d be back at rock bottom again, all my hard-won peace stolen away.
But what if he’s not fragile? What if he’s nothing like Teddy? What if he’s every bit as strong and steady and ready to match every part of you as he seems?
Before I can remind the inner voice that men are rarely as strong or steady as they seem, it adds, And if your peace is that easily stolen, was it ever really yours in the first place?
Well, fuck.
Touché, inner voice. Tou-fucking-ché…
The sun breaks over the roofline of the house next door, spilling gold across the garden like a promise.
I turn my face toward it, eyes closed, letting the warmth sink into my skin as I gather my courage.
Yes, I’ve been through hard times, through pain that forced me to transform in ways I didn’t always want to. I never wanted to be forty, single, never married, childless, with zero romantic prospects in sight.
But on the day Teddy’s wedding invitation arrived, I was all those things.