27. Cha-Cha-Cha（rlotte）
Cha-Cha-Cha(rlotte)
C harlotte’s front door opens before I even knock. She’s barefoot, wearing one of those oversized T-shirts that hits mid-thigh and turns my brain to mush. Her hair’s a mess, eyes rimmed with fatigue. She looks like she hasn’t slept, but perfect nonetheless.
I spent all night thinking about what I wanted to say. Rehearsed it a dozen times. But now that she’s standing in front of me, none of it feels like enough. Still, I have to try, so I say, “Hey, gorgeous. About last night?—”
She grabs my wrist and tugs me inside. “Forget about last night. Bedroom.”
“Wait, no, I—” I close the door behind me and stop walking, resisting the pull just enough to make her glance back. I see it—the fear in her eyes. The need to bury it all under something fast and physical, to outrun the feelings clawing their way up.
“I want to do that . Always,” I assure her. “But I also want to talk. Can we?”
Frustration flashes across her face like a storm cloud. When she pivots and heads for the kitchen, I follow, watching as she pulls a water from the fridge.
“Want some?”
“No, thank you.” She brings the glass to her lips. “Look, about yesterday?—”
“I know this thing between us has to stay a secret, okay?” Her voice is sharp. “I’m not—this isn’t news. You have nothing to apologize for.”
“Okay,” I say soothingly.
“I’m not asking you to make it public. In fact, I don’t want you to. I want this—exactly this.”
Does she really? Or is that what she’s telling herself so it doesn’t hurt as much?
“Okay,” I say again, even though it’s the last thing I want to agree to. But she’s overwhelmed. Scared. Scarred. So I step closer, hands hovering at her waist.
“Can I?”
She nods.
I wrap my arms around her, resting my hands on the small of her back. When she loops her arms around my neck, I start swaying.
“What’s happening?”
“We’re slow-dancing in the kitchen.”
“With no music?”
I shrug. “Do you want music?”
She studies me, like she’s trying to decode me. “Why are we slow-dancing in the kitchen?”
“Because I think you need someone to hold you more than you need someone to eat you out.”
She doesn’t pull away, doesn’t speak, either. Her fingers twitch against the back of my neck, and as she rests her forehead against my shoulder, I feel the tension ease from her like a long-held breath. Her arms stay around my neck, loose but holding.
“I’m sorry.” I slide my hands up and down her back in easy, grounding strokes. “For last night.” She doesn’t tense up, so I continue. “I’m sorry for how Logan spoke to you. I should’ve defended you. Should have told him about us. I didn’t want the fight to escalate, but you deserved better.”
She pulls back a little, just enough to look up at me. Her face isn’t guarded or angry. It’s just...open. Raw. “I’m used to worse,” she says quietly.
“I know,” I say, tension building in my jaw. “And I hate that. I hate that you think the only way to keep someone around is to ask for nothing.”
She bites her lip and looks down. “Aaron...”
I tip her chin up with two fingers.
“You’re allowed to want things. From me. From this. You don’t have to pretend you don’t.” She looks like she might cry, but she’s trying as hard as she can not to. So I add, “And you don’t have to tell me right now. But if you ever want more—if you ever want anything —I’m listening.”
For a second, I think she’s going to argue. Tell me not to get attached, that this isn’t real and nothing happened last night and we’re fine. But she leans back in and rests her head on my shoulder again. “I want you to stay.”
That’s it. She deserves so much more than a guy who just stays . But I get it. After everything she’s been through—everything I’ve been through too—all we want is each other’s presence.
All we want is to slow-dance in the kitchen.
“I will,” I say. “As long as you’ll have me.”
We stay like that for a while. No music. No words. Just two people swaying through the silence, holding on to the wreckage like it’s something worth saving.
“I dropped Sadie’s dress off at school this morning. Even left her a little encouraging note with a Bluey doodle. I hope she’ll love it,” she says after a while, interrupting the peaceful silence.
“I’m sure she will.” I swallow past the sludge in my throat at the mention of today.
“I can’t stop worrying that she’ll be there alone.
She didn’t want me there, didn’t want her aunt either.
I told her she didn’t need to go—that we’d spend the day together, go to the movies.
But she wanted to participate, and she’s still.
..hopeful. What if Josie doesn’t show up? ”
Charlotte stops swaying. I pull back and watch her face, expecting worry, maybe even pity, but finding something entirely different.
Anger.
“Why wouldn’t Josie be there?”
“Well, after our fight, the other day?—”
“That has nothing to do with Sadie!”
“I’m aware,” I say, somewhat defensively. Is she mad at me? “But I don’t know for a fact that she’ll be there.”
She moves fast, running into the corridor and disappearing behind the corner.
I blink. “What’s happening?”
She’s back after a second, pulling down the sides of an obscenely short pink dress. “Come on,” she says, waving me over. “Let’s go.”
“Wh-where?”
“To Sadie’s school.” Her voice is firm, no room for argument. “The show starts at eleven, right? We can still make it.”
We? We can still make it?
I stare at her, my pulse hammering.
“Jesus, Aaron. Come on,” she says before stepping closer, pushing me forward with both hands.
I stumble a little as I follow her. “What about lunch?”
“You’ll have to make something that doesn’t take eleven hours.”
I glance at the clock. Beatrice will be here in three hours, and I need at least two for the poached seabass. It’s just not possible.
“But your mom—the menu she approved?—”
“We’ll say there was no seabass at the supermarket!” she calls over her shoulder as she snatches her purse. “Or that I found out I’m allergic, or that you’re sick or—” She whirls back, eyes wild. “I don’t know, okay? We’ll figure it out. Let’s go.”
I hesitate for half a second—long enough for her to grab my wrist and yank me out the door—then the hallway blurs as I jog to keep up. She presses the elevator button and steps in, pulling me the rest of the way in before the doors fully open.
This’ll get me in trouble. Beatrice will be pissed, and the other moms at school will talk, whisper about Charlotte and me showing up together. They’ll assume things, ask questions.
But none of it matters right now.
None of it remotely dampens my enthusiasm as I grin back at her.
Because my daughter is not performing for Mother’s Day with no one to cheer her on.
“What are we going to tell the parents? The teachers?” she asks as I thrust my car into the first parking spot available. I ended up texting Beatrice that I’d need a sick day, and though all she answered back was “Okay,” I know she’s displeased.
In a flurry, we remove our seat belts and step out, and I meet Charlotte’s gaze over the hood. “What do you mean?”
“About me. Us . Being here together, you know?”
We break into a run toward the school entrance, and the sound of children singing drifts through the air. Fuck. It’s started already.
“Oh, who cares,” I mumble, not breaking my stride. I’m the villain either way, aren’t I? “Let everyone think whatever they want.”
“Is that how it is?” She throws me a wink. “I like this Aaron. But stop looking at me like that. Remember? Poker face?”
“Pretty sure this is my poker face.”
“Then we’re screwed,” she quips, flashing a grin as she pulls open the door.
We rush through the corridors until we reach the one that leads to the gym, where a small crowd of parents turns our way, heads swiveling.
They’re familiar faces. Jenny’s mom—Linette.
David’s mom, whatever her name is. The second their gazes land on Charlotte, their expressions flicker with barely concealed shock.
They try to mask it, to their credit, but they fail miserably.
“Hello, everyone. Is the show...” I gesture vaguely toward the door.
“It’s starting in ten minutes,” Linette says, eyeing Charlotte’s short dress with unmistakable curiosity. “The other class ran late.”
“Oh, great. I thought we’d missed the beginning.”
Linette turns her attention to Charlotte. “So nice to meet you, uh...” She extends a hand.
Charlotte barely shakes it. “Yeah, nice to meet you.”
“And you are...” Linette probes, eyes roaming down the short dress clinging to her curves.
Great , I’ll be the main topic of gossip for the next year.
“More thirsty than I’ve ever been.” Charlotte turns to me, completely unfazed. “I need a glass of water to keep down last night’s vodka. The run kinda shook the whole mix.”
Every mother within earshot stiffens, eyes snapping to us like we just set the gym on fire.
“Yeah. Yes.” I clear my throat. “We’ll . . . um . . . we’ll be back.”
I grab Charlotte’s wrist and steer her toward the hallway before the judgmental stares can melt my skin off. The moment we turn the corner she bursts out laughing, the sound full and unrestrained.
“Jesus Christ, Charlotte.” I press a hand to my forehead, trying to will my heartbeat back to normal. “You just love to get me in trouble, don’t you?”
“I love to get us in trouble.” She steps into my space, beaming. “And besides, you said ‘who cares,’ and I certainly don’t.”
I beam back. Us . “I like getting in trouble with you.”
I like everything with her.
Her eyes soften. “You know what’s really hot?” When I tilt my head, she pulls a lock of my hair back. It’s the most tender gesture. “Someone who never asks you to be less .”
“Less? Less of what?”
“I don’t know.” She looks down at her bright pink mini-dress. “The way I dress, my flirting, hell—everything about me. Some people would say, and in fact have said , that it’s too much.”
Too much? “I can’t get enough.”