Chapter 3 Charlotte
Miles Cameron is attending.
Three words. Three stupid words on a glowing phone screen, and I'd been useless for two days.
I'd burned dinner twice, walked into a door frame at work, and changed my outfit for tonight approximately forty-seven times.
My bedroom currently looked like a clothing store had exploded, dresses and jeans and sweaters scattered across every available surface like fabric shrapnel.
"This is fine," I told my reflection, standing in my bra and underwear in front of the closet. "This is completely normal behavior for a thirty-five-year-old woman attending a casual social event."
My reflection said otherwise.
The black cocktail dress was too "trying hard.
" The nice jeans and silk blouse said, "I gave up halfway through getting ready.
" The floral skirt I'd bought last summer made me look like I was auditioning for a role in a romantic comedy about a quirky bookshop owner, which wasn't entirely off-brand but felt wrong for tonight.
Everything felt like a costume. Everything felt like a lie I was trying to sell to people who'd known me when I was seventeen and thought I had my whole life figured out.
"It's just a reunion," I muttered, shoving hangers aside with increasing desperation. "Just a room full of people you haven't seen in fifteen years, judging your life choices while drinking bad wine. No big deal."
My phone buzzed from somewhere beneath the pile of rejected clothing. I dug it out.
Beth
You're spiraling again, aren't you?
Charlotte
I'm not. I'm getting dressed.
Beth
You've been "getting dressed" for two hours. You’re hesitating.
Charlotte
How do you know how long I've been getting dressed?
Beth
Because I know you. Also, you texted me a picture of the black dress at 5:15 and it's now 7:02. Math.
I groaned and tossed the phone onto the bed, then reached into the very back of the closet where the clothes I never wore lived in exile. My fingers brushed against something soft, familiar. I pulled it out.
A forest green wrap dress, the color of pine needles in winter.
I'd bought it on a whim two years ago, worn it exactly once to a friend's wedding, and then forgotten about it.
It wasn't flashy or sophisticated or trying to prove anything.
It was just... nice. Simple. The kind of dress that felt like me, or at least like a version of me I still recognized. It was the dress Beth mentioned.
I slipped it on, tied the sash at my waist, and looked in the mirror.
"Not terrible," I admitted. The cut was flattering without being tight, the color brought out something in my eyes, and the sleeves hit at just the right place on my arms. I let my hair down, its honey-brown waves with their threads of silver I'd stopped bothering to dye contrasted nicely with the green.
I added a swipe of mascara and some lip balm.
I looked like myself. That would have to be enough.
My phone buzzed again.
Beth
I'm outside. The chariot awaits. If you're not out in three minutes I'm coming in there and physically dragging you to this thing.
Charlotte
That’s aggressive.
Beth
I prefer "motivated." Move it, Huston.
Beth was leaning against her sensible sedan when I walked out, already shaking her head in what I hoped was approval.
She was wearing a deep red blouse and black pants, her dark hair twisted up in an effortless knot that had probably taken her thirty seconds to achieve.
Some people were just unfairly good at being put together.
"You look great," she said, giving me a once-over. "Green's your color. Very 'mysterious forest nymph with secrets.'"
"That's the vibe I was going for. Mysterious. Secretive. Possibly lives in a tree."
"Nailed it." She opened the passenger door with a flourish. "Now get in before you lose your nerve."
I slid into the seat, my stomach doing a slow, anxious roll. "Is it too late to go watch comedy dramas?"
"Yes." Beth started the car and exclaimed with the determination of a general heading into battle. "Okay, here's the plan. We stick together, we make sarcastic comments about everyone's questionable life choices, and we leave the moment it stops being fun. Deal?"
"What if it's never fun?"
"Then we leave immediately and go get tacos. Either way, we win." She glanced at me as she pulled onto the road. “Just sit and relax, we’ll run as soon as it turns bad, if that happens.”
I stared out the window at the familiar streets sliding past, the diner where we used to study, the park where I'd had my first kiss, with a boy named Derek who had braces and too much enthusiasm. The turn toward the high school felt like driving back in time.
"He's going to be there," I said quietly. "Miles."
"I know." Beth's voice was carefully neutral. "I saw his name on the list."
"I don't know what to say to him. It's been fifteen years. What do you even say to someone after fifteen years?"
"'Hello' is traditional. Maybe 'how have you been' if you're feeling adventurous."
"Beth."
"Charlotte." She reached over and squeezed my hand briefly. "It's going to be fine. As I said, if it gets bad, we’ll turn tail, alright?"
"Okay," I said, not believing it for a second.
The Riverside High gymnasium had aged about as gracefully as I felt. The same scuffed floors, the same bleachers emanating a faint aroma of old sweat and industrial cleaner, the same water-stained ceiling tiles that had probably been there since the building was constructed.
But someone had made an effort to disguise the essential grimness of the place, draping silver and blue streamers from the basketball hoops and tacking clusters of twinkle lights around the scoreboard with what I could only describe as aggressive optimism.
"It's like prom," Beth observed, surveying the scene with barely concealed horror. "But sadder. Because we're old now and we know how life turns out."
"That's very poetic."
"I'm a bookseller. The lyrical happens to be my thing." She grabbed two cups of suspicious-looking red punch from a folding table and handed me one. "Okay, let's do this. Remember: sarcastic comments, then tacos."
The awkwardness hit immediately.
A man with a receding hairline and a polo shirt that had clearly fit better ten years ago descended on us with alarming enthusiasm, arms spread wide.
"Charlotte Huston! Oh my God, look at you! You look exactly the same!"
I did not. Neither did he. I had no idea who he was.
"Hi!" I said with manufactured warmth. "So great to see you!"
"It's me! Kevin! Kevin Marsh! We had bio together sophomore year!"
"Kevin! Of course!" I had absolutely no memory of Kevin Marsh. "How have you been?"
That was a mistake. Kevin Marsh had been doing a lot, apparently, and he wanted to tell me about every single moment of it in excruciating detail.
His job in pharmaceutical sales. His divorce.
His new girlfriend, who was "really spiritual, like she does yoga and everything.
" His boat. His plans for the boat. The maintenance requirements of the boat.
Beth caught my eye over Kevin's shoulder and mouthed "pivot?"
I shook my head slightly. We'd survive Kevin Marsh. We had to.
Fifteen minutes later, I'd escaped Kevin only to be captured by Lisa Chen… Lisa From Bio, my brain supplied helpfully. She had three children and approximately nine hundred photographs of them on her phone.
"And this is Brayden at his soccer game, and this is Brayden at his other soccer game, and this is Kayleigh at her dance recital, she's gifted, her teacher says she's reading at a fourth-grade level already—"
"That's wonderful," I said, my smile starting to ache.
"Do you have kids?" Lisa asked, finally looking up from her phone.
The question cut deep, but I knew this could happen. I kept my expression pleasant through sheer force of will.
"No, not yet. Just focusing on my career right now."
"Oh." Lisa's face did that thing people's faces do when they're trying to look sympathetic but actually feel superior. "Well, there's still time! You're what, thirty-four? Thirty-five?"
"Thirty-five."
"See? Plenty of time!" She patted my arm in a way that made me want to scream. "My sister didn't have her first until she was thirty-seven. Of course, it was a difficult pregnancy, and there were complications, but—"
"Lisa, I think I see someone I need to say hi to," I interrupted, already backing away. "So great catching up!"
I fled toward Beth, who was waiting by the bleachers with a knowing expression.
"How many kids does Lisa have now?" she asked.
"Three. All gifted. All extensively photographed."
"Naturally." Beth handed me her untouched cup of punch. "You need this more than I do. I saw your face during the 'do you have kids' question."
"Was it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who knows you." She clinked an empty cup against mine. "You're doing great. Only two more hours of this, tops."
"Two hours?" I groaned. "I'm not going to survive two hours."
"You absolutely are. And you know why?"
"Why?"
Beth's eyes drifted to something over my shoulder, and her expression shifted into something I couldn't quite read. "Because I think the evening just got a lot more interesting."
"What do you—"
"Don't turn around yet," she said quickly. "But Miles Cameron is standing by the punch table, and he's been staring at you for approximately thirty seconds."
My heart stopped. Actually, genuinely stopped, then restarted at roughly triple its normal speed.
"What?" I breathed.
"Punch table. Navy shirt. Looking at you like you're the only person in this room." Beth's lips curved. "And for the record, he's alone. No ring. No plus-one hovering nearby."
"How do you know?"
"Because I've been watching him for the last minute while you were processing Lisa's fertility advice." She gave me a gentle push. "Turn around, Char."
I turned around.
And there he was.