Chapter 4 Miles #2
She didn't laugh. "Miles. What's really going on?"
The question was an invitation to honesty I couldn't accept. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
"Tell me about you first," I said, deflecting. "Your divorce."
She flinched almost imperceptibly. "That's not exactly light conversation."
"Neither is my stuff. Fair trade."
She looked down at her coffee, tracing the rim with one finger. "It was... a slow ending. We wanted different things. By the end, we couldn't even agree on what those things were."
"What did you want?"
"A family." Her words came out quietly, weighted with grief I recognized. "Kids. The whole thing. We tried for years. It didn't happen."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be." She looked up, her smile thin. "He's happy now. New wife, a baby. Got everything he wanted, just... not with me."
The pain beneath her careful words was palpable. I wanted to reach across the table, to touch her, to offer comfort I had no right to give.
"For what it's worth," I said, "he's an idiot."
"You don't even know him."
"I know he let you go. That's enough evidence for my assessment."
Her eyes softened. "That's sweet. Misguided, but sweet."
"I'm full of misguided sweetness. Ask anyone."
"I'm asking you." She leaned forward slightly. "Your turn. What's really going on, Miles? And don't give me the estate-settling line. I know when you're hiding something."
"You always did."
"Then stop hiding."
I opened my mouth to deflect again, another joke, another redirect, another layer of armor between us. But something in her expression stopped me. The openness. The patience. The way she was looking at me.
"I'm scared," I admitted, the words escaping before I could stop them. "Of being back here. Of facing everything I left behind. Of—"
My hand was resting on the table. It chose that moment to betray me.
The tremor started small, a fine vibration in my fingers that rattled my coffee cup against the saucer. Not violent, but unmistakable. I pulled my hand back instinctively, shame heating my face.
But Charlotte was faster.
She reached across the table and covered my hand with hers. Her touch was warm, firm, but gentle. It was not restraining, just present. Grounding.
The tremor stopped.
Not gradually. All at once. As if her touch had completed a circuit, grounding the faulty electricity in my nervous system.
I stared at our joined hands, her slim fingers over my knuckles, and for one suspended moment, I felt whole. Calm. Tethered to something good and real.
She didn't gasp. Didn't ask questions. Didn't offer pity. She just held my hand, her thumb tracing a single soothing stroke across my skin, her eyes meeting mine with quiet, knowing compassion.
She'd seen. Of course, she'd seen. She was probably cataloguing my symptoms, running differentials, and landing on conclusions I wasn't ready to confirm.
"Charlotte—"
My phone buzzed against the table, shattering the moment. The screen lit up with a name that turned my blood cold.
DR. PATEL
"I'm sorry," I said, pulling my hand from beneath hers. The loss of contact felt physical, like stepping from warmth into winter. "I have to take this."
"Of course." Her eyes were heavy with concern, but she nodded. "Go."
I grabbed the phone and walked toward the door, answering just as I stepped outside. The afternoon cold bit through my shirt immediately.
"Miles." Dr. Patel's voice was calm, professional, the voice of a man trained to deliver devastating news gently. "Do you have a moment?"
"I do."
"I've reviewed your latest cognitive assessments and the logs you've been keeping. I wanted to discuss the results."
My chest tightened. "And?"
"There's progression. More than we'd hoped to see at this stage.
" A pause. "The memory lapses you've reported, forgetting medication, appointments, losing track of days, they're increasing in frequency.
The pattern is consistent with what we discussed.
The early-onset dementia is manifesting and progressing faster than predicted. "
My world had narrowed to a pinpoint. His voice, clinical and careful. The cold air that burned my lungs. The distant sound of traffic that seemed to come from very far away.
"How fast?" My voice came out hollow, defeated.
"Impossible to predict precisely. It could be slow. It could be... less slow. What matters now is adjusting your treatment plan and scheduling more frequent monitoring. I want to refer you to a cognitive specialist—"
He kept talking. Treatment options. Therapy strategies. Medication adjustments. The words washed over me like waves, and I couldn't hold onto any of them.
All I could see was my father in his final year. Sitting in his chair, looking at me with eyes that couldn’t recognize his son. Asking who I was. Asking where his wife had gone, forgetting she'd died six months before.
All I could feel was the ghost of Charlotte's hand on mine.
How long until I forgot the warmth of her touch? How long until I looked at her face and couldn't remember why it mattered?
"Miles? Are you there?"
"Yes." I forced the word out. "Send me the information. I'll look at it."
"We need to schedule an appointment. Soon."
"I will."
I ended the call and stood on the sidewalk, phone limp in my hand, the world too bright and sharp and full of a future I didn't want.
When I walked back into the diner, Charlotte was watching the door. Her expression shifted the moment she saw my face, concern deepening into something closer to fear.
"Everything okay?" she asked softly as I slid back into the booth.
"Fine." The lie tasted bitter. "Just work. A case they want me to consult on."
She didn't believe me. We both knew it.
The warmth between us had cooled. I'd slammed the door, rebuilt the walls, and she could feel every brick.
"Miles—"
"We should probably call it a day." I signaled for the check, not meeting her eyes. "I have some calls to make."
She was quiet for a long moment. "Okay."
I paid for our meal as she looked for a moment to speak. We walked to the parking lot in silence, the afternoon sun doing nothing to dispel the chill that had settled between us.
Her car was parked a few spaces from mine. We stopped beside it, and she turned to face me.
"Thank you for coffee," she said, searching my face. "It was really good to see you."
"You too." My words came out flat, methodical.
She was so close. I could see the golden streaks in her green eyes, the worried crease between her brows. The pull between us was undeniable, something I couldn't name but couldn't escape.
It would be so easy to close the distance. To kiss her. To lose myself in the one good thing that had appeared in my life in years.
Instead, I took a deliberate step back.
"I'll call you," I said.
"When?"
I couldn't answer that. Couldn't make a promise I wasn't sure I could keep.
"Take care of yourself, Charlotte."
I turned and walked to my car before she could respond. I felt her gaze on my back like a physical weight. I didn't look back.
The drive home was silent. The medication was still working; my hands were steady on the wheel. But inside, everything was shaking.
I parked in my parents' driveway and sat there, engine ticking, staring at the house where I'd grown up and where I was now hiding from a future I couldn't control.
My phone buzzed.
I almost didn't look. Almost convinced myself it was spam, a work email, something I could ignore.
But I looked.
Charlotte
I know something's wrong. I'm not going to push. But whatever it is, you don't have to carry it alone. I'm here. Whenever you're ready.
I stared at the words until they blurred.
I'm here.
An offer I didn't deserve. A kindness I couldn't accept.
I turned off the phone, walked into the empty house, and sat down in the middle of my parents' living room, surrounded by boxes I still couldn't open.
Her message glowed in my memory, warm, patient, unwavering.
And I wondered how long I'd be able to remember it.