Chapter 5 Charlotte #2
"Okay," Beth continued, her voice gentler now. "Let's look at this logically. You're a nurse. What did you actually observe at that coffee date?"
I frowned. "What do you mean?"
"I mean, stop catastrophizing for two seconds and use your professional brain. What did you see?"
I thought back. The easy conversation. The weight beneath it. The moment my hand covered his trembling fingers.
"His hand shook," I said slowly. "A fine tremor. He pulled away like he was embarrassed."
"What else?"
"He moves carefully. Rigid posture. Like he's thinking about every step." The clinical observations came easier than the emotional ones. "And then his phone rang. He took the call outside. When he came back, he was completely different. Closed off. Scared."
"Scared," Beth repeated. "Not indifferent. Scared."
"He said it was work, but it was a lie. I could tell."
"So let me get this straight." Beth set her mug down with a click.
"You saw a man with a visible tremor, rigid movements, and a phone call that terrified him.
He's on indefinite leave from his fancy law job, back in his hometown settling his parents' estate, vague about the future.
" She raised an eyebrow. "Does that sound like a man who's simply not interested in you? "
I opened my mouth, then closed it.
"Charlie." Beth's voice was firm but kind. "What if this isn't about you at all?"
The question hit like cold water.
"What if he's sick?" she continued. "What if he's scared?"
"That's—" I stopped. "He wouldn't—"
"He absolutely would. He's the kind of man who thinks self-sacrifice is romantic instead of annoying.
" Beth shook her head. "Drew left because it was easier for him.
Maybe Miles is pushing you away because he thinks it's harder for you if he stays.
Those are two completely different men, Charlotte. "
Her words rearranged something within me. The closed-off look after the phone call. The deliberate step back in the parking lot. The way he'd said I'll call you, like it was a promise he was already breaking.
"I've been an idiot," I breathed.
"A little bit," Beth agreed. "But a relatable one." She pointed at me. "Now. Why haven't you called him?"
"I didn't want to seem needy. Desperate."
"Checking on someone you care about isn't desperate. It's human." She leaned forward. "He makes you happy, I saw it on your face at the reunion. You make him happy. Life is not that complicated, Charlie. When we find people who make us feel alive, we hold onto them. We fight for them."
"What if he doesn't want me to fight?"
"Then at least you'll know. And you'll have chosen action over paralysis." Her expression softened. "Stop waiting to be chosen. Stop being a passive participant in your own story. Go check on him. Maybe he needs help and doesn't know how to ask."
I stared at her, something clicking into place. The anxiety was still there, but it had been joined by something else, something that felt like resolve.
"I should go over there," I said slowly.
"Yes, you should." Beth stood up, suddenly businesslike. "But you can't show up empty-handed. That's weird. You need a prop."
"A prop?"
"A casserole. Something that says 'friendly neighbor checking in,' not 'I've been having a mental breakdown about you for seven days.
'" She disappeared through a door I hadn't noticed and returned with a foil-covered dish.
"Frozen lasagna. My mother's batch-cooking phase. It's perfectly mediocre. It'll do."
I took the cold dish, something between a laugh and a sob building in my throat. "Beth—"
"Don't thank me yet. Thank me when you've figured out what's actually going on." She squeezed my shoulder. "Go. Be brave. And text me the second you know anything."
The Cameron house looked different in the late afternoon light. The curtains were drawn, the lawn slightly unkempt, the whole place radiating a kind of held-breath stillness. I sat in my parked car for three full minutes, clutching Beth's lasagna like a shield.
"You can do this," I said aloud. "You're just checking on a friend. A completely normal thing that normal people do."
My hands were shaking. I ignored them.
I walked up the familiar path, mounted the porch steps, and stood at the door where I'd stood a hundred times in high school, waiting for Miles to emerge with that smile that made everything else disappear.
The old fears tried to surface. He might not want to see you. He might tell you to leave. He might—
I pushed them down. This wasn't about proving my worth. This was about choosing action over paralysis. Choosing to be present in my own story.
I shifted the lasagna to one arm, took a deep breath, and pressed the doorbell.
The chime echoed through the house. I waited, heart pounding, listening for any sign of movement.
Silence.
Then, footsteps. Slow and deliberate, growing closer.
My pulse kicked into overdrive. This was it. No more spiraling. No more waiting for someone else to decide my fate.
The door handle turned.
The door swung open.
And there was Miles, pale, exhausted, his eyes widening with the semblance of shock and hope and fear all tangled together.
"Charlotte?" His voice came out rough, disbelieving. "What are you—"
"You didn't call," I said simply. "So I came to you."
He stared at me, and I watched something surface behind his tired eyes.