2. Charlie
Charlie
He’s late. Of-fucking-course he is.
Streetlights hum above the cul-de-sac, washing the asphalt in a tired orange glow.
My heels crunch under the gravel as I lean against the door of my brother’s Jeep parked on the side of our house.
I pucker my lips in the side mirror reapplying lip gloss, and use a finger to get rid of the cakey chunks of mascara caught up in my lashes.
Brody texted me he was on his way and it usually only takes him ten minutes to grab me. When he didn’t show, I asked him if everything was okay, but he left me on read. I’ve called him only to be greeted by an instant voicemail box.
We haven’t seen each other in ten days, and it’s starting to catch up with me.
Even last weekend he said we would hang out, but nope.
His plans changed, and I really thought this time would be different.
But I have to remind myself that he’s going to be a senior at GCU.
He’s captain of the football team and the quarterback.
Life has to be super busy for him, even in the summer.
This isn’t the first time he’s left me high and dry. I think I’ve lost count. But this one is hurting worse than the others.
My heels ache from pacing back and forth.
I’ve been chewing on my thumbnail so hard I’m starting to tear into my skin.
The night air is thick and damp, clinging to the curls I spent too long perfecting so there wasn’t a single strand of frizz, which I’m sure the humidity has ruined by now.
Every passing car makes my stomach jump, then sink again when it’s not him.
I’ve smoked several cigarettes just to numb my nerves that he’s going to ghost me, again.
My phone screen lights up with nothing. No new texts, no missed calls, just that last message I sent staring back at me like a lie.
Brody’s not on his way. We aren’t celebrating our six-month anniversary. It was stupid of me to ask him anyway. I try calling him again, my chest getting tight as the phone rings in my ears, but it's instant. The voicemail box.
Brody can’t be doing this to me. I tell myself not to cry.
I whisper it under my breath, over and over again, but I start scrolling through our chats from this afternoon.
Seeing them just adds salt to the wound expanding in my chest, and my eyes water, blurring the words on the screen.
My face feels hot and cold at the same time.
Brody: I can’t wait to see you.
Brody: I’m going to take you out.
Brody: Just trust me. It will be an amazing night.
Brody: I love you baby, we’ll spend all night together.
Then my phone finally buzzes in my hand.
Brody: I’m sorry. Something came up with the team. I promise we can try again another day.
I wipe the edges of my cheeks, smudging the eyeliner I spent a good half hour on. I hate crying over him. I hate how stupid I feel standing out here in a black dress waiting for him to pick me up.
I stroll across the grass, my ankles rolling in the heels I desperately wanted to wear. I climb up the porch steps, my fingers tingling and going numb as I open the front door. When the door slams behind me I’m engulfed in a cloud of cheap Merlot and cinnamon candles.
Mom’s in the kitchen with a glass of wine, dipping her head back as she takes whatever pills she has in that yellow medication bottle of hers.
“I thought you were going out?” she asks with a slur, sipping her wine. Her grey eyes are glossy. “Have you seriously been out there for over an hour?”
I use the wall as an anchor and pull off my heels, throwing them to the floor. “He’s not coming.”
Mom sways a little, clutching the edge of the kitchen counter for balance. “He’s nothing but a pig. I’ve told you that from the start, all he wants is...”
I cut her off. “Don’t!” I snap.
“I can tell just by looking at him.” She places the glass down on the counter with a clumsy clink.
“Then you would've known Dad was nothing but a cheating asshole too.” I throw my purse over my shoulder and toss it to the floor as I use the back of my hand to wipe my tears and stomp off to my room.