28. Charlie
Charlie
Noah must have taken my question and twisted it. He was so turned on by me, but the second I asked to be with him he ran away again. I can’t tell if he wants to let me down easy, or tell me he wants more.
I had buried my pussy in a coffin, nailed it shut from everyone; but now I’ve given Noah a hammer to claw off the nails, wrench open the lid and take it.
He can treat me like those guys in smut books treat their lovers.
He can learn all my angles and curves. If I hand him the chains, he can wrap them around my neck, and I’ll gladly be whatever he wants.
But each and every time I throw myself at him, he runs away like his life depends on it.
I don’t get it. What is he running from?
I don’t know if he’s playing a wicked game, but he’s making me feel some sort of way; and it’s starting to hurt more than anything that I think my heart is actually glass, and instead he’s using the hammer to smash it to pieces.
I sit on my mattress in a baggy shirt, chewing at the edges of my hangnails and staring at the wet outlines of our bodies on the sheets.
The front door clicks, and I’m standing straight up from the sound. It’s not the squeaky sneakers of Ryder coming home late from his shift. It’s heels slapping, keys clanking on the counter, and a plop of a purse. There’s a long pause and pure silence.
My heart plummets to my stomach, but the beat thumps in my eardrums as it clicks in my head. I didn’t clean up the vodka. I bunch my fists into tight balls, shaking them in front of me as I mouth a curse. I grasp the hair brush on the nightstand, cross my legs and pretend to be innocent.
A light knock of a knuckle hits the wood of my door. The knob twists, and the loud squeak is just as horrifying as the fury burning in her retinas. Her long natural nails clink against the bottle in slow steady taps.
“Charlotte...” One eyebrow raises, and the wrinkle on the wedge of her lips twitches. Missiles are locking on me, and I’m in trouble as she zeros in.
I brush the ends of my hair and say, “That’s not mine.” Maybe she’ll take the bait and think it’s Ryder’s.
The vodka sloshes as she glances down at the green label. “Hmm... right.” She steps into my room and places the bottle on my dresser, using a thumb to wipe the condensation. “It’s cold...” Mom says as she scratches her chin as stares.
“So I'm guessing the shorts and shirt aren’t yours either, and the playing cards... should we talk about your black underwear too?” She has them pinched between two fingers.
I dig my nails into my upper arm, my nails leaving shallow crescents. “I can explain... I-” My throat catches on the words and I can’t say anything. The only thing I can register is my sweat pricking my skin.
“Who was over?” Mom runs her tongue over her bottom lip and lifts up her head. “Tell me. Who is he?”
“A friend.”
“A friend you're getting naked for? I can see the outlines of you both on your bed. Do you think I'm stupid?” she asks and cocks her head to the side. “And don’t play dumb with me, you have another hickie. That’s massive and bright red.”
Bile rises and threatens to make me gag as it coils in my stomach like a serpent. “He’s not like Brody...”
“Right... he’s not like Brody.” She puckers her lips together and nods her head, her hands resting on her hips as she paces back and forth. “But you’re spreading your legs for him.”
“Mom.”
She holds up her index finger, a clear sign that I'm in deep shit. So deep that shit is going to seep out of my eye sockets. I’ll be bathing in it. “You're acting like a slut!”
“Oh, so your virgin daughter is a slut now?” I laugh at the word and run both hands through my hair.
“We aren’t doing one of these meltdowns again!”
“You just called me a slut!” I press fingers against my chest, which is burning hot. Might as well throw gasoline on me to ignite me fully on fire.
“Jesus, Charlie!”
“You don’t know him! He’s from the church!” I cry out.
“That’s fan-fucking-tastic! Let’s just fuck right in front of the altar!”
“He’s the one who volunteers and cleans the church, and he plays music there!”
“Who?”
“Noah!”
Mom’s face twists like she’s trying to swallow his name and digest what I just said to her.
“Oh, really?” She laughs at the question.
“Noah Samuel?” she asks, and the heat rises in my cheeks.
“You’re sleeping around with him? The kid who dropped out of high school and ran away to get high for years? Are you shitting me?”
“Don’t say that about him. He doesn’t use drugs!”
“No! Absolutely not! First you date that disgusting pig who only has brain function when it’s below his belt, now you want to date Noah? He doesn’t even have an education. He’s way older than you.”
“He's twenty-one! It’s not like he’s a forty-year-old.”
“You sure know how to pick guys.”
“You can’t tell me who I can and cannot be with!”
“Yes, I can! I’m your mother! You're leaving in less than a week for college, moving out, and you’re drinking and hooking up with God-knows-who, whenever you please. Just look at him, he's covered in ink, he doesn’t wear anything nice to church. He has no future!”
The room is shaking all around me. The surrounding anger vibrates, and it’s the only thing swirling in the stale air of this home. My lungs ache, my chest heaving as I take in mouthfuls of air. “Just because your marriage ended doesn’t mean you can dictate who I’m with!”
“Charlotte!”
I storm to my nightstand, yank my phone from the charger. My hands are shaking so badly I can barely hold on to the contraption. I shoulder check my mom as I leave my room, with feet pounding down the hallway.
“Where do you think you're going?” My bedroom door slams against the wall as her shadow hovers over me with each step I take.
“As far away from you as possible!” I find my sneakers by the front door and slip them on without tying the laces. I grab the car keys on the hook and I slam open the front door.
“I’m trying to protect you from making a big mistake!”
“Noah’s not a mistake!”
“All guys covered in tattoos like that are shooting up heroin. The next thing I’m going to be dealing with is you starting to use with him!”
“Stop talking about him like that!” My sneakers hit the wet pavement hard, splashing tiny puddles with each step. “He doesn’t use drugs!”
“Charlotte!” Too late, I'm throwing open the car door, and dropping into the driver’s seat. My eyes blur so badly I can’t even find the ignition. I suck in my bottom lip as I suck in a tremor, my hands shaking as I finally slam in my keys and rev the engine.