Chapter 10 Charlie
CHARLIE
“Hey,” says Charlie, slapping his brother on the back and pulling him in for a bear hug. “Good to see you.”
“You too,” says Tom, basking in the attention his big brother’s bestowing upon him. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah, too long. How’s things?” Charlie smiles as Tom perches on a stool at the bar.
There’s no denying they’re brothers; you can see it in the line of their jaw and the deep-blue eyes that are set wider apart than the average face.
But whereas Charlie’s features are blurred by a hazy softness, Tom’s are more angular, pinched, and pointed.
He’s still ruggedly good-looking, though, if not in quite as friendly a way as Charlie, and what he lost out on in height, he more than gained in width.
His rugby-playing shoulders pull at the seams in his shirt, and his manspreading thighs couldn’t get any closer together even if he wanted them to.
“All good,” he says, his focus momentarily lost in favor of getting the barman’s attention. “I’m sorry I haven’t been up to the restaurant yet, it’s just been mad busy with work.…” He smiles lopsidedly. “Some of us haven’t managed to escape the rat race yet, we’re not all as lucky as you.”
Charlie forces a smile. The hamster wheel he’d been going around and around on as he built his career in London, dreaming of the day he’d be able to step off and be in charge of his own destiny, was, in hindsight, an unfulfilled prophecy.
Being your own boss, with all the crippling responsibilities that come with it, is not quite the easy ride he thought it was going to be.
“So how’s it going?” asks Tom.
Charlie can’t help but pull a grimace. “Harder than I thought it would be.”
“You always knew your dream wasn’t going to be easy to come by.”
“Yeah, but it seems that owning a restaurant doesn’t have very much to do with being a chef,” says Charlie despondently. “All I want to do is cook. To source the best produce and serve it in the most wholesome yet imaginative way.”
“But the business gets in the way of you doing that?”
“You wouldn’t believe,” says Charlie, closing his eyes and rubbing at his furrowed brow. “I’m spending more time arguing on the phone with suppliers than I am in the kitchen. And if it isn’t delivery issues, then it’s staffing problems.”
“And then there’s the making money part!”
“Exactly!” says Charlie. “My life is dictated by spreadsheets and the figures are constantly moving away from me.”
“But you’ve got to balance the books before you can indulge in what you love,” says Tom, his years as a trader revealing themselves.
Charlie shrugs. “Right now, I can’t see how that’s possible. I’ve got my back against the wall, and I can’t see a way forward.”
“You’ll find a way,” says Tom. “You always do. Do you remember Dad having his heart attack just hours before that big wedding he was supposed to be catering for?”
Charlie looks at him with a furrowed brow, waiting for him to make his point.
“You got a hundred and twenty covers out with less than twenty-four hours’ notice,” Tom goes on. “You were what … nineteen years old? But you put that apron on and got on with it, refusing to let that couple down.” He pats Charlie on the back. “You stepped up.”
“You make it sound as if I stepped over him.”
They both laugh, relieved that their father had lived to see another day.
“I’m just saying that you’re capable of more than you know,” says Tom.
Charlie pulls himself up, knowing he’s capable of so much more than he would ever dare to admit.
“What can I get you both?” asks the bartender, placing two coasters down in readiness.
Tom’s eyes narrow as he scans the mirrored shelves adorned with the colored bottles of every alcoholic drink imaginable.
Charlie snatches a breath as he waits for him to make a decision, the consequence of which will mean nothing except to Charlie, who is silently praying that he goes for a simple beer, or God forbid, a soft drink.
“Why don’t we have a spicy margarita, for old times’ sake?” says Tom, with a mischievous glint in his eye.
Charlie can’t help but wince, knowing that saying no will only create questions he still doesn’t feel ready to answer. Tom has no idea that he’s stopped drinking. Or why. And if Charlie has his way, he’ll never find out.
“I’ll get a soda and lime,” he says authoritatively, hoping that if he says it quickly enough, Tom won’t notice. He should know him better than that.
“Whoa, bro, what’s going on?” Tom looks at him as if he has two heads. “You’re not pregnant, are you?”
Charlie can’t help but smile, but the zesty citrus of the lime juice and tequila is making his taste buds ache as the bartender pours them into a cocktail shaker and throws it over his shoulder to give it a good mix.
“I’m taking a break” is all he says, but Tom’s wide-eyed expression suggests he wants more. “I’ve got too many plates spinning. I need to be on my game without the fuzz of alcohol in my brain.”
The need to justify why he doesn’t want to consume a chemical substance that alters his mood and judgment is beyond him. No one would question his abstinence from a Class A drug. Just because drinking is socially acceptable doesn’t mean its dependency is any less potent.
“I bet Freya’s delighted,” laughs Tom. “There she was, thinking she was marrying this bright, exciting, fun man-about-town—and she’s ended up with you.”
“Just because I’m not drinking doesn’t make me boring,” says Charlie, questioning it even as he says it. “And besides, she’s stopped, too.”
“But she loves a drink,” says Tom, agog. “There isn’t a better drunk than Freya. You pair were a right laugh when you got on one.” He chokes on the heat of his cocktail—or maybe it’s the memories circling in his head. “Do you remember Kirk and Gina’s wedding?”
How could Charlie forget? The attempt to interrupt the bride and groom’s first dance by cajoling cringing onlookers to form a conga line.
The commandeering of the band’s microphone to sing “I Will Survive.” Being passed out under the table while all the other guests had waved the newlyweds off.
An involuntary shudder runs through him as the sullied images poison his brain.
“Yeah, you won’t be able to rely on us for entertainment anymore,” he says dourly.
Tom laughs. “We don’t need to,” he says with a nod over Charlie’s shoulder.
He can’t help but turn to see what Tom’s looking at.
Two women, dressed to the nines, one head to toe in leopard print, the other in a silver sequin minidress, are slut-dropping to the sound of Flo Rida’s “Low.” Hoots and hollers are coming from the growing circle of men forming around them, their classy tuxedos nothing more than a cheap facade.
“Jeez,” groans Charlie as he shakes his head.
“Bringing back memories?” jests Tom, laughing as he slaps him on the back.
It almost makes Charlie squirm as he watches the baying mob move in, and the women respond, wrapping their arms around the neck of the nearest body and gyrating up and down.
He can all too easily picture himself in another lifetime, and he feels sick to his stomach.
He can’t go back there. He won’t go back there.
But as he goes to tear himself away from the spectacle, his heart stops.
The woman in the leopard print is staring straight at him, her eyes alight with a spark that catches in his chest. He can promise himself all he likes, but as she breaks away and comes toward him, he realizes he’s right back where he started.