15. Charlie
The kiss lived in his hands.
Six days. Charlie had spent six days trying to scrub the memory from his palms, the phantom heat of Skylar’s waist beneath his fingers, the fabric of her shirt riding up to bare skin. He’d run drills until his legs buckled. Rewritten the same three paragraphs of his story eleven times.
Come inside. Two words, and every cell in his body had screamed yes while a deeper, older whisper insisted you can’t, this is a mistake.When he’d kissed Skylar, the last fourteen years of restraint cracked open and a hunger he refused to allow slipped out.
Desire replaced control, and he knew what happened when a Carnell man let himself want too much.
His father’s tone sharpened into weapons when he couldn’t control the wanting.
Charlie refused to become that kind of man.
He’d told Skylar the kiss was a mistake and watched the light drain out of her face as he backed away.
Agony sat in his chest, doomed to hurt her either way.
The words were the lesser wound, a single cut instead of the slow damage a Carnell man could inflict over months.
He’d walked to his car on legs that didn’t feel like his own and replayed the look on her face for six days straight.
Now he stood outside her front door holding a laptop and a half-finished character sketch, trying to remember how to breathe.
The writing class didn’t care about his feelings.
The task was to write a thousand words on a person you know, bring them to life.
His draft read like a grocery list because every time he tried to write about a person, his mind circled back to the curve of a jaw and the faint floral scent of her shampoo.
He knocked. Three sharp raps.
Poppy opened the door. Her cheerleader ponytail swung as she leaned against the frame, eyes flicking between Charlie’s face and the laptop under his arm. She turned toward the kitchen. “Sky, Charlie’s here to see you.”
Skylar sat at the kitchen table, laptop open, pen cap between her teeth. She glanced up when he entered, and the pen cap fell to the table with a quiet click. “You’re here.”
The words held no warmth.
“Sorry to just show up.” He cleared the gravel in his throat. “I tried to text but I couldn’t figure out what to say.”
“So you drove over instead?” Poppy leaned against the kitchen counter, amusement flickering across her face.
“It’s my assignment.” He lifted his laptop like evidence. “The ‘Someone You Know’ piece. I need my critique partner’s thoughts.”
“You could have emailed it.” Skylar’s tone might as well have belonged to a stranger.
Charlie’s jaw tightened. His fingers dug into the laptop’s edge. “I couldn’t. It’s too . . .” He stopped. Started again. “The feedback is better in person. You said that.”
The reminder landed between them. Before the diner, before the sponsors’ tent, before the porch. Before the kiss both refused to mention.
Skylar’s jaw flexed. She pushed her laptop over to him. “Fine, we can trade. Show me what you have.”
He opened his laptop and pulled out the chair across from her. A safe distance.
Poppy picked up her bag and keys. “I’m heading to the library. Back by ten-thirty.” The sentence aimed itself at Skylar. “You two good?”
“We’re fine.” Skylar didn’t look up from Charlie’s laptop.
Poppy offered Charlie a shrug, then the front door clicked shut.
The space between them sharpened. Every inch of kitchen table that separated his forearm from hers, mapped and measured. The refrigerator hum fought against the silence.
He ignored the guilt living under his ribs and read her draft, a character sketch of her grandmother.
The prose was sharp, alive with detail: flour-dusted hands, a laugh that started in the belly, the stubborn refusal to sit down when guests arrived.
But the piece only showed one side of the woman.
The last paragraph circled the grandmother’s grief without naming the dead.
A groove settled between Skylar’s eyebrows as her scrolling slowed.
He’d written about Grant. His best friend’s obsession with pre-game rituals, his superstitions, the way he cracked his knuckles before every snap.
The piece was competent, yet hollow. Charlie had written Grant the way a sportswriter would, all exterior detail and zero interior access to the fiercely loyal and deeply caring man Charlie knew him to be.
When she finished, she sat back in her chair and crossed her arms. “You go first.”
“Your grandmother piece is strong. The flour detail does more work than the whole second paragraph.” He swallowed. The memory of her face on the porch tightened his throat. But she deserved honesty. Here, at least, he could give it. “But you’re pulling the ending.”
Skylar’s chin lifted. “Meaning?”
“You’re only telling half the story.”
A flush crept up her neck. “Maybe some things are private.”
“Private is fine. But you’re denying the readers from knowing your grandmother as a full person, with hopes and dreams, yes, but also failures and disappointments.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Your piece reads like a press release.”
The accuracy stung. “Fair.”
“Grant deserves better than a highlight reel. You know him better than anyone. Write the version that costs you.”
Her words landed in the center of his ribs, sharper and more precise. The kitchen clock ticked above the stove. Nine-seventeen.
“You’re right,” he admitted. “My draft is safe.”
“So is mine.” The concession came quieter than the critique. “I’ll rewrite the ending tonight.”
“I’ll rewrite everything.” The corner of his mouth twitched before he caught it.
She noticed. Her gaze tracked the movement, then darted back to her screen. The kiss sat in the room like a third person, and he could feel the weight of everything unsaid pressing against his teeth.
“Want some tea?”
The tightness behind his chest loosened by a fraction. Asking him to stay meant maybe there was a way back. “I’d like that.”
Skylar’s phone buzzed on the table. She frowned at the screen. “Jake?” She pushed her chair back and stood, picking up the phone. “Hey. What’s up?”
Through Skylar’s half-open bedroom door, the two framed photographs on her desk caught the kitchen light. Sisters knee-deep in floodwater and a photo of the electrical panels no one fixed. He’d stood before those frames weeks ago while she told him about the fire and the loss of her family.
“What?”
He turned. Skylar stood rigid against the counter, one hand gripping the edge so hard her knuckles had turned white.
“When?” The word came out shattered.
The color drained from her face and she swayed. Charlie flew out of his chair, crossing the kitchen in two strides, his hand finding her back.
Her eyes met his, flat. “I’ll catch the next bus.”
The phone slipped from her hands. She closed her eyes and her body wobbled. His arm locked around her waist and her weight sagged into him, boneless. He braced his other hand against the counter and held her.
“Skylar. Talk to me.” His pulse hammered against his throat.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. The trembling started in her hands and spread outward, climbing through her arms and into her shoulders until she vibrated against his chest like a tuning fork struck too hard.
“My grandfather.” Each syllable arrived on a separate breath. “He… He’s gone.”
The simple phrase cut through the room, landing in the pit of Charlie’s stomach. “What do you mean?”
“He had another stroke.” Wet eyes held his. “He died.” She covered her mouth with her hand.
She fisted his shirt and held on, and the sound she made split open a hole in his chest. One arm around her waist, he cupped the back of her head and held on.
The instinct to fix the situation fired through every nerve: book a flight, throw resources at the problem until the problem stopped existing.
But Skylar’s grandfather was dead. No amount of money could undo a stroke.
The only thing Charlie had that mattered right now was his arms and the fact that he was here.
When the first wave subsided, she pulled back enough to breathe. Her eyes were red, swollen, unfocused. “My grandmother. I need to get to the bus station.”
Charlie’s thumb brushed away a tear. “There isn’t a flight?”
She shook her head. “The nearest airport is two hours from Ironwood and flights are only twice a week.” She looked around the room like the bus schedule might be on the living room wall. “I don’t know when the next bus is.”
“I’ll take care of everything.” His hand steadied on her shoulder. “You go pack a bag.”
“But—”
“Skylar.” Charlie reluctantly let her go. “Let me help. Please.”
Her chin wobbled, but she untangled herself from his arms and disappeared into her bedroom.
Charlie looked up the bus schedule. The next bus left at 11:12 p.m. and the trip would take ten hours.
His ribs tightened at the image of Skylar alone on a bus at midnight, forehead against a grimy window, no one beside her to hold her hand when the grief hit again.
Next, he texted his car service requesting a car to drive them to the station.
The service confirmed in under a minute.
Then he collected Skylar’s laptop and charger from the table.
Unplugged her phone charger from the wall.
Found her jacket on the couch and folded it over his arm.
Small, useful things. Things that required hands but not money.
When Skylar emerged with a duffel bag over one shoulder, her face washed but her eyes still swollen, she paused at the sight of her belongings stacked by the door. Her expression held an emotion he couldn’t name.
He tugged her into his arms. “The next bus is in an hour. I have a car outside to take us there.”
“You don’t have to—”
“Let me.” He rubbed her back.
The driver loaded Skylar’s bag into the trunk. Charlie opened the back door and she slid inside. He ducked in after her.
The house shrank in the rear window. Skylar’s head dropped to his shoulder before they reached the end of the block and fresh tears fell, quieter than before, the exhausted kind that follow after the body has already emptied itself.
“What am I going to do?” she whispered.
The weight of her against his side unlocked a warmth that terrified him because he knew what it meant.
Despite the “mistake” and six days of silence, she was letting herself find comfort in the man who hurt her.
He wouldn’t waste that. Charlie tugged his arm around her and pulled her against his chest. Cheek pressed against the top of her head, he held her because it was the only honest thing he had.
As they hit the main street, Skylar’s breathing deepened, the tension in her shoulders softening. He looked at the back of the driver’s head. Then down at Skylar, her lashes dark and damp against her cheeks, her fingers curled around his forearm.
The bus station’s harsh glow filled the windshield.
His throat closed, his arm tightening around Skylar without permission.
A midnight bus to Pittsburgh followed by a transfer meant hours of fluorescent lights and strangers while this girl sat alone with her grief in a plastic seat. Every instinct said don’t leave her.
As gently as he could, he fished his phone out of his pocket and texted the driver.
Charlie:
Change of plans. We’re going to Ironwood, Pennsylvania. I’ll get you the exact address when we arrive.
The driver’s phone lit up. He read the message, caught Charlie’s eyes in the rearview mirror and nodded. He pulled to the shoulder and punched the new destination into the GPS. The screen calculated and the number appeared, pale blue against the dark dashboard: seven hours, forty-eight minutes.
Eight hours. Charlie settled deeper into the seat and adjusted his arm so Skylar’s neck wouldn’t cramp. She stirred, murmured a name he couldn’t catch, and burrowed against him.
He texted Grant.
Charlie:
Will miss practice tomorrow. Skylar’s grandfather died and I’m driving her home. Can you find Poppy at the library and tell her?
Grant replied in seconds.
Grant:
I’ll handle everything here. Take care of Skylar.
Charlie pocketed the phone. Missing practice meant a conversation with Coach Reed, an explanation, possibly a benching.
His father would hear about the absence.
None of those consequences mattered, all of it background noise.
The girl in his arm needed someone. And despite the whispering warning in the base of his skull, he would be whatever Skylar needed.
As they merged onto the highway on-ramp, Skylar’s breathing evened out to the steady rhythm of sleep.
Eight hours to a town Charlie had never seen and a grief he couldn’t fix. He held her the whole way.