15 #2
“I don’t have time for the Harlen judgment train right now.”
“Ryan.”
“I’ll talk to you tonight.”
My pulse shot higher. “No.”
He paused. “You can’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Go quiet because you’re mad.”
“I said I’ll call you tonight.”
“That’s still hours.”
“I have a fucking game, Charm.”
“I know, but you promised.” His breathing changed, and so did mine. “You promised you wouldn’t go dark on me if I didn’t go dark on you.”
Ryan was silent for a second. When he spoke again, the anger remained, but something gentler had moved beneath it.
“I’m not going dark.”
“You’re pissed.”
“Yeah.”
“At me.”
“Yeah.”
My eyes burned. “Then don’t hang up like that.”
“Listen to me.” His voice steadied. “You can piss me off.”
I swallowed.
“You can say something shitty, hurt my feelings, and make me want to throw my phone through a locker-room wall.”
Despite myself, my mouth twitched.
“My being angry doesn’t mean I’m going to mistreat you,” he continued. “It doesn’t mean I disappear or punish you. It means I’m pissed, and I have a game in thirty-five minutes.”
“I know.”
“You know what else?”
“What?”
“I have the right to be angry that everybody gets to hold out hope your parents won’t give a shit about me except you.”
That hit harder.
“Bliss hopes. Aura hopes. Cade probably thinks your dad will see how charming I am and invite me golfing.”
A laugh tried to escape despite everything.
“I knew they would care,” Ryan said, his voice roughening. “I knew where I came from would matter to people like that. I knew my tattoos would matter, along with my name, Flint, and all the rest of it.”
“Ryan.”
“And I still chose you.”
My chest hurt.
“So go choose me back.”
I pressed my fingers against my mouth. “I will.”
“I know.”
“You’re still mad.”
“Very.”
“You’ll call?”
“After the game.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah, mi hada.”
I released a shaky breath. “Okay.”
“Go tell them.”
“I’m scared.”
“I know.”
“What if it’s worse than I think?”
“Then you leave.”
“What if they’re hurt?”
“They’re adults.”
“What if they tell me I’m ruining everything?”
“Then they’re lying.”
I closed my eyes and let his certainty hold me upright.
“You make it sound like you’re here.”
“I am.” His voice softened enough to undo me. “Now go.”
“Play well.”
“I always do.”
“Arrogant.”
“Call me later.”
“I will.”
The call ended, and I stared at the screen while my hands started shaking again. Whatever control I had found by measuring myself disappeared beneath the argument.
I opened my dresser drawer and reached for the measuring tape again.
The number hadn’t changed in the last ten minutes. I knew it couldn’t have, but logic had nothing to do with the need to check. I wrapped the tape around my waist and pulled until it hurt, holding it there while I watched the woman in the mirror become calmer than I felt.
I could control dinner. I could drink water, move the food around my plate, and refuse dessert. I could get through the evening without giving my mother a reason to look at my body twice.
The rules settled into place, and my breathing eased with them.
I rolled the tape and hid it inside my purse before picking up my phone and opening the camera. The picture looked expensive: navy dress, soft curls, and the diamond earrings my mother had given me. It showed a woman completely in control of herself.
I sent it to Ryan and added the two lines he had taught me.
Charm: Te extrano. Vuelve a mí.
I miss you. Come back to me.
The message delivered. I slipped the phone into my purse and went downstairs.
The Westerly was exactly the kind of restaurant my father liked. Dark wood, white tablecloths, low lighting, and servers who never interrupted at the wrong moment. It was the sort of steakhouse where prices were missing from some menus because everyone involved understood that asking was gauche.
My father had reserved the private dining room for sixty of his closest friends and family.
Conversation filled the elegant space when I entered, punctuated by the quiet clink of expensive glasses and laughter from people who had known me long enough to feel entitled to comment on how grown-up I looked.
My parents sat near the center of the longest table. My father stood when I approached, smiling broadly enough to draw the attention of everyone around him.
“There she is.”
I returned his smile and kissed his cheek. “Happy birthday, Daddy.”
He looked pleased. My mother’s eyes traveled over my dress before returning to my face.
“You wore it.”
“I did.”
“It still fits beautifully.”
The words hit the raw place her message had already created, but I forced myself not to react. “Thank you.”
Dinner began easily enough, which almost made it worse.
My father talked about work with the guests seated nearby. My mother asked about design studio, and I made the mistake of mentioning that Klein had liked my revision. That opened another twenty minutes of questions about grades, graduation, internships, and whether I had considered New York again.
The anxiety buzzed beneath my skin while the conversation moved around me. My father talked about work, and my mother found ways to return everything to school, design, internships, and the future I was supposed to want.
When my steak arrived, I cut it into smaller pieces and moved them across my plate. I drank water and then a little wine, giving my hands something to do while I kept myself together. The rules I had created in my bedroom counted every bite before it reached my mouth.
My phone remained inside my purse because Ryan had a game. Even though he was angry with me, I knew he wasn’t disappearing.
That mattered more than I wanted to admit.
I repeated it silently every time my father said something that made me feel twelve years old.
Dessert arrived with a candle, and my mother immediately insisted the server take photographs before my father complained that birthdays after fifty were less celebrations and more threats. Everyone laughed. I laughed too because I loved him, and that was what made all of this so hard.
I loved both of them. I loved the people sitting across from me even when they made me feel small and even when I knew the conversation I was about to begin could change everything between us.
Nothing about this was simple, no matter how badly Ryan wanted it to be.
My mother took a sip of wine and set the glass carefully beside her plate. “We should probably start discussing Thanksgiving.”
My stomach tightened.
My father groaned. “Crystal, it’s October.”
“Thanksgiving reservations and catering don’t happen magically.”
“You host every year.”
“Exactly why I need to plan.” She looked at me. “You’ll be home, obviously.”
The opening I had been waiting for arrived, and my pulse went wild.
Ryan’s voice moved through my head.
Go choose me back.
“Yes, I’ll be there.”
My mother nodded. “Good.”
I put my fork down. “I’ll be bringing my boyfriend.”
My mother laughed automatically, as if I had made a joke. I didn’t smile, and the sound slowly died as she realized I was serious.
My father looked at me. “What?”
“I said I’m bringing my boyfriend.”
My mother’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
My father leaned back in his chair. “Who?”
I could have lied or softened it. I could have said he was someone from school and bought myself another ten seconds.
“Ryan.”
My mother went still, but my father’s expression didn’t change.
That was when I knew.
“You already know.”
Neither of them answered.
My heart began pounding hard enough to hurt. “You know about Ryan.”
My mother reached for her wine while my father looked toward the other guests in the private room.
“Charmagne.”
“How long?”
“This isn’t the place.”
“How long have you known?”
My mother exhaled slowly. “Since the fair.”
The blood drained from my face. “What?”
“One of your father’s colleagues has a son at Kimball Falls.”
My father’s jaw tightened. “He saw you together.”
“With Ryan,” my mother added.
I stared at them. “You knew this whole time.”
“We knew you were spending time with him.”
“I was dating him.”
My mother’s mouth tightened. “We hoped it was a phase.”
Something inside me cracked. “A phase?”
My father pushed back his chair. “We should step outside.”
A short, bitter laugh left me. “No.”
“Charmagne.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes sharpened. Several guests closest to us had begun pretending they couldn’t hear the conversation.
I stood, drawing the attention of more people at the table. My mother immediately rose beside me.
“Please excuse us.”
That single sentence carried an entire childhood inside it.
Don’t make a scene. Don’t embarrass us. Don’t be difficult.
I grabbed my purse. “Fine.”
The smoking patio beyond the dining room was empty except for two heaters glowing beneath the awning. Cold air struck my bare arms the second the door closed behind us.
My father followed me outside and stepped closer. “This is exactly why we didn’t say anything.”
“Why?”
“Because we assumed it would pass.”
“It didn’t.”
My mother folded her arms. “Charm, he is twenty-five.”
“So?”
“He plays minor-league hockey.”
“Semi-pro.”
“Crystal,” my father warned.
“No, Lance. She needs to understand.”
“I understand exactly what Ryan does.”
“Do you?” my mother asked.
My temper flared. “Yes.”
Her gaze hardened. “You have graduate opportunities, design houses, and connections. You have an entire future ahead of you.”
“So does he.”
My father laughed beneath his breath.
I stared at him. “What?”
“Charm, be serious.”
“I am serious.”
“He is not your future.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
My mother’s eyes widened, and my father stepped forward. “That young man comes from a life you cannot possibly understand.”
“I understand more about his life than you do.”
The words came out sharper than I intended.
My father stared at me. “You think a few months of rebellion have taught you what poverty looks like?”
“Don’t talk about him like that.”
“I’m talking about reality.”
“No, you’re talking about money.”
“I’m talking about compatibility.”
“You don’t know him.”
“We know enough.”
That sentence ripped through me.
Ryan’s voice from earlier returned instantly.