17
Charm
I stayed on Ryan’s couch for several minutes after his bedroom door slammed, staring at the dark television while rain crawled down the windows and every word he had thrown at me settled somewhere painful.
If it isn’t me, I’ll get over you. I’ve lost much worse.
That one hurt enough that part of me wanted to stay angry. I wanted to convince myself he had gone too far and had no right to force a decision when he knew better than anyone how badly pressure affected me.
Underneath my anger, I understood what he had actually asked me to give him.
The truth.
Ryan didn’t expect perfection or permission from my parents. He wasn’t demanding a guarantee that everyone I loved would suddenly love him too. He wanted me to stop protecting people from the consequences of their behavior while expecting him to quietly absorb those consequences for me.
My phone sat inside my purse with more than a hundred messages and missed calls from my mother. I had read enough previews to know the tone changed after the birthday dinner, but every time her name appeared, I found a reason not to answer.
I told myself I needed space and was finally setting boundaries. I told myself she and Daddy needed time to understand what they had done.
Some of that was true.
The rest was cowardice dressed in therapy language.
I pulled out my phone and opened her messages. There were apologies, long and short, along with voice mails I had never listened to. She had asked me to come home, offered to take me to lunch, and repeatedly asked whether I was okay.
More than once, she had written some version of the same thing.
We were wrong to react the way we did.
Farther down, the language shifted.
Mom: I’m not asking you to forgive us tonight. I’m asking you to let us try.
Mom: Your father is angry because he is frightened, and he has never understood the difference as well as he thinks he does.
I swallowed and kept scrolling.
Mom: If Ryan matters to you, then we need to meet him as the man you know instead of the assumptions we made.
Another message had come later.
Mom: I mean that, Charmagne. We want to give him a chance.
Her last message hurt the most.
Mom: I cannot lose another child because I was too afraid to loosen my grip on the one still standing in front of me.
My eyes burned. I had read that message before. I had simply never allowed myself to answer it.
The clock showed after eleven. Calling felt intrusive, but I knew my mother was probably still awake, reading beside my father while some ancient television drama played quietly in the background.
I pressed her name, and she answered on the second ring.
“Charmagne?”
Something in her voice cracked around my name, and I closed my eyes against the immediate pull of guilt.
“Did you mean it?”
“Mean what, sweetheart?”
“The messages.” I tightened my grip on the phone, already hating how careful she sounded. “The ones about Ryan and giving him a chance. Did you mean what you said, or were you saying whatever would make me call you back?”
“Oh, honey.”
“Mom.”
“Yes.” Her answer came immediately. “I meant every word.”
My throat closed. “You really want to meet him?”
“I do.”
“You aren’t going to invite him into the house so Daddy can interrogate him until he leaves?”
My mother released a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “No.”
“Promise me.”
“Charmagne.”
“Please.”
The word came out smaller than I wanted. My mother was silent for a moment before answering.
“I promise.”
Tears slipped over my cheeks.
“We have been trying so hard to reach you,” she said.
“I know.”
“I didn’t know whether continuing to call was making things worse, but I couldn’t stop.”
“I know.”
“We handled that dinner terribly.”
My lips trembled. “You called him beneath me.”
“I know.”
“Daddy called him dangerous.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t even know him.”
“No.” Her voice broke. “We didn’t.”
I wiped beneath my eye. “Why did it take me leaving before either of you understood?”
“Because I had to sit with the fact that my daughter walked out of a restaurant believing she had to choose between the man she cares about and her family.”
My gaze moved toward Ryan’s closed bedroom door.
“We already lost one child, Charmagne,” she continued more quietly. “I cannot lose another because your father and I were so convinced we knew what was best for you that we stopped listening to what you were actually telling us.”
A sob caught behind my teeth. “Mom.”
“I mean it.” She was crying now too. “I don’t know Ryan, and I still have concerns. I would be lying if I told you they disappeared, and I don’t want to lie simply because honesty might be uncomfortable.”
I nodded even though she couldn’t see me.
“Concerns aren’t the same as contempt,” she continued. “What we said that night was contemptuous. It was unfair to him and to you.”
“What about Daddy?”
Her silence lasted long enough to make my stomach knot.
“Your father is struggling.”
I looked down at my lap.
“He loves you more than he loves his fear.”
“He doesn’t act like it.”
“No. Sometimes your father believes love and control are interchangeable when the intention behind them is protection.”
The admission startled me. “Did you tell him that?”
“Repeatedly.”
Despite everything, I laughed through my tears. “What did he say?”
“He disagreed.”
“That sounds like Daddy.”
“Yes.” Her voice softened. “It does.”
I rubbed my thumb over the edge of my phone case. “Would Ryan be welcome at Thanksgiving?”
“Yes.”
“With your full blessing?”
A brief pause followed before she answered honestly.
“With my commitment to welcome him respectfully and get to know him as the man you know. Your father has made the same commitment, although I won’t lie and tell you he has resolved every concern.”
“That sounds very Mom.”
“I’m trying.”
“I know.”
“Your father is trying too.”
“Even if he looks like he’s being held hostage?”
A watery laugh came through the phone. “Especially then.”
I closed my eyes. “Promise me you won’t humiliate Ryan.”
“I promise I won’t.”
“Or ask how long hockey is going to last like it’s some hobby?”
“I won’t.”
“Or stare at his tattoos?”
“I cannot promise your father won’t look at them.”
“Mom.”
“He will attempt discretion.”
I laughed again, and for the first time since the dinner, the sound didn’t feel forced. “I missed you.”
Her breath caught. “Oh, Charmagne. I missed you too.”
“I’m still angry.”
“You’re allowed to be.”
“I’m not ready to pretend that dinner didn’t happen.”
“I’m not asking you to.”
“If either of you says something like that to him again, I will leave.”
“I understand.”
I looked toward Ryan’s room. “I have to go.”
“Is he there?”
“Yes.”
“Are you two okay?”
I almost laughed. “Ask me tomorrow.”
“That bad?”
“We’re working on it.”
A pause followed. “Tell him…”
I waited.
“Tell him I’m sorry.”
My throat tightened. “I will.”
“Tell him he is welcome at Thanksgiving.”
“I’ll tell him.”
We said goodnight twice before either of us actually hung up. When the call ended, I remained on the couch with my phone pressed against my chest until the pounding in my heart settled enough for me to stand.
Ryan’s bedroom door was closed.
I walked down the hallway and stopped outside it. My hand lifted to knock, but I remembered I had a key to his apartment, half my books were mixed with his, and he had spent weeks telling me to stop behaving as though I needed permission to exist around him.
I opened the door.
Ryan sat against the headboard in the mostly dark room. The lamp beside him was off, and his phone lay facedown near his thigh. He looked over as I stepped inside, and the hard set of his jaw told me he was still furious.
“Can I have five minutes?”
He looked away. “I’m not in the mood for more bullshit, Charm.”
“I’m not bringing you bullshit.”
His eyes returned to me. “Then what is it?”
I stepped farther into the room. “I want to invite you to Thanksgiving at my parents’ house.”
Ryan stared at me as though he wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. “What?”
“My mother promised they will welcome you respectfully and give you a genuine chance.”
His brows pulled together. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“I just got off the phone with her.”
Ryan sat straighter. “You called your mother?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“I asked whether she meant the messages and voice mails I had been ignoring.”
“What messages?”
I swallowed. “Different versions of we reacted badly, we want to give him a chance, and please let us fix this.”
Ryan’s expression didn’t soften.
“She said they can’t afford to lose another child because they were too afraid to let me live my own life.”
A humorless sound left him, and I frowned.
“What?”
“I don’t trust it.”
“Ryan.”
“They called me beneath you, and now they’re inviting me to Thanksgiving?”
“They haven’t suddenly decided they love everything about us. My mother admitted that. She said they’ve had time to think about what they did.”
“It still sounds convenient.”
“They’ve been trying to talk to me since the dinner. I’m the one who refused to answer.”
Ryan looked toward the wall and dragged one hand over his jaw.
“They lost Charles,” I said.
“I know.”
“They don’t want to lose me.”
“I heard you.”
“I need you to understand why this matters.”
His gaze returned to me. “I understand.”
“Then why do you look like I invited you to an execution?”
“Because your parents showed you exactly what they think of me when they believed I wasn’t good enough for you. Now I’m supposed to trust a Thanksgiving invitation?”
“She admitted what they said was contemptuous.”
“That’s a nice word for it.”
“She apologized to me, and she asked me to tell you she’s sorry.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened. “She can tell me herself.”
“I think she wants to.”
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and sat with his elbows resting on his knees. I waited while he stared at the floor.
Finally, he exhaled. “I’ll go.”
Relief struck so hard that my knees almost weakened.
Ryan looked up at me. “I’ll go for you, mi hada.”
I nodded.
“Listen carefully because I’m not doing another version of tonight after Thanksgiving dinner.”
My stomach tightened. “I’m listening.”