Chapter 8
CHARLIE
“You left this to the last minute, huh?”
My mother glares at me over a display of blenders. “Hush now. You going to help me or shame me?”
“Both?” I offer her the cheeky smile that always melts her glare away.
“You’re lucky you’re my only child, or I’d ship you straight back to Germany. Lord knows there was less sass in my life before you came around.” As she grumbles out the words, her lips start to curl at the edges.
I whistle an innocent tune as I tuck my hands deep in my pockets and stroll down the next aisle.
Passing by cookware, I let the happy glow of the day infuse my entire being.
In the past, shopping with my mother would have ended up low on the list of fun activities.
But now, after being away for so long, I’m enjoying myself.
Doesn’t hurt that I just ate a delicious brunch with my best friend and treated her to a nail appointment, and before that, I spent more time in Luna Lamont’s presence. I conveniently gloss over the part where I once again made a complete fool of myself.
Overall, this is shaping up to be a great day. Which puts into stark contrast how few of those I’ve had lately.
I wince at a stab of shame.
How could I think that? I have a great life.
I work for a company with a good atmosphere and reasonable hours.
They’ve set me up with a position in a foreign country, just like I told them I wanted when I was first hired four years ago.
Over those years, I’ve built up a group of friends in Germany, getting drinks with them at least once a week and traveling all through Europe.
Some might say my life is charmed. For a while, I thought so too.
The dissatisfaction came on slowly, with small dips in my mood that lasted for a few days.
I’d press the snooze button a few more times and find myself gazing at the clock, trying to will the workday to pass by faster.
Then there were the spikes of anxiety that gripped my chest whenever my supervisor gave me a new project.
My mind shied away from spending any more brain capacity on fabric sales.
All of those signs I forced myself to ignore, accepting them as normal among all adults in the workforce.
But then one night, when I was chatting with Paige about her latest editing project, I blurted out the question. “Does your work ever depress you?”
On my phone screen, Paige blinked wide eyes. “Depress me? I mean, some of the authors write about hard topics. They craft the scenes so excellently that I feel what the character does. Their sadness. Is that what you mean?”
“No.” I searched for a way to explain the creeping shadow descending over the hours I spent at the office. “I mean, does the idea of doing your job ever … I don’t know. Do you wish you could get away from it? Just keep sleeping through the day or something.”
My friend stared at me, and I let her. The moment was important. The first time I’d shared the ache no painkillers could correct.
“Martin.” Paige announced her cheating ex’s name like it was the solution to a brain teaser I’d given her.
I flinched at the sound, my dislike for the asshole rooted deep in my bones.
“I’m not talking to that motherfucker about my work problems, if that’s what you’re saying,” I growled.
But she was already shaking her head. “Sorry. Meant to say more words. What you described—work never made me feel that way. Martin did. Our relationship. I should’ve gotten out of it long before he cheated on me.
You should break up with your company. Not that I think they’re going to cheat on you. How would a company even do that?”
And just like that, my friend had me laughing, my anxiety forgotten for a time.
But never gone. Especially with her advice lingering long after we hung up.
“You should break up with your company.”
Easier said than done. I can’t just serve up the it’s not you; it’s me line.
My employers are good people. How can I leave a career with great benefits when I don’t know what I want to do in my life?
I’ve spent many evenings trying to figure out what my passion is, but nothing falls perfectly into place.
“None of these are right,” my mom says, unknowingly echoing my inner monologue. She’s stopped in front of a variety of sheet sets.
Slipping my phone from my pocket, I pull up the web page we consulted before coming into the store. “These are on the registry.” I tap a slate-gray set and try to imagine my friend gravitating toward the neutral color.
“You and I both know Ginny cobbled that together when her daughter forgot. Neither Paige nor Dash are the ask-for-gifts type.” Mom passes on the boring sheets.
“Well then, what do you want to do?”
“I want to get her something with love in it.”
The emphasis she puts on that four-letter word has me backing away, hands raised. “Sorry, Mama. I draw the line at going to an adult toy shop with you.”
“You devil!” She barks through a laugh, then chucks a pillow at me. “I can’t take you anywhere.”
“I’m not the one throwing things in the store.” With a mocking amount of carefulness, I place the pillow back on its shelf.
“You’re a bad influence.” She meanders away, smoothing her hands over the purple silk scarf wrapped around her head, as if the brief moment of immaturity might have knocked the fabric loose.
That’s Rosa Keller. One moment, the image of elegance. The next, as mischievous as a teenager.
I’ve missed her.
With the ease of travel, flights coming and going all the time, New Orleans shouldn’t feel far away.
But I can’t help feeling panic that I’m missing precious time with my parents.
During my childhood, they traveled all over the world, and I always went with them.
Now I’m lucky if we see each other twice a year.
Sometimes, when the homesickness of missing my parents hits hard, I’ll play through one of my mother’s albums, letting her voice lull me into believing she’s by my side. But I can only ever trick myself for so long.
Just like this visit will only last for a limited string of days. The thought sends a spike of anxiety through me, and before examining the urge, I cross the few feet between me and my mother and scoop her up into a hug.
“Charlie?” Her tone is half curious, half worried, and all-loving. Her strong arms wrap around me, returning the hug. “What’s wrong, baby?”
“Nothing.” I set her down and make sure a reassuring smile is in place when she sees my face. “Just missed you, is all.”
“Okay then.” Doubt sits heavy in her voice, and she cups my cheeks, the tips of her acrylics just brushing my skin as the familiar scent of cocoa butter surrounds me.
The attention brings to mind the word she said earlier.
Love.
This is love. This is what my mother wants to gift to Paige. An embrace that shows all the support and affection and hope that the Kellers have for my friend.
“I thought of a gift.”
The triumph in my voice has her lips twisting.
“You gonna share your insight with me, or do I have to guess?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” No matter how much I missed her, the urge to tease her can never be eradicated.
“You sound like your father. Isn’t it obvious?” She affects a deep voice, mocking her husband in a way she’d be just as happy to do to his face. Mom steps back, planting fists on her hips and giving me a scorcher of a scowl. “No, it’s not obvious. Tell me already.”
I pause for just a second longer for dramatic effect. “Give her a song.”
“Charlie.” My mother speaks my name with surprise that morphs into a sweet, dismissive expression. “She hears me sing all the time.”
“But not for her,” I insist. “You know Paige would like that more than a random item bought from her registry.”
Mom waves a hand, as if my words were buzzing around her face. “They’re starting a life together. They need more than a song.”
Sometimes, I want to grab my mother by the shoulders and shake her until she realizes how much her art can mean to a person.
Sure, when Mom takes the stage, she knows how her talent can hold a room.
At times, she’s proudly proclaimed her diva status.
But around the people close to her, Rosa Keller sinks into a humble state.
As if she thinks her voice is a showy illusion and the people who love her see right through it.
She’s wrong.
“Then give her a check along with the song. But I’m telling you, if you get on that stage and sing, Paige will feel every ounce of love you want her to.”
My mother doesn’t respond right away. She turns away, pretending to browse the bath towels.
I follow behind, acting like the well-behaved son for the moment.
After picking up a peach towel that Paige would be just as likely to use for her pit bull, Pumpkin, as she would for herself, my mother tosses the fabric to the side and strides toward the door.
“Fine. A song it is. But you’re picking it out and playing the guitar with me. And your father is going to dance with her. There we are—family gift. Plus, a check. A really big check.”
I hide my grin behind a hand, trying to smooth the cocky expression away before she sees.
“Paige will love that.”
My mother huffs, as if frustrated with me, but the sound only makes me want to hug her again.
One more week. The internal countdown clock to my departure sucks away all the happiness of the moment.
What if I want to stay?