7. Chapter 7
Charlie
C harlie almost missed the turn signal to her house.
She corrected automatically, hands steady on the wheel, even as her thoughts lagged a few seconds behind.
The street slid past her windshield, familiar houses blurring into one another until she saw her house, one of the smallest on the cul-de-sac, tucked at the end like an afterthought.
She’d always liked that about her house.
She slowed as she pulled into her parking space.
Something was nagging at her. Théo’s face kept intruding.
It wasn’t anything the boy had said. Not even anything obvious. Just the way he hadn’t looked at her that morning when he’d come into the classroom. The way he’d been so quiet. When had that started? A few days? A week?
She cut the engine and sat there, replaying the last few weeks in her mind.
Something wasn’t right, and she knew better than to ignore the feeling.
Finally, she opened her car door and got out.
“You’re not going to leave your car like that, are you?”
Charlie startled, turning toward the voice.
A strange man stood in the next yard, near the low stone wall separating the properties. Late forties, maybe. Solid build. British, from the accent.
That had been Mrs. Neville’s house until she’d finally given in to her daughter’s pleas and moved in with her last summer. It had been empty ever since.
I guess it finally sold .
“Excuse me?” Charlie asked, confused.
He gestured sharply at the ground, his posture confrontational. “You’re on the line. I won’t be able to get my car out without hitting the door.”
She glanced back. He wasn’t wrong. She’d been able to open her own door easily enough, but he was broader.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’ll move it. I wasn’t thinking.”
She was about to walk over, introduce herself—do the polite, neighborly thing—when he spoke again.
“No,” he said flatly. “You weren’t.”
Charlie bit back a response about his clear anger management issues. Instead, she nodded once and got back into her car. She corrected, careful this time to stick to her side of the line.
When she stepped out again, he’d retreated inside his house, but she could still feel his eyes on her.
Inside her own house, she locked the door and let her forehead rest briefly against it, sighing in relief.
She kicked off her shoes, dropped her bag by the narrow set of stairs leading up to her bedroom, and walked into the kitchen.
You’re tired.
That’s all.
Her phone rang, startling her.
“Terry,” she said, forcing brightness into her voice.
“Hey,” her sister replied. Morning light bled through the screen, the Florida sunshine bright behind her. “You’re home?”
“Just got in.”
They talked the way they always did—about Terry’s kids, about the school, about Terry’s latest attempt at baking sourdough and how it had nearly ended in disaster.
Charlie laughed in the right places, but of course Terry saw right through her.
“You sound sad,” Terry said finally. “What’s wrong? There’s something you’re not telling me.”
Charlie hesitated. She’d made up her mind not to bring up Lorenz—not tonight. But maybe that wasn’t fair. Terry had, after all, been the one who’d helped her pick up the pieces, who’d listened when Charlie hadn’t been able to finish a sentence without breaking apart.
“He’s back,” she said quietly.
A pause. “ He ?”
She sighed. Terry was going to make her say it. “Lorenz.”
“Ah.”
“Ah?” Charlie repeated. “Is that all?”
“You tell me if that’s all.”
“We met up again. By coincidence,” Charlie went on. “And it’s … it’s hard to explain. My heart doesn’t seem to understand that we’re not together anymore.”
“You were the one who served him the divorce papers, Charlie,” Terry said gently.
“I know.” Charlie swallowed. “But he signed them. Willingly. He didn’t fight for me. For us.”
“It was a brutal time,” Terry said. “For both of you. And I’m still not convinced you made the right decision. Have you talked about it? Really talked?”
Charlie shook her head. “He wants to talk. We’re meeting for coffee.” Her throat tightened. “But I’m not sure I’m ready. I might never be ready. I lost our baby, and I don’t think he could ever forgive me for that.”
“Did he say that?” Terry demanded. Anger filled her voice. “Because if he did—”
“No,” Charlie said quickly. “He never said anything. But back then … “ She stared at the wall across from her, at the faint scuff marks from a previous tenant. “I felt the distance. He was already pulling away. Long before I made the call.”
“Oh, Charlie.”
“Do you think I should meet with him?”
“I think,” Terry said carefully, “that you won’t stop wondering what might have happened if you don’t. I also think you should make it dinner, not coffee. Give him a chance to say what he wants to say.”
Charlie closed her eyes.
Outside, a car door slammed somewhere down the street. She hated the way the sound made her tense up.