Seventeen
Quinn
What are you wearing?
Her traitorous heart flipping in her chest, Charlie stares at the text on her phone, rereading it several times to confirm that it really says what she thinks it does. Pressing her lips together, she quickly replies.
Charlie
I’m not sending you a nude
Tossing her phone on the bed, she returns to perusing her open closet, but the phone chimes again a second later.
Quinn
Clothes for the party, Rogers! Why must you always think the worst of me?
She bites back a smile. Her text history with Wes up until this point consists solely of messages coordinating tutoring sessions, brief and to the point.
Charlie
Technically it’s an ugly sweater theme, but you can wear whatever you want
Dressed in her best skinny jeans and a simple black bra, she tugs her own ugly Christmas sweater off the hanger—a fluffy green monstrosity with red fringe on the bottom and silver, red, and white baubles sewn all over the arms and torso—before applying a bit of mascara and the shimmery bronze eye shadow she knows makes her eyes pop.
She rarely wears makeup, but tonight is The Wild Rue’s holiday party, and that’s definitely the only reason she’s putting it on. It’s fun and festive. Obviously.
Her phone chimes again while she runs her fingers through her curls, leaving them wild and loose. The involuntary flip in her stomach quickly fizzles when she glances at the message.
Mom
Hello. Just wondering if you plan to join us for Christmas this year.
Charlie’s excitement for the evening dulls slightly, her mother’s sterile words sinking in her gut like lead.
Because of her role at The Wild Rue, her relationship with her parents is strained, to say the least. Visiting home the past three years was a master class in walking on eggshells and not flinching at the pointed passive-aggressive comments her family directed toward pro-choice and progressive messaging.
She usually avoids going home altogether.
Her mother used to send her daily Bible verses, not subtle in conveying her overt disapproval, until Charlie asked her to stop.
After she received a final text about asking God for forgiveness, their relationship transitioned to formal politeness.
Now her parents prefer to pretend the clinic doesn’t exist, and Charlie usually makes plans to remain at Archwood during breaks.
For a while, she thought she would feel guilty. But all she felt was relief.
She swipes the notification away to deal with later.
Grabbing her purse and a pair of black ankle booties, she exits her room. At the sight of Syeda on the couch, curled under the crocheted blanket, and the glass of red wine on the coffee table, she halts.
“Hi?” She tips her head, peering at her roommate with concern.
Sy flashes a small smile. “Hello.”
A holiday movie plays on the TV. Charlie approaches her friend. “What is happening right now? Did we accidentally do a weird Freaky Friday thing?”
Normally, Sy’s the one getting ready to go out on Friday night, and she frequently tries to bribe Charlie to join her, even if it’s “just for one drink, babes!”
Sy pauses the movie and sits up so Charlie can perch on the cushion beside her. Her long black hair falls over her shoulder in a lopsided ponytail.
“Bri and I got into an argument, and I’m feeling…” She frowns and holds up her hand, tipping it back and forth. “Weird.”
Charlie tucks her feet under her, leaning back against the couch. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Sy pinches the stem of her wineglass between her thumb and index finger, swirling the contents before taking a small sip. “She’s not sure she wants to spend Christmas together.” Her bottom lip trembles.
“Oh, Sy.” Charlie takes her free hand. “I’m sorry.”
“She hasn’t come out to her parents yet,” she says.
“If I went home with her, I’d be a friend.
” Sy’s dark eyes fill with tears. “I already came out, Charlie. I already went through all of that with my own parents, and they just stopped asking me if I might change my mind.” She lets out a short, watery laugh.
“I forgot to tell you, but they read a bunch of books, and now they call themselves ‘woke.’”
“Oh god.” They share a brief laugh before Sy’s face returns to an expression of forlorn misery.
Syeda’s family immigrated from Pakistan when she was five, and she fully embraced American culture, much to the dismay of her very traditional parents.
Much like Charlie, she’s had trouble navigating who she is when her parents have such different expectations for her.
Unlike Charlie’s, though, Sy’s parents have ultimately been fairly accepting of her choices.
“I don’t want to go through that again,” she says. “Does that make me selfish?”
Charlie tugs Sy’s wineglass from her fingers and takes a small sip.
“No, it’s not selfish. I don’t know what it’s like to come out, but I know it’s not selfish to not want to hide your true self once you’ve crossed that threshold.
” Sy is the one person in her life who knows the full extent of her fraught relationship with her parents.
“And if it’s anything like admitting to your parents that you’re working for a sexual health clinic that performs abortions on the weekends and helps people transition as they stare at you like you’re the Antichrist, I can relate. ”
Sy laughs, loud and true, and Charlie’s pleased to have been helpful.
Swiping an escaped tear from under her eye, Syeda sniffs. “What a mess.” She flashes Charlie a small smile. “But thank you. I needed to hear that.”
Charlie squeezes her arm. “Do you want to come with me tonight? Take your mind off things with pizza and free beer and arcade games?”
Her phone chimes, and her heart gives a wild lurch, but she doesn’t look at it.
Sy shakes her head. “Nah, that’s okay. Wild, I know—me not going out on a Friday. Alert the press!” She gestures to the TV, paused on a still of an actress with curly blond hair trudging through knee-deep snow. “Once Upon a Holiday awaits.”
Standing, Charlie pulls her jacket off its hook by the door. “What is it this time? Jaded corporate lawyer has to settle her dead grandma’s estate in a small town in Maine and falls in love with the extremely handsome owner of the only coffee shop in town?”
“Jaded corporate lawyer discovers she has long-lost family who are kind of country bumpkins, but then she meets the bookish-but-sexy librarian who happens to be the prince of Christmas, and she inevitably falls in love and chooses a simpler, happier life.” Shooting her an innocent look, Sy settles into a horizontal position once again. “Obviously, Charlie.”
Charlie laughs. “Of course. How could I forget the sexy small-town librarian prince?”
She waves as she shuts the apartment door behind her, then checks her messages.
Quinn
I have the perfect ugly sweater
Charlie
I’ll believe it when I see it
Quinn
Leaving soon. See you in a bit ?
The apartment is dark when she shuffles through the door four hours later; Sy’s already in bed. Exhausted, Charlie unzips her coat and returns it to the wall hook, then slides off her boots and abandons them by the door.
Wes never showed.
The bar was loud and full of energy, her colleagues excited to enjoy a night of fun and games. She grabbed a beer and a slice of pizza and tried not to think about when Wes would arrive. Until an hour passed and there was still no sign of him.
As the night wore on and her phone stayed silent, it became clear that he wasn’t coming.
She sent a text shortly before last call asking if he was okay, but she never received a response.
Flicking on her bedroom light, she pulls off her sweater and jeans, leaving them in a heap on the floor.
After tying her curls into a messy bun, she pulls on an extra-large T-shirt with The Wild rue plastered across the front in bold letters and a pair of sleep shorts, then crosses into her bathroom to brush her teeth.
While she wants to be angry, she’s mostly disappointed. With him for allowing her to believe he’d changed. With herself for believing he could change, for misjudging the situation once again.
She should have stuck with her plan from weeks ago. No experimenting. Three tutoring sessions only. Then let Wesley Quinn go for good.
She’s removing her makeup when she hears it.
At first, it’s almost too faint for her to be certain, and she freezes, listening. A few seconds later, there’s another knock on her apartment door.
Confusion and a small zip of fear pulse through her. Who the hell is knocking on her door at midnight?
When she peers through the peephole, however, her pulse stutters, her confusion replaced by buzzing surprise. She opens the door.
“Rogers, hey,” Wes drawls, leaning against the doorjamb with the most devil-may-care smile she’s ever seen. “May I come in?”