2. Charlie
2
O ne…two…three…four…five…s—
Shit.
I did it again.
I empty the stupid seven-day pill organizer and then toss the damn thing in the trash. It’s the second time this week I’ve refilled mom’s pills.
She doesn’t need them anymore. She hasn’t needed them for over three weeks.
I close the bathroom door behind me and stare at the empty bed where she spent her last days. It was peaceful and I was with her. The days leading up were odd. She seemed more relaxed. At peace almost. Reminiscing about dad and times when I was younger. She smiled more. Ate less. And looked at me like she was proud of me.
She was ready.
It’s why that morning came as no surprise. But it wasn’t any less heartbreaking.
I know it gets easier. I know that the tears in the morning when I wake up alone in this place will stop. And the ache I feel every quiet evening will subside. But some habits are hard to break. Like calling out to her before I leave the house each morning.
I take a breath and lift another box to take down to the communal storage room. The building provides each apartment with a six-by-nine storage unit. It’s a joke of a space but at least it will hold most of mom’s things until I figure out what to do with it all.
Which will have to be soon since I’m working on leaving town after Pepper’s wedding. Leaving is just one of many things I’ve been putting off. Being here for mom and helping her with every last cent so she didn’t have to go back to work after her diagnosis had been my priority.
I gave a thirty-day notice to my landlord just the other day and he asked if I could try and declutter the place to attract potential renters when he starts letting realtors show the apartment.
Yeah, like the questionable dark spots over the kitchen counter isn’t going to send them running .
It appeared months after last year’s flood in the apartment above and conveniently forgotten about by Roger Harris, the landlord. Who continues to forget, even with my countless emails, and reminders on Post-It notes over my rent check for the last few months.
Heaven forbid I’m a few bucks short one month, bet he’d notice that.
But I’m never late or short on rent. I don't make a lot of money but at least I've been able to maintain a roof over our heads. My job at the Hideaway Public Library allows me a comfortable salary. Of course, that depends on what your definition of “enough” is. To me, it’s groceries from the local market, rent, and boots.
My one vice in life is boots. I love my purple cowgirl boots. I get the same pair every time—or as close to the lightly embroidered deep violet mid-calf boots as I can find. Lucky Linda at the department store usually saves me a pair when she sees them come in. I call her Lucky even though I’m the one who’s lucky to have her looking out for me. And by the time I need them, they’re already marked down.
Score!
So yeah, I think I’m doing pretty well for myself. And truthfully…it has to be enough since I can’t work anywhere else. Hideaway Springs isn’t a big town and the job market is smaller than the farmers market. But I don’t mind spending my life around books.
At least until I move.
Still haven’t a clue as to where I’m going. But I’d made my mother a promise that when the time came, I’d leave this town—like I should have years ago.
When I made the stupidest mistake of my life.
Three years ago.
“You got a hot date?” Noah asks playfully, eyeing me in my little black dress like he wants to devour me.
He does that sometimes.
Looks at me like he’s ready to tear my clothes off, toss me over his shoulder, and march us to his bedroom. There, he’d show me how much he cares for me. Slowly, gently. He’d tell me how different it is with me. How he’s waited more than a year into our relationship to sleep with me because of how…special I am.
He’d silence the insecurities I’ve had since we got together. I’m too skinny, too short …not as beautiful as all the girls he’s been with.
Not as…erotic.
It probably didn’t help that before we started dating, I was Noah’s best gal-pal.
Apparently, I was cool enough to give a nickname to and hang out with every day, but not to date.
I didn’t mind it. I liked having Noah as my best friend. We didn’t have any secrets but there were times I wished I wasn’t so up to speed on everything going on in his sex life. He wasn’t the type to kiss and tell, but somehow, if you wanted the scoop on Noah Reeves, Charlie was your girl. I was privy to it all!
And all the girls knew it. In fact, I’m pretty sure my phone number was being passed around like a fake ID. Once someone "got into the Noah club", so to speak, they’d pass it on to the next girl. And she’d call me up for the latest and greatest on Noah Reeves.
“Yes, he’s currently single.”
“No, I’m not sleeping with him.”
If I didn’t think it was mildly obsessive—I’d have made a spreadsheet for him.
And…maybe I was a little obsessed. Not with how much sex he was having. But why I was the exception to him screwing every girl on campus.
Noah : Caf closed. Food fight. Wanna grab lunch at Franco’s?
Me: Did you get it on video? Franco’s will be packed. Order in to the studio?
Noah: At studio. Be here in ten.
Me: Or else what?
Noah: Or else no anchovies.
Me: You wouldn’t dare.
When the girls and the calls and the talking started getting out of hand, and my crush turned into something I couldn’t ignore anymore, I had to tell him we should probably stop spending so much time together.
I was hoping not to get into detail on the why, but those penetrating blue eyes made me spill everything.
Like a freaking fire hydrant.
I thought he’d back up and tell me it was for the best that we don’t hang out much anymore.
But…he kissed me.
So fast.
So hard.
Like he’d been holding back as long as I had.
That was a year ago, and we are still going strong. Except for the non-existent sex part.
For some reason, he refuses to share why I’m not fuck-worthy.
So tonight... I’m making the move. I made dinner at his apartment, put on a sexy black dress since he hates all things purple, and even slapped on red lipstick, which I’m totally pulling off.
I’m twenty-two years old. I’ve only ever had eyes for Noah. If he thinks I’m going to have regrets, he’s dead wrong.
I’m sure of this. I’m sure of him.
“I do.” I finally answer his question about my date then wink. “I better go meet him.”
Noah reaches and pulls me against his chest. “Like hell you are,” he murmurs before bending to kiss me.
Oh, these lips.
I love them. I’m falling so hard for this guy. Surely he knows I won’t have regrets. Yes, I’m a virgin. And yes, I am a little…let’s say, selective and protective over who I trust with my body. But I want Noah. I don’t know why I’m any different to him.
I moan against his mouth.
A low growl rumbles from his throat in response and he deepens the kiss, but I pull away. “I made dinner. But…we could skip to dessert.”
He lifts a brow and backs up. “Dinner, huh?” He looks over my shoulder and I’m suddenly jealous of the three-course meal I planned. “Smells delicious.”
“I guess dinner first,” I mumble, my disappointment clear.
He strokes my hair and lifts my chin. And it's the second or third time I see that same conflict in his eyes. Until he blinks it away. “Come on. I know how much you hate reheated food.”
I guess the whole skip-to-dessert thing only works in movies…or fantasies…or for literally anyone but me.
We never made it to the table. I raced out of there and went to the one place I had no business going to in the mind frame I was in.
The bar.