Chapter 16
It’s a thunderbolt of discovery, a shock to my system, when I walk out of the house to see Charlie, in a white shirt and khaki shorts, waiting for me next to the white Abba Project van, open for use to everyone in the house.
As he dangles the keys with a timid smile, like the senior citizen I feel like these days, I think, Well, now, I’ll be darned.
Charlie’s a redhead.
An extremely hot one, at that. He reminds me so much of Prince Harry at the height of his tabloid hotness . . . with some of that actor from Homeland in him too. The intense green eyes, sturdy hairline, and formidable jaw. Yes. He’s Nick Brody’s stoic mystery with Prince Harry’s sneaky charm.
With no clue whether a hug is appropriate between us, I go in for it anyway. Luckily he welcomes it.
Have we ever kissed? How close are we emotionally? What does he know and not know about me?
The questions of this game have no bounds.
I’m in a thin-strapped red sundress that hits my ankles, floaty and floral. I might’ve assumed it too fancy for a first date here, but I’ll trust Camila on this.
“You look really pretty,” Charlie says like a boy at the middle school dance.
Camila wasn’t kidding, though. Other than the hint of the slightest twinkle, Charlie feels serious as a stone. Like that crack-your-own-geode kit all three kids love, I’ll be working for this. Some smashing to get to the goods.
“Not so bad yourself.” I squeeze my white clutch and feel the curve of the pickleball. I almost giggle at the absurdity.
Just another night in my alternate universe!
Soon as I think it, though, my heart careens into sobering territory. It’s getting more real—all of this. Every balloon realm seems somehow more vivid than the last, like this is all truly happening to me, and it counts.
I decide that Charlie seems like a good place to start giving romance a shot—someone safe, solid, and sensitive, or so I gather. Given our age gap and mission assignments, I’ll proceed carefully.
He opens the car door, immediately a gentleman.
Once we’re both settled, he navigates the van down the narrow driveway to the main road.
The strip of a highway is lined with potholes and wildlife—lush jungles thick, glittery, green.
Pinks and oranges color the sky, melting into a sunset on the horizon.
The beauty snatches my breath away. I roll down my window and thick night air overcomes me.
Night birds, monkeys, and tree crickets sing us their song.
“What a gorgeous night,” I comment, stealing a look at my date.
While Parker drove like James Dean, Charlie drives like a high-level security bodyguard. Everything about him is tense. Jaw, chest, forearms. I hold back from reaching to rub his neck, but this guy could use a massage.
“Thanks for letting me take you somewhere besides the kitchen—or Tomás’s Tacos,” he says, clutching the wheel.
“I mean, I really wanted rice and beans again, but thank you for twisting my arm.” Camila mentioned the round-the-clock rice and beans earlier, so I promptly stole her content.
Twenty minutes later, Charlie pulls into a parking lot that’s notably pristine for this city.
Situated on a hilltop above it, our hotel destination glows like a lighthouse at midnight.
It looks more Spanish mission than inn, with its arches and bells.
Brick-colored terra-cotta doors, wooden banisters.
Black iron chandeliers. It’s old-world and romantic.
Charlie doesn’t reach for my hand as we walk, so I just stride beside him on the lantern-lit pathway.
When the hostess of La Luz leads us to our tiled table, Charlie finally touches the small of my back. It’s subtle, but it’s there, and I smile, the gesture sending the tiniest shiver dancing across my shoulder blades.
We take our seats, order some drinks, and I’m ready to start swinging hammers.
Let’s crack into some crystal.
“This place is a dream,” I say. “I wasn’t expecting it to be so gorgeous. Were you?”
The line of his mouth breaks open. “I hoped so. Some of the guys at the house recommended it. They also told me about a place to go dancing afterward.” He holds up his hands. “Clean. Vetted. Only if you want to.”
“You?” I sip my white wine. “Like to dance?”
“I love it, actually.” He quiets. “Or . . . I used to. People even used to say I was good.”
I imagine him working his hips, laughing and loving it. “Used to, huh?”
He pulls at his jaw. “It’s been a while,” he sighs. “Work’s been crazy for years, then this trip, and then—”
Your life fell apart?
Hey, mine too.
I prop up my chin and begin to study him, thankful we have the whole night.
Thankful for how tranquil I feel right now, even as my thoughts float around and above the impossibility of my situation.
I squeeze my eyes briefly against a bittersweet image of the twins (Where are they?
Who’s tucking them in?) and Max (Is he surly tonight?
Is Reid there for him?). Despite the unknowns, I count the good.
I savor the warm breeze. I swallow the wine.
I think of my dear Camila. All while sitting here with this interesting guy who feels like a riddle to solve.
Rimming the edge of my glass with a finger, I’m ready to talk.
“So, Charlie,” I start. “I want to know this—for real.” I pause.
“How are you doing? How is your heart?” It’s a little bold, but I like it, a question I learned from Quinn and ask our family often.
Or . . . used to. I swallow. The inquiry always elicited meaningful answers, but when was the last time I used it?
I vow to bring it back if I get the opportunity.
“Like how are you really doing,” I continue, “when your head hits the pillow at night?”
His eyes pop, so green they’re almost clear. “My . . . heart?”
“Yes.” I double down, touching my chest, grounding myself in the present. “I mean, with the year that you’ve had, I can only imagine it’s still a daily battle, up and down. Your wife left you, while you were on a trip like this? And not that long ago, right?”
He sighs. “Seven months.”
“And you were married how long?”
“Three years. We got married during my residency.”
“Gosh, I’m so sorry. No kids, right?”
He looks at me weirdly.
Whoops.
Wrong question.
“No kids,” he confirms. “You?” he teases. “Any secret kids I should know about?”
Just one teenager and a few twins, no big deal!
“No . . . kids here!” I spit out, raising my glass, winking lamely. “I just . . . want you to know how sorry I am. That this happened to you. It’s categorically traumatizing.”
He laughs, shoulders slackening into the conversation. “It’s really okay,” he says, sipping on his cold beer. “I mean that when I say it. I really do.”
Still, the weight hangs between us.
“If I’m honest,” he continues, “my heart is a heck of a lot better than it was six months ago. The finality of it. The distance. The . . . other guy. A supposed friend of mine. The intensity of the betrayals, painful as they were, made it easier to move on. Not to mention, recently—”
I tilt my head.
The weight lifts slightly.
“Well.” His cheeks redden. “Your company. You ask such great questions. And you don’t always need me to talk. That’s been . . . nice. So nice. For someone . . . processing. You’re good at excavating. Exceptional, really.”
I beam, proud that my hammer has already been chipping away.
Charlie opens his menu. “No matter what happens, you’ve been a big part of my healing. I . . . want you to know that.”
I pull at my necklace, a plain gold chain. His words touch me more than he knows. “I came here to do some of my own healing.”
“Yes,” he says. “I know. You can always say you tried in Hollywood, though—gave it your all. Even if the years and the people didn’t deserve you. Not to mention that producer. I’ll kill him.”
Okay.
We’re fairly close.
I actually googled Craig Coleman earlier today and felt bummed to find nothing yet about his predation.
I wonder what else I experienced before leaving LA.
“Life is so intense,” I say, recalling the city’s heaviness.
“Being a human is hard. People are so . . . broken, you know?” I stare into the bottom of my near-empty wineglass.
“And marriage? It takes so much intentional work, right? I mean—I would imagine. So much investment. Constant reconnecting, reevaluating, really digging into what’s working, what’s not working. ”
I eject a breath.
“It’s just, like . . . way too easy to become those dreaded ships passing each other. What are these ships, anyway?” I lift my glass. “Are they cargo ships? Cruise ships? What is their ultimate purpose?”
He holds my eyes, with one brow up. “Yes. All of that is so true. And incredibly astute for someone unmarried.” He pauses. “But, for the record, I think they’re just relation-ships.”
Oh my gosh, does the doctor have jokes?
I toss my head back and laugh.
The joke makes me miss Reid for a flash—but I take a deep breath and lecture myself to cool it on the marriage advice. I can’t know too much. And why is it so much easier to notice the problems in other relationships? To address them? Give them an action plan?
What might I learn from this Charlie?
He’s younger than me, technically, but does not seem it.
“I have another question,” I say. “I’m sure—well, I don’t doubt you’ve done endless reflecting on your marriage, and yourself, in these months.” I clear my throat. “What do you think is one lesson you’ll take from this experience into your next relationship?”
I lean toward him, over the table, running my fingers along the top of my menu, pulling myself completely into the moment, this date, this man—his past and his present, our possible future. Even if it’s only tonight, as new friends.
New for me, anyway.
Hinging forward, he steeples his fingers, speaking after a minute. “I’ll pay better attention. To everything. Especially to her.”
His eyes sweep my lips, tension humming.
“What does she need?” His throat rolls. “What does she want? What are her secrets? I want to be the bearer of . . . everything. If she’s missing something and feels the need to run to a man, for love or affirmation or sex—” The word stops him briefly.
“You can be sure that next time, I’ll be the one my person is running to. ”
I nod with each syllable, heartbroken for him, wondering how many people reach that point every single day, in a thousand marriages. The peak of unhappiness, the choice to betray. Does it feel like a single bounce or more of a slide?
I’ll pay better attention.
“Cheers to that, Dr. Indiana Jones.” I nod. “Looks like I’m not the only one skilled at archaeological digging.”
He smiles. “It’s not the years, honey; it’s the mileage.”
I explode with laughter—Raiders of the Lost Ark—once again caught off guard by his witty humor and the brilliant reference. My shoulders melt; I like him more by the second.
Through the rest of the date, he never escapes my keen observation. He’s like a fascinating specimen under the microscope of Older Me, beholding the subject of Younger Me’s interest. I’m so pleased I’ve been good to this man, and even more pleased he’s been good to me.
I choose them fairly well, I must say.
So far, anyway.
We both order the churrasco con chimichurri. Grilled skirt steak, fried plantains, fluffy rice, and my word, the chimichurri sauce. The meal is delicious, and so is the conversation.
By the time Charlie pulls the van back through the gates, up the driveway, and in front of the house, he’s holding my hand, and my heart’s skipping.
“Hammock for a while?” he asks, like we’ve done this a hundred times. We’ve decided no dancing. I think we both loved the ease and joy of our chatting too much, of the real connection.
“Sure!” I say. “Hammock.”
Under the stars, he points out a constellation I’ve never seen. His face turns to mine exactly when I’m sneaking another look at him.
Our eyes lock.
I feel simultaneously like I know him extremely well and like we just met tonight.
“Thank you,” he says. “For tonight.” His lips find my cheek with a shyness. “For everything.”
I inch closer to the lean warmth of him and touch the tip of my nose to his.
Slowly then, gently, lips slightly parted, I kiss him, a kiss so soft it’s almost friendly.
“You’re going to be okay,” I tell him. “You’re wonderful.”
As his hands find my lower back again, he pulls me in and repeats the kiss, longer and a little bit deeper this time. He tastes of the peppermint gum we popped in the car.
My body wants more of him, I realize, panicking—but he stops on the verge of urgency before I push him away, just right at the edge of our buzz.
In fact, just right—period.
“You’re going to be okay too,” he promises, tracing a strand of hair down my face in the moonlight.
For a second, under the silver stars, I believe him.