Chapter 10 #2
It’s Charlie, set against a backdrop of glittering white snow draped over rocky peaks and a dusky lavender sky. He’s in full winter gear, goggles pushed up to show off his brilliant eyes and wide smile. His caption reads: Everyone knows the real ones go to Vail.
I flop down on my bed, tucking my embarrassingly smitten grin against my arm. Only Charlie can pull off something as obnoxious as a family ski trip. I don’t even know where Vail is. Stupid endearing snob.
Me
You’re a zombie too?
RIP Charles Anthony Rosenhoth. Gone but definitely not forgotten.
He was far too short to be forgettable.
Flower Boy
I’m 6’1” :(
Me
Right. Not THAT tall…
Flower Boy
Damn. If I wasn’t undead before, I sure am now.
Me
I didn’t know you skied.
Flower Boy
Whoa, whoa. Don’t insult me. Snowboard, Win. C’mon.
I thought you were home for the break?
I stare at his question, willing it to disappear. That is a box I don’t want to unpack yet; I want to leave it taped shut under the drooping pine needles of my parents’ tree back in Kansas. A little white lie won’t hurt.
Me
Last minute work thing at the theater. No biggie. When are you back in town?
Flower Boy
Not until New Years
My heart sinks. Almost a full week. And surely he’ll spend New Years with his family.
I shove my phone under my pillow, leaving his message on Read, and sigh.
It’s strange for me, missing someone so much.
I’m not sure what to do about this ache blooming right behind my sternum, or what exactly it means.
The next few days blur together. I spend so much time in the studio my joints ache, I run through my DVD collection like they’ll deteriorate if I don’t watch them—a comfort I inherited from my mother that I hate myself for still craving—and figure out that Vail is in Colorado.
Aside from a few breathtaking photos and a midnight text on New Year’s Eve, I don’t hear much from Charlie.
I spend the first day of the year in ratty sweats, hair unwashed, ignoring calls from my mom.
The sun’s long past gone and I’m on my third rewatch of The Family Stone this week when someone knocks on my door. Strange. There’s hardly anyone on campus. Maybe building maintenance? Peeling myself out of bed, I cross to the peephole.
A breath lofts in my chest.
Charlie.
I yank the door open.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, laughing. “Who let you in?”
“Janitor.” He shrugs. “Guess she thought I looked trustworthy.” To send the point home, he flashes a smile, dimples and all. It would be unfair to blame the janitorial staff for falling prey to his radiant charm.
I close the door behind us as he walks into my room.
In one hand, he’s holding a plate tented with foil; a bottle of champagne dangles from the other.
He offers me the plate. “Here. Courtesy of my mom. I know the dining hall’s closed today and friends don’t let friends microwave lasagna for New Year’s dinner. ”
“Lasagna? Sacrilegious.” The porcelain bottom’s still warm against my palms as I accept it.
“I’m not a heathen, I was planning on the frozen Alfredo.
” Lies. I was planning on smashing the rest of my Nature Valley bars, crumbs and all.
Alfredo sounds more dignified. I nod toward the bottle. “Did you swipe that from your parents?”
“Actually”—he slips his shoes off and sprawls on my bed—“bought it with my own over-twenty-one ID. It has bubbles and everything.”
“That is so unbearably sexy of you,” I deadpan as I slide into my desk chair and set the plate down.
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
“You’re wearing glasses and a cable knit sweater, talking about being a law-abiding citizen. Women everywhere are drenched.”
“Fuck off.” He ducks his chin as a nervous chuckle pops in his chest and the most beautiful, delicate shade of strawberry scales his ears like the pink honeysuckle vining the fence outside the campus library.
He thinks I’m teasing him, and yes, I am, but not like that.
It’s embarrassing the things that happen between my legs when he adjusts his glasses—when he carefully folds them after taking them off whenever we start kissing.
When I can’t help but notice the way his clothing hugs his tight body.
He looks like he came from a nice dinner—navy chinos, and I spy the points of a white shirt through the collar of the cornflower blue sweater.
His hair’s tousled in an intentional way, unlike his usual fresh-out-of-bed look, and his scuffed white sneakers are replaced by a clean pair of chestnut loafers. He is so deliciously everything I want.
And I look like I’ve been couch surfing in a sewer.
“If I’d known you were coming over, I would’ve showered at least. Changed clothes. Trimmed my nose hairs.” The foil crinkles as I unwrap the plate.
“No, no. I like those long. It suits you.”
I ball the foil and chuck it at his head.
Laughing, he swats it back. But I’m too entranced by the plate to defend.
I could drown in the savory, buttery aromas, the fresh snap of rosemary and garlic.
Taking up most of the plate is a generous cut of prime rib with a rosy center and peppery crust that makes my mouth water.
Verdant green, thick-stemmed asparagus is topped with finely-shredded parmesan, a lemon wedge to the side, and a whipped, creamy mound of mashed potatoes that looks too good to be instant.
“Your mom cooked this? After you flew home last night?” I pick up the silverware he so thoughtfully included on the rim of the plate.
Charlie snorts. “Yeah, she’s intense like that. You’ll see one day, if you ever meet her.”
Intense is an understatement, from what I know about Katherine Rosenhoth. A thriving floral shop. A family ski trip. A Martha Stewart meal when most people would be sleeping off travel exhaustion. How functional—I catch the dry joke in my throat, chasing it with a delicious bite of potatoes.
As I eat, Charlie tells me all about Vail, and how he’s not sold on his brother’s new girlfriend, and how his mom scheduled him double the amount of shifts running deliveries across town for her shop over the break.
But when I cover the leftovers halfway through the plate and swallow my last bite, he asks how my trip back home went.
“It was fine. Pretty boring.” I’m an expert at dodging these sorts of questions—all it takes is some sleight of hand.
A small dose of the truth, a little redirection.
“You know, everyone back there still calls me Winnie.” I scoot onto my bed and sit facing him with my legs crossed, one knee resting on his thigh.
“When I moved here, I thought Winona sounded more mature. More adult.”
It felt like a fresh start.
“Winona’s sexy.” Charlie studies my face, like he’s reconciling me with the names, and hums in thought. I fight a blush. “But Winnie’s cute. I like Winnie.” He flashes a dorky grin, like the double entendre isn’t obvious enough on its own.
I like Winnie. It sends something reeling in my chest.
Hearing it roll off his tongue in the gentle, low timbre of his voice is the first time I like being Winnie. Because he likes Winnie. And if someone as kind, and smart, and funny as Charlie likes Winnie, then surely she isn’t all that bad.
He grabs the bottle of champagne from my end table and wraps his hand around the mouth. The cork releases with a POP! My stomach tumbles. I’ve done a good job of forgetting Christmas, forgetting the wine stain on my mother’s collar, until now. He tips the bottle toward me.
“Happy New Year”—his smile slants—“Winnie.”
My brows pitch as a tender laugh slips out, fizzy bubbles spreading through my limbs. And I clutch the neck of the glass because my mother only drinks on bad days, and with Charlie there is no such thing as bad days. And because I am not my mother.
“Don’t tell the Champagne region of France all I have is coffee mugs to drink out of,” I say.
“As long as you don’t tell them this is the cheap shit from California.” His gaze flicks down to the bottle. “I’m good like this if you are.”
In answer, I tip my chin and take a sip, then pass it back. “Thanks,” I say softly as he drinks. I don’t specify for what, because I mean for it to encompass everything: for dinner, for splitting a bottle of cheap champagne with me, for thinking of me at all.
We haven’t seen each other in almost two weeks.
Even longer since we’ve hooked up, since I was on my period the last time and all we did was cuddle.
Sitting so close like this on my bed, I don’t know why he hasn’t kissed me yet.
An antsy, eager energy buzzes through me. I’m in the mood for some fun.
“Let’s play Truth or Dare.” I waggle my brows as I grin. “If you bail on the round, you drink, and the asker gets to go again. You first.”
“Okay,” he says, stretching the vowels like he’s not sold, as he eyes me with skeptical amusement. “Guess I pick Dare.”
“I dare you to take your shirt off,” I say immediately.
“You’re such a perv.” Charlie rolls his eyes in good humor, pulling the sweater over his head. His scent, baked into the fabric, envelops me as he tosses it in my lap. He pops the first button of his collared shirt, then the second. He gets all the way to fourth before prodding, “Win?”
A flush rises on the back of my neck. “Oh. Uh. Truth.”
“What would you do if you knew you wouldn’t fail?” He shrugs out of the shirt and tosses that at me too. I slip it on.
My gaze falls to his chest as I hum, thinking. “I’d be a professional ballerina.”
He lifts a brow. “I think you have a decent shot at that?”
I shake my head. “Even people who’ve spent their whole lives training don’t always have a decent shot at making it. I didn’t start young enough. I never even trained en pointe.”
We couldn’t afford the classes on their own, not to mention a new pair of shoes every six weeks. I was fortunate the studio director let me exchange labor for lessons at all.