15. The Taste of Almost
The Taste of Almost
Amelie
Hey, I thought I was supposed to forget my friends once I became famous, not the other way around.
I study the unanswered message, the timestamp from this morning, then the previous green bubbles I haven’t responded to. I can’t bring myself to. Not when there’s nothing I can tell her. I can’t tell her about Ma when she hasn’t even opened up to Logan, I certainly can’t tell her about Charlotte.
And I don’t like lying to Amelie.
I slip the phone in my pocket and step up to the porch, exhaustion settling deep in my bones as I fit the key into the lock and open the door.
The house is dark except for the glow of the TV, flickering in the living room like a heartbeat.
It’s later than I wanted it to be, but I made sure my mom was settled at home and waited for Darren to be back.
I made her tell him. I agreed I won’t tell Logan for the time being—she says he should enjoy the happiness of being a new parent, though we both know that’s bullshit—but Darren needed to know. Someone needs to help her, to keep an eye on her.
When I left them, he was still crying.
I shrug off my jacket and step toward the living room.
And then I stop.
The place is a wreck.
The coffee table is covered in nail polish bottles, cotton balls, cucumber slices, and what looks like a billion different lotions.
There are empty chip bags, a bowl of popcorn tipped onto the floor, and half-eaten candy scattered like someone got distracted mid–sugar rush.
The remnants of pancakes and their fixings sit abandoned on the dining table, next to an open bag of marshmallows.
And in the middle of all the chaos sit Sadie and Charlotte, fast asleep on the couch—Charlotte with her head tilted back, Sadie curled into her side, and the smug gray-and-brown cat stretched across both their laps like she owns the place.
They’re both wearing robes, sleeves comically long on Sadie’s tiny frame.
Towels are wrapped around their heads, slipping slightly from sleep, and their faces look shiny, like they went to town with whatever lotions are spread out on the table.
Sadie’s head is pressed against Charlotte’s shoulder, her little fingers still curled around Charlotte’s hand.
I stand there, frozen in the doorway, watching the steady rise and fall of their breaths.
Sadie looks peaceful. Content.
And Charlotte . . .
She’s holding my daughter’s hand, even in sleep. She must have let her paint her nails, because there’s no way Charlotte willingly chose that neon purple polish. And she’s here, in my home, like she belongs.
My gaze flickers to the coffee table, to her laptop, still open, the screen dim but not dark. I glance at Charlotte before my curiosity gets the better of me, then I tilt my head, just enough to see what’s on the screen.
A job announcement.
It’s an entry-level position at a local fashion designer. Office assistant. Is she considering an alternative to modeling? Could she be thinking of pursuing her art?
I really hope so. That the conversation we had after the concert struck a chord.
I crouch in front of her and gently tuck some hair behind her ear.
Beatrice has been gone all weekend, but she might be back by now, and it’s already so late. I can’t risk getting Charlotte in even more trouble. I have to wake her up.
“Charlotte?” I say, shaking her shoulder. She shifts slightly, her hand tightening around Sadie’s like she’s holding on. “Charlotte,” I try again.
She opens her eyes with a little gasp, then blinks quickly as she looks left and right. Once her gaze settles on me, she squints. “Aaron?” She turns to Sadie. “Oh. We must have fallen asleep during our movie marathon.”
“Looks like it.” I nod toward the door. “Is your mom back? Should I drive you home?”
“She’s back.” She straightens, her fingers brushing over the hem of the robe. “I...I told her I was sleeping at Bonnie’s.”
Oh.
She lied to stay over at my place, so that line I’ve been trying not to cross? It’s behind us now. A wave of unease washes over me, and I don’t know if it’s because of the implications or because, deep down, I don’t want her to leave.
She swallows, clearly catching on to the tension, then looks down at Sadie’s head on her arm, like none of it matters as long as she’s happy. As long as my daughter had a good night.
“Thank you for this,” I say softly.
Her voice is just as quiet. “How’s your mom?”
“She’s, uh...” I give Sadie a cuddle. “My stepdad’s home now, so she’s being taken care of.”
“Oh, good.” She carefully untangles her arm from Sadie, and a tiny, unconscious protest escapes her lips as Charlotte slips free.
I roll the stiffness from my shoulders, the exhaustion of the night settling into my bones. The hospital was a shitshow—overcrowded, understaffed, so chaotic that it drained me even though I wasn’t the one in the hospital bed. And the same thought keeps haunting my mind like a wicked lullaby.
Mom has Parkinson’s disease. Mom has Parkinson’s disease. Mom has Parkinson’s disease.
It doesn’t feel real.
“You okay, Chef?”
“Huh? I’m...” I burrow my face into the palm of my hand, then look at her through the gaps in between my fingers. “Thank you for this, seriously. I had no idea it’d take this long.”
Charlotte glances down at me. “That’s okay. We had a very successful self-care day.” She scratches the back of Mollie’s ears. “And I met your cat. You didn’t tell me you had one—she’s so sweet.”
Sweet ? Mollie? Did we switch cats while I was out?
The demon beast opens one eye, watching me with cold indifference.
“Yeah, she’s the best.”
“Sadie mentioned . . . she said you had other plans today.”
Oh. Of course, she must have told her about Josie. “Yeah. Not a great day for her. Not until she called you, at least.”
“Not a great day for you either from the sound of it.”
I shake my head, looking in the distance until her fingers lace with mine.
I shouldn’t say anything—this is my mom’s secret to tell, and Logan shouldn’t find out after Charlotte, someone who’s almost a stranger. But I also can’t keep it inside for one more second, so I say, “My mom...she’s been diagnosed with Parkinson’s.”
Her jaw drops, then silence, her parted lips pressing together as whatever she was going to say dissolves into nothing.
“I’m . . . I’m so sorry, Aaron.” Her thumb rubs the back of my hand. “Was it . . . tonight?”
“A year ago, apparently.” The words push against my ribs like they’re too big for my chest. “But I only found out tonight. That’s why she fell,” I explain.
“Because her muscles aren’t responding the way they should anymore.
Because her balance is shot, and she’s weaker than she lets on.
And from now on, it’ll only get worse. At some point, she won’t be able to walk. She’ll struggle to eat. She’ll...”
My voice breaks, and she squeezes just enough to remind me I’m not alone.
“I got so mad at her.”
“Because she kept it a secret?”
“Not just from me,” I say with a click of my tongue. “From my stepdad. My brother. She didn’t tell a single person.”
Her fingers sweep over my knuckles. “That’s dangerous.”
“And irresponsible.”
“And . . . understandable, maybe?”
My eyes snap to hers, and the muted green has an immediate calming effect on the raging storm in my mind.
“She probably didn’t want her family to think of her as a sick woman. Needed time to come to terms with it herself before letting the rest of the world in.”
I tip my head back. “That’s exactly what she said.”
“I get it. Don’t you?”
Yeah. I do fucking get it. I just wish I didn’t react the way I did.
“I should have gotten it before I shouted at her while she was lying in a hospital bed.”
“Aaron,” she gently scolds. “You’re the one she called when she needed help. She told you . I’m pretty sure a love like that can survive a bad fight.”
The tension in my chest loosens, just enough to let me breathe, as I look up at her. “You’re sensitive.”
She blinks. “Excuse me?”
“You keep surprising me with something new every day. How smart you are, how mature despite your age. How passionate, how impulsive. It’s your sensitivity today. Your emotional intelligence.”
She toys with the robe’s belt. “Yeah? I’m not just a pretty girl?”
“You’re beautiful, not pretty.” My gaze drifts to her lips, and the ache of wanting to taste them nearly stops my heart. “And no, you’re not.”
Her smile grows, as though she’s savoring the moment. Her eyes lock with mine, head tilting just a little. “You’ve got a big ol’ crush on me, Chef.”
“Yeah, no kidding.”
I don’t know how it happened—if I’m just that lonely or that stupid—but I do have a crush on her. A big, consuming thing that catches in my chest every time she’s near. The kind of crush that could turn into something more, something deeper. If only everything about it—about us —was different.
Infusing my voice with a lightness I don’t really feel, I ask, “Are you going to break my heart, Cherry?”
She leans forward with a suggestive expression. “Definitely.”
A grin tugs at my lips, my eyes dropping to her mouth for a beat before I meet her gaze again. “Looking forward to it.”
Her thumb is still tracing the top of my hand, featherlight but devastating, and I swear I can feel it everywhere.
This is the moment. This is the second where I either let this slip away, or give in to the fire that’s been burning between us since the beginning.
From my crouch, I lean forward slightly and land on my knees, her legs parting slightly to make space for me. Letting me in. I lift my free hand, brushing my knuckles down the slope of her cheek. She leans into it, just slightly, her lashes lowering. The room feels too small. The air too thick.
Her hand moves from the top of mine, tracing the inside of my wrist, dragging up my forearm as she reaches down, nails just barely scratching. It’s nothing, really. Just the softest touch. But then she shifts closer, sitting on the edge of the couch, knees brushing my chest.
I know what I should do. I should thank her for today, tell her to take my bed while I crash on the couch, make this less than what it is.
But why should I be the one doing the right thing?
I throw a glance at Sadie’s sleeping form.
Josie should be here, but she’s not. My mom should be healthy, or at the very least, honest. My brother should talk to me instead of pretending things are fine between us.
No one does what they should. No one acts their age.
Nothing’s going the way it’s supposed to.
And I really need to talk to the one person who’s been a constant in my life over the last year, but I can’t tell Amelie any of this.
So why should I be better? Why should I be the one keeping it together when all I want is to fall apart?
The thought burns through me, hollowing out my insides like a slow-spreading flame. Tonight, I don’t want to be strong. Wise. The kind of person who takes the high road, makes the responsible choices. Someone his daughter should look up to.
Tonight, I just want Charlotte.
I lift my hand from where it rests on my thigh, hovering just above hers. I hesitate briefly, but then my fingers find the edge of her robe. The terrycloth bunches under my touch as I toy with the fabric, lightly pulling it to the side.
Charlotte doesn’t stop me.
She doesn’t shift away or clear her throat or make some joke to ease the tension.
She just watches as I trail my fingers along the seam of the robe, feeling the fine hairs on her skin rise under my touch.
I don’t know what I’m doing. Or maybe I do. Maybe I’ve known for a while now, and this was inevitable.
Her breath hitches, barely audible, but I hear it over the low hum of the TV. Like a spark catching on dry kindling, ready to set everything ablaze.
Her hand travels up to meet mine. She reaches down, cups my fingers with hers, and guides them up her leg, her skin warm and smooth beneath my palm. When she drags my hand to the curve of her outer thigh, I squeeze instinctively, my fingers sinking into her flesh.
A sharp inhale. Hers or mine—I’m not sure.
When she leans down, bridging the gap between us, every part of me tightens in anticipation.
“I won’t take advantage of this. Of you.”
What?
She traces the back of her fingers along my neck, holding my gaze again. “You’re safe to have a bad day around me, Chef.”
Disappointment settles in my stomach. I thought...I thought this was happening. I thought I could finally stop pretending that I don’t need her, that I don’t want to drown in her. That I have the strength to resist her.
I’m ready to accept that I’m too weak. I want the escape she promises.
But her fingers slip into my hair and twist gently, grounding me before I can spiral further.
I stay there for a moment, forehead nearly dropping to her lap, breathing her in. Trying to commit this feeling to memory. Then, finally, I let my hand slip from her thigh, push myself up, and move to sit next to Sadie.
She rolls onto her side, her legs stretching out over mine and her head settling on Charlotte’s lap.
After settling a blanket over the two of them, I meet Charlotte’s gaze.
Neither of us speaks. Tonight was hell on earth, but with Sadie tucked between us and Charlotte’s warmth just within reach, something eases inside me.
She watches me for a while in the near dark of my living room, her lips curving in a small, knowing grin. The corners of my mouth lift before I can stop them.
And I can’t help but picture a version of my life where I fall asleep to her smile every night.