He sighed, but didn't remove his hand, "Well, that explains why you are looking at me like I've returned from the dead."
He moved taking his hand with him, but it was only to run his palm along my arm—raising a trail of goose bumps I might add—before grasping my hand and pulling me over to the steps leading to my apartment. He sat, bringing me down with him.
I tried to take my hand back, but he held it. "Let me start with your second question first. I've observed how much you Americans love your romantic movies. So," he squeezed my hand, "I spun a rather convincing tale of a love that was about to get away to a lovely young woman at your post store. She gave me your address."
At his words, a warm, languid feeling began swelling in my chest, but I remained silent. He wrapped my hand in both of his before continuing.
"As for why I'm here … I received your email, Charlotte. I even had a chance to peruse your blog."
I stiffened at that, yanking my hand back and wrapping my hands around my ribs. Was he here to reject me in person?
"Charlotte, look at me."
When I refused, he tipped my chin forcing me to look at him. "I didn't email you back, because I had every single device I owned stolen while I was in hospital. I got your email while watching my daughter walk across the stage to receive her diploma. I glanced across your blog while I waited for the end of the ceremony. My evening ended with me in Accident and Emergency as I said. While I was in hospital someone stole my phone. I didn't have my laptop with me and I use a password manager so I don't know any of them by heart to use other devices."
He sighed and rubbed his face.
"I wrote you a letter and sent it to the address on the business card you gave me. You didn't get it?"
I hadn't checked my post office box in weeks. I flushed and said, "I haven't checked it recently."
He laughed, a tired sound that made me frantic. I didn't like the way he seemed so worn out.
"Charlotte, did you really think something like that blog would put me off you?"
I shrugged and blushed a bit.
"Well," he gently pried my hands away and took them in his own. "I don't give a damn about your blog. And, I'm here now. So, what do you plan to do with me?"
I didn't respond immediately, letting the question lay between us. I had never considered what I would do if he accepted me without question. In many ways, thinking he'd rejected me had been so much easier, because it was expected. Acceptance was new and foreign and frightening.
The silence grew and I saw the light in his eyes fade. He drew breath to speak and I threw my arms around his neck, silencing him with a kiss. As his lips touched mine, I sank into the soapy scent of him and the warmth of his skin.
Henry deepened the kiss and a feeling I'd never experienced swelled through my body. It was not unlike when you've lost circulation to a limb and it "wakes up." That pins and needles feeling that overwhelms you and steals your breath, but in this instant was wholly pleasurable.
In a moment of panic, I worried that I would hurt him, that I would be unable to love him as he deserved. I pushed the thought away, I had no idea what the future held. Of only one thing was I certain, his happiness mattered more than my own.
It was enough.
* * *
Letter from Henry
Received three days after his return
My dearest Charlotte,
Do you remember what I told you during our first lunch together? I told you that I would not judge you. We haven't known each other long, but during that time I believe I've been given the privilege of seeing the woman underneath the snark designed to keep the world at a distance. A woman whom I've grown to have a tremendous regard for.
If I know you at all, you're doubting that sentence and questioning how that would even be possible. We've never gone on a date, we've never done anything other than have coffee, a few meals, and a whole lot of conversation. But, aren't the activities really just background settings for communication?
I've learned a lot about you during our talks and emails. I've learned that you hide your vulnerability behind disdain because you believe it makes you weak to let others see you can be hurt. I've learned that you treat honesty like a weapon rather than a gift and you feel protected when you hide yourself from others.
What you don't realize, Charlotte, is that you shine through no matter what you do. You don't know this, but that first day I met you at Kona, I was behind you in line. I heard you tell the cashier how pretty her glasses were. I saw how her face lit up. I saw that you didn't register the effect you had. It was an offhand gesture for you (I'm willing to bet you wore glasses at some point in your life), but you made her feel good.
I read your blog, my dear. My answer to you is … so what? Is this supposed to scare me away? You made mistakes. You've abused yourself terribly. You've been disappointed by those you trusted and cared about. Sadly, we all have to some degree.
What's more important to me is how you saved Hugo and I see the love you have for that dog even if you don't. It's in how your face changes when you mention his name. It's in how you rearranged your life to be there for him. I see that same look when you talk about your young friend G and Mrs. Hernandez. I flatter myself a bit in thinking you might have some regard for me, as well.
I’ve watched you break out of your shell, and I am honored to be a part of that journey. It will take much more than a checkered past to kick me out of your life.
You are stuck with me, my dear.
With love,
Henry
THE END
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Connect with A.J. Rico
A.J. Rico’s career has been spent in the mastery of being a jack of all trades. When not writing, A.J. is a professional student with a B.S in management, an M.B.A., and is pursuing an MFA in Creative Writing.
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[email protected] PSYCHO BITCH: A LOVE STORY
A.J. RICO
Copyright 2015 A.J. RICO
Edited by Janet Griffin
Cover Art by Joseph Brewster
Published by D.A.B. Press
License Notes
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, electrostatic, magnetic tape, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of D.A.B. Press: 2885 Sanford Ave SW, Suite 18634, Grandville, MI 49418
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
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