Charlotte takes my hand again. “Emma and I need to go Christmas shopping anyway. Was hoping you could drive, since my car’s D.O.A., but I understand how Forester could be a problem.”
“Any word from Emanuel about your car?” Shit. I don’t want my damn issues leaving her stranded.
“Yeah,” she sighs. “That was him calling me. He can give me five hundred for the body scrap, but he said it’d take at least three grand and a miracle to get her running again. The car’s only worth four grand to begin with. So, I told him to put her outta her misery.”
“You could take my car,” Brandon offers.
I tense because Brandon just overstepped. That never would have bothered me before, because I know Brandon only offers out of genuine kindness and his innate need to control situations. Today, with my own control issues on edge, it pisses me the fuck off. He tosses me a look, realizes his mistake and actually takes a step back.
Charlotte’s not looking at my face, thank God, because I’m sure it’s not pleasant with the way Brandon is blinking at me. She’s glancing over her shoulder and saving me from myself. “Thanks, but there aint no way I’m getting behind the wheel of your pretty Mercedes.”
“I’ll ask Austin!” Emma giggles at her own solution before zipping out the door in a bouncing flurry of curled ringlets.
“You could take my car,” I say after cooling down a notch. “Or I can arrange for a rental.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Charlotte pecks a kiss on me cheek. “But I think Austin could probably use some time away from The Stables. I’ll just have him drop me off back home while we’re in Dallas. It’ll probably be an all-day affair. Emma doesn’t take crowds all that well, so we’re gonna go to independent stores instead of the mall. Maybe you could come by later?”
“I’ll try,” and I know I will, but I don’t think I’ll succeed.
Charlotte
“Chaaaaarlieeeee!” Emma’s voice calls from across the department store, drawing my attention along with everyone else’s. I glance up from the jewelry counter and try not to laugh, but it’s hard with Emma’s curls bouncing as she dashes through the store and Austin trying to keep up with her. He looks a little winded and Emma looks like one of the elves who has escaped from the ‘Santa’s Workshop’ display at the front of the store.
She has on a red dress, red shoes, red jacket and candy-cane stockings. The jacket and skirt even has white trim, and it’s as adorable as she is. When she came downstairs with it on at The Stables, I asked her where her Santa hat was and Brandon tried to steal her back upstairs. She didn’t end up having a Santa hat, but she does have earmuffs that look like snowmen.
Between me and Austin, who are dressed casually in jeans and t-shirts, Emma looks like our little kid sister, and I don’t think either of us minds that one bit. Austin is another person Emma has clicked with, and our little trio has spent the last four hours wearing out store clerks along with our credit cards. Speaking of, the lovely blonde behind the counter hands over my latest charge.
Emma’s eyes are wide as she grins at the little jewelry bag. “They’re done already?”
I nod with a small blush, tempted to peek into the bag to stare at the engravings again. “How’d you make out?”
Emma holds up a larger bag with green sparkly tissue paper puffed out the top. “Done!” She leans in and lowers her voice. “I think Austin needs a nap,” her eyes glance over my shoulder, “and I need new panties!”
The blonde clerk behind the counter snickers as Emma dashes off to the lingerie department, then the blonde eyes Austin head to toe and I swear she’s mentally undressing him. Not that I blame her for the laugh or for checking out my friend. Austin looks like he just stepped out of this year’s Mesquite Rodeo pinup calendar. He’s even got on his grey Stetson and a Texas size belt buckle.
He’s also completely oblivious to the blonde checking him out as he casts his grey-eyed gaze my way. “I don’t know where that girl gets her energy, but she’s runnin’ circles ‘round me like a foal let out of the barn for the first time.”
“Sorry about that.” I head us over to a seating area near the front. I know Emma will make her way there when she’s ready. “I know she can be a handful.”
“Aint no problem, Charlie girl,” he shrugs with a gentle smile as we sit. “I love havin’ her ‘round the house. That place was too quiet before she showed up. Now it’s full of life and laughter. Feels more like home now than it ever did before.”
He stretches out his legs, crossing his ankles. “Shoot, just the improvement in Brandon’s mood is worth a pair of sore feet, though I kina wish I’d worn sneakers.”
I have to laugh at that. “Do you even own sneakers?”
His light chuckle joins mine. “No, ma’am. Saul tried to get me to buy a pair once. Boy made me try on like… twenty pairs till he finally gave up. They just don’t feel right. Nothin’ beats a pair of old, worn-in leather boots.”
With a heavy sigh, he takes off his hat and runs a hand through his shortly cut, thick black hair. “Thanks for lettin’ me tag along today. A few hours to forget what I keep messin’ up… Well, it’s appreciated.”
I slip my hand against the inside of his bare forearm, covering the faded blue tattoo ink that reads ‘Los Lost Boys’ in bold script. I know it’s prison ink, but I don’t know why he was in prison. Like the story with Saul’s mom, I’m guessing it’s none of my business. Austin is younger, just twenty three, but his eyes carry the weight of a man who was forced to grow up way too fast.
My empathy pushes me to try and ease that burden, but I’m not sure how. “Sometimes, you just need to take a step back to see how to move forward.”
He cocks an eyebrow at me. “Wise words, Charlie girl.”
“My momma’s words,” I smile. “She’s a wise woman who raised a tornado and a girl she can’t hug.”
“Emma and your mom never… you know…?”
“Clicked?” I give him the word I use. “No, but my momma’s never held it against her. She just appreciates Emma’s... special nature.”
“So,” his lips spread into a grin, “that makes you the tornado? Well, shit, no wonder Ian’s been lookin’ all flustered. You blew right into his world and jumbled it all up.”
“Or maybe he’s tamed the tornado a bit,” I muse.
“You two fit together real nice. I hope it works out. I really do,” he bites his lower lip and I can see the emotions welling up in his eyes.
I squeeze his forearm. I won’t pretend to know what he’s going through or compare it to Ian and I. I get the feeling that me and Ian’s complications are just a rocky road while the mess between Austin, Saul and Victoria is more like a damn Everest hike, full of places waiting to let you fall off the mountain to your death. Seems they’re all treading so carefully around one another in a strange dance that can’t seem to find its rhythm. Even Victoria’s not being straight forward, and that scares me.
“Panties!” Emma’s voice breaks in before I can come up with anything encouraging to offer Austin. She’s holding up a new red bag with silver tissue paper and Austin’s expression switches back to a grin.
“Well, we best get you back to Brandon then,” he winks, “so you can show him all your purchases.”
By the time Austin drops me off at my apartment, I’m completely tuckered out. Tromping up the stairs to the third floor takes away my remaining energy, and all I want is my bed. I’m already making plans for tomorrow, though – which includes a whole lotta nothin’ and a whole lotta Ian.
Ian…
After dumping my purchases onto my lime green couch, I pull out my phone to check my messages. Not a single thing from Ian, and I’d be lying if I said that didn’t hurt just a little. It’s nearly six in the afternoon and I haven’t seen him since he left Brandon’s place just after eleven. Seven hours apart and I’m missing him something fierce.
It’s kinda worrisome and pleasant at the same time to realize how attached and clingy my heart and b
ody have become to the man. It’s not like me. Usually, I part ways with the boy the next morning or within a week with no shed tears and no looking back. Now, I’m depressed because my boyfriend hasn’t messaged me.
I guess maybe that’s love? I’ve never felt like this. Not exactly. Not with…
The sniffle escapes before I can swallow it back down. Dammit. Why’d I have to go and think about that?
Because tomorrow is the day, Charlotte. The day you promised never to forget, yet here you are, lost in love with Ian and forgetting your promise. Forgetting Neil.
The tears start and I guess today isn’t going to be a victory after all.
Curling into the corner of my couch, my message-lacking phone clutched tight, I let myself have a pity-party. I wish Ian was here. I think he could help chase these feelings away and help me forget promises I never should’ve made. Promises that keep pinning my heart to my past, resealing the cocoon and ripping my wings to shreds.
I just wish Ian was here.
I wake up confused by the bleak morning light filtering through the sheer curtains covering the sliding glass door. Unfolding my sore, crumpled body from the couch, I’m feeling exhausted and restless at the same time. Blinking the sleep away, I stretch with a yawn then begin the hunt for my phone so I can call Ian up and tear him a new one for not even bothering to call me last night.
Clingy or not, I no longer give a shit. I told the man I’m in love with him and he thinks it’s okay to not even send me a text message? I knew something wasn’t completely right with him before he left, but I let it go to give him some space.
I find my phone wedged between the seat cushions, its notification light blinking rapidly. Sliding it on, I notice the sound is on silent sleep-mode with it being just a quarter after seven. There’s a voicemail from the University’s automated system reminding me of my end-of-semester meeting with the Dean’s office tomorrow. Lord, I hope they finally give me tenure or let me keep Pamela’s classes, especially now that I need to get a new car.
There are also six missed calls and eighteen text messages from Ian.
Well, shit.
I scroll rapidly through the messages. He had to go to Fort Worth for Brandon. Did I have fun with Emma? Was I back safe? Did I get a rental car yet? Was I okay? Why wasn’t I answering? Was I mad at him?
And the messages went downhill from there. The last messages contained an apology for all the messages, followed by an apology for apologizing then a final message that was separate from all the others.
‘I miss you, Charlotte.’
That one had come through at four this morning. Cursing the phone-app that had saved me many rude awakenings from early-morning telemarketers, I switch it off then dial Ian’s number. It rings and goes to voicemail. I don’t bother leaving a message and instead try calling again.
Jumping off the couch, I pace the length of it, chewing on a fingernail. Kitkat, my overweight brown cat, gives me a disgruntled look from the bed she’s made right in the middle of all the shopping bags. I get Ian’s voicemail again, this time taking a long inhale to calm my nerves before leaving a message.
“Hey, sweetie. Sorry I didn’t get your messages. Emma wore me an’ Austin out. I crashed soon as I got home… No plans today, so… Call me or… If you want to do something. I… I miss y…” the beep from his service cuts me off. “Fuck.”
I flop back down on the couch, debating on if I should call and leave another message. Just how lame do I want to be? I know it’s more than that. I’m desperate not to be alone today. I need Ian’s arms around me to help tempter the pain that’s already started hammering through my head in an involuntary reaction to the date on my phone.
I hate this. I hate how much it still cripples me. I hate that it’s seven a.m. and I’m already sobbing with my head between my knees. I hate how alone it makes me feel, and I hate it even more because I know why it’s so bad this year.
After six years, I’d finally let my heart back open. I’m in love with Ian Rider, and I’m so afraid of it happening all over again. I’m afraid he’ll ask me to make promises I can’t keep. I’m afraid he’ll take this love and leave me. I’m afraid I won’t be able to fix what gets broken inside me this time.
I’m just… afraid.
I must’ve cried myself back to sleep, because it’s two in the afternoon the next time I open my eyes. Kitkat has her butt in my face with a reminder that I haven’t fed her since Friday. Sure, she’s got dry food out, but it’s not what she wants. Spoiled brat.
Deciding I’m done being some flimsy wet-blanket, I push myself off the couch to make her and me some dinner. After staring blankly at my sad fridge and empty cupboards, I fix Kitkat her wet food then opened a can of tuna for me. A second hunt rewards me with some Ritz crackers. Score!
After fighting Kitkat away from my tuna, I sink back into the couch corner and debate trying to call Ian. My heart says I should stop being stupidly stubborn and call him. My pride says I’d already called and left a voicemail, so the ball is in his court. The rest of me is just trying to get through the rest of today without thinking about Neil again.
Dammit.
I pop a cracker into my mouth only to find out it’s stale. Fucking perfect. Today has been just perfect.
Ian
So far, Monday is turning out to be just as shitty as Sunday. I woke up late this morning with a medication hangover then had to rush out to meet with Vincent and his contact. The news on Forester wasn’t good. Now, I’m sitting in the damn waiting room at my therapist’s office and I’m having to take sharp breaths to keep from ripping apart the two-year-old issue of National Geographic in my hands.
I have no problem attending my appointments with Michelle or the emersion therapy she puts me through, but sitting in this waiting room is what I sometimes imagine Hell to be like. People coming and going while avoiding eye-contact. Others sitting, staring and looking lost. Idle flips through outdated magazines, leg position switching and staccato coughing. Smartphone thumbing with covert side glances of assessment and observatory diagnosis as to why you’re here for therapy. I’m sure Hell has at least one circle like this.
It’s even worse today since it’s so close to Christmas and everyone is trying to cram in last minute mental evaluations, confessions of their fuck-ups and requests for prescription refills. The office will be closed until after New Year’s. I jokingly told Michelle that was why the suicide rate was so much higher over the holidays – all the doctors are away vacationing in the Bahamas. She laughed, but then she upped my dosage of Lorazepam.
I guess clinical humor has its limits. Not that I blame her. It’s all in the file – including my attempted suicide back in college. I’m still not sure I would have jumped, even if Victoria hadn’t been there. I’m glad I didn’t, and I would never consider it again. Now I have friends that I know will always have my back. Now I have Charlotte.
Well, I hope I still have Charlotte. I went from making love to her on Saturday morning to frantically bombarding her with messages Saturday night into Sunday before I could pry the phone away from my twitching fingers. She did leave me a voicemail, which I didn’t get until my medicated coma released its grip at seven this morning. My lucid, unstable state of mind didn’t let me send a reply.
I had to medicate myself. I was so afraid I’d go over to her place, completely lose my shit and then lose her for good. I need to get this obsession for her under control first so that I can love Charlotte the way she deserves.
“Ian?” Michelle’s soft but cheery voice calls me from the doorway. “Come on back.”
Back to where? I often ponder that question as I let Michelle lead me down the bland, mustard-colored corridor to her office. I wish I knew the answer – how to get back from what I’ve become. I thought Charlotte might be the key, but now with the way I’ve tipped over the edge the other way, I think I’m too far gone to ever get back.
“So,” she begins as we sit across from each other in matching chairs. r />
Her office is non-clinical, aside from her various degrees she has hung on the wall. There’s a small desk in the corner, but the room is dominated by a comfortable couch, a rug and a few matching chairs. It looks like a living room and I’m sure I’m not the only patient who appreciates that little bit of normalcy.
I think that’s why she always asks me to call her Michelle instead of Dr. Veselovsky. She told me that she stopped asking patients to use her last name when she was treating a man who stutters, but I think the real reason is the same as the living room set up. You feel more at ease telling your secrets to a friend than to someone in a white coat who looks at you like a test result.
“How are you?” she asks the first question she always does.
I swallow and take a moment to formulate an answer. Her eyes are examining every twitch, gesture and expression, but they’re also offering genuine interest. She actually cares about what I’m going to say, and I know she won’t judge me for it. She may change my meds around or suggest what I need to alter in my routine, but she has never once told me there’s something wrong with me.
With a deep inhale, I repay her kindness with honesty. “I’m fantastic, Michelle… A really fantastic mess.”
I proceed to tell her everything about the past week - updating her on Charlotte, what happened at the club and my joke about proposal that wasn’t a joke. She listens to every word, nodding and taking a few notes, never stopping me as I let it all out. It’s like a great release of pent up energy that deflates me into a weary mass of skin and bone that sinks down into the well-worn, overstuffed chair.
As I get to my breakthrough with being able to touch Charlotte without convulsing, I smile. The smile falters into a frown as I explain how I’m now obsessing over not being near her, and how I can’t seem to touch her enough. I’m so full of joy in Charlotte’s presence, it changes the entire way I interact with the world. I have more control over everything.