She’s me.
That is, she’s a taller, prettier, more collected, better-groomed version of me. Suddenly, standing here, I feel invisible eyes sizing me up through a half-lidded gaze. Comparing me. Settling for me. I imagine Flint in this room right now, glancing between the two of us, deciding I look enough like her to be worth a couple good fucks.
And then it dawns on me, right before she says it.
“Flint designed this place for me.”
I plaster a fake grin on my face. “Well now, isn’t that just—”
“As an engagement present.”
As a whatthefuck?
Ground control, we have lost transmission.
There are no words for the five finger death punch that has completely knocked the wind out of me. I can’t move. I can’t think. I can’t breathe.
“I can’t believe it’s finished!” Charlotte goes on, shaking her head. “It’s…it’s beautiful. It’s just perfect.” She’s in awe. Meanwhile, I’m trying not to hurl over here.
“Oh my gosh!” Charlotte heads toward the fireplace, crouches down, and gasps. “Just look at that,” she says. I might as well not even be here right now. She reaches out and touches the little carved sunflower. “The matching pair,” she says, sounding amazed. She looks at the other one across the room. “I can’t believe he remembered.” She smiles, disbelieving. “That’d be just like him. Flint never forgets.” It’s like she’s speaking only to herself, and her voice is soft with regret. I think her eyes are actually filling with tears.
So are mine.
I’m such a fucking idiot.
Flint designed this house for Charlotte. As an engagement present. A symbol of their all-enduring love and their glorious future together. He built it for her, finished it for her, even carved their sunflower thingie, whatever it is, as a reminder. Of Charlotte.
And now she’s followed his call home.
Flint didn’t want to build this house originally. I talked him into it, for all intents and purposes basically forced him into it. He didn’t want to build it because it was too personal. Because it meant too much. Because it hurt too much.
He didn’t want to build a house for the future he’d lost, the love he’d lost, the woman he’d lost—the woman he was still obviously in love with.
“Is Flint going to be here today?” Charlotte asks, breathless as she stands up. She’s really crying now, wiping delicately at her smudged mascara with a Kleenex. It’s touching, really. I am touched. “I need to see him. We have to talk about this.”
She’s full of pain and regret and hope. I’ve never seen anyone look so overwhelmed. So in love.
I mumble an excuse, find and grab my camera, and leave. Driving back, I almost ram the car right off the road. My chest feels so tight I can hardly take a breath. Charlotte needs to see Flint today. She’s full of sadness, full of longing. And what will he do, when he sees the woman he’s pined for, standing in the house he built as a tribute to their love?
I pull up to Flint’s place and stagger out of the car, going fast up the steps. My head’s buzzing, my throat’s dry and feels swollen. Okay, no tears. No crying. There’s no crying in baseball, or reality television. Unless the script tells you to cry, dammit.
When I open the door, Flint’s standing there with a cup of coffee in his hand. He smiles. “Heard you pull up. You must’ve left at the crack of dawn.” He leans down for a kiss, but I dodge out of his way and head upstairs. Tears are burning in my eyes. I hear him coming up after me. “Laurel. What’s wrong?”
Inside the bedroom, I grab my bags and turn for the door. Thank God I packed before I jumped in the car. Flint blocks my exit from the bedroom, looking increasingly bewildered. “Why are you leaving like this? Talk to me. What the hell did I do?”
“Nothing. I’ve got meetings all this morning and early afternoon. I’m leaving in a few hours anyway,” I lie. I was supposed to fly out in a couple days, thought I’d spend a little more time with Flint, but I’ll get the airline to change my flight, or go on standby at the airport if they can’t. “So I need to get back to the inn. Look over some last minute tapes, check in with a few people. Then I head home.” I nod, trying to keep a neutral expression on my face. “Like I planned. This isn’t news.”
“I understand that, but you don’t have to rush out of here like this,” he says, still confused. He moves aside as I storm through the door and down the stairs.
“I think I do, actually. I don’t want us to get the wrong idea about where this is all headed.” I look up at Flint, who’s stopped dead on the stairs. His face is impossible to read from this angle; I can’t tell what he’s feeling. “We’re adults, remember?”