This, I think again, is what it is to dream.
And then, because I have to—because if anyone deserves honesty, it’s Charlie—I invite the truth forward to replace the story.
Me working twelve-hour days, trying to off-load my clients, then settle into a new job. Charlie exhausted from long days at the bookstore, weekends at physical therapy appointments with his dad, hours’ worth of googling how to fix leaky sinks and replace loose shingles.
Missed calls. Unanswered texts piling up. Hurt. Grief. Missing each other. Visits canceled for work or family emergencies. Both of us stretched too thin, our hearts spanning too many states, the tension unbearable.
My chest squeezes so tight it hurts. He told me someone needed to make sure I have what I need, but he deserves that too.
My heart races and my body feels like it’s on the verge of coming apart. “Charlie.”
There’s a long silence. His throat bobs as he swallows. His voice is a hoarse, growly whisper. “I know. But don’t say it yet.”
We don’t look at each other. If we look, we’ll know this game of make-believe is over, so we just hold on to each other.
His long-distance relationship was the worst year of his life. Mine almost broke me. He’s right that it’s different, that it’s us and we understand each other, but that’s why I can’t do it.
“A week ago,” I say, “I liked you so much I would have wanted to try to make this work.” I swallow a jagged, fist-sized lump, but still my voice has to scrape by to get out. “But now I think I might love you too much for that.”
I’m surprised to hear myself say it. Not because I was unaware of how I felt—but because I’ve never been the first person to say the L-word. Not even with Jakob. “You don’t have to say anything,” I hurry to add.
His jaw flexes against my temple. “Of course I love you, Nora. If I loved you any less, I’d be trying to convince you that you could be happy here. You have no idea how badly I wish I could be enough.”
“Charlie—” I begin.
“I’m not being self-deprecating,” he promises softly against my ear. “I just don’t think that’s how it works in real life.”
“If anyone could be enough,” I say, “I think it might be you.”
His arms squeeze around me, his voice dropping to a soft scratch. “I’m glad we had our moment. Even if it didn’t last as long as we wanted it to.”
The tears are so thick in my eyes that the dance floor dissolves into streaks of color and light.
“But,” I finally get out, my eyes scrunching shut, “it really was fucking perfect.”
“You’re going to be okay, Nora,” he whispers against my temple, his hands loosening. “You’re going to be better than okay.”
Just like I asked, there’s no goodbye. When the song ends, he presses one last kiss against the curve of my jaw. My eyes flutter closed.
When I open them, he’s gone.
But I still feel him everywhere.
I am Heathcliff.
* * *
As I escape toward the dark edge of the town square, I fire off a text to Libby and Brendan, telling them that I’ll meet them at home.
“You taking off?”
I not only yelp in surprise but throw my purse. It crashes into a planter.
“Didn’t mean to scare you.” Clint Lastra sits on a bench, his walker beside him, a few stray moths circling overhead.
I retrieve my purse, wiping at my eyes as discreetly as I can. “Early flight tomorrow.”
He nods. “I wouldn’t mind getting to bed either, but Sal won’t let me out of her sight.” He casts me a wry look. “It’s hard getting old. Everyone treats you like a kid again.”
“I would’ve given anything to see my mom get old.” It’s out before I realize it wasn’t just a note in my brain.
“You’re right,” Clint says. “I’m lucky. Still, can’t help but feel like I’m failing him.”
I feel my brows flick up. “Who? Charlie?”
The corner of his mouth flinches downward. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He shouldn’t be here.”
I balk, torn for a moment about how much, if anything, to say. I’ve barely spoken to Clint in the weeks I’ve been here.
“Maybe not,” I say tightly. “But it means a lot to him, to get to be here for you. It’s important to him.”
Clint gazes wistfully toward the crowd on the dance floor, where Charlie and I stood together moments ago. “He won’t be happy.”
I’m not sure it’s that simple. It’s not like I wouldn’t be happy if I were here with Libby. It’s more that it would feel like I was borrowing someone’s jeans. Or like I was taking a break from my own life, like this was a period of time when I’d sidestepped out of my own path for a while.
I’ve done that before, and I’ve never had regrets, exactly. There’ve always been things to be grateful for.
That’s life. You’re always making decisions, taking paths that lead you away from the rest before you can see where they end. Maybe that’s why we as a species love stories so much. All those chances for do-overs, opportunities to live the lives we’ll never have. “He wants to be here for you and Sally,” I say. “He’s working so hard to be what he thinks you need.”
Confirmed Sweet Guy Clint Lastra wipes at his cheek. His hands shake a little when they rest against his leg.
“He’s always been special,” Clint says. “Like his mom. But sometimes . . . well, I think Sally’s always enjoyed standing out a bit.”
His mouth twists. “I think my son has spent most of his life feeling lonely.” Clint glances sidelong at me, appraising, that same X-ray sensation his son’s so good at evoking. “He’s been different these last few weeks.”
Clint laughs to himself. “You know, I used to try to read a book a month with him. Did it all through high school, and college too. I’d ask for recommendations—the last thing he’d read and loved, so we’d always have something to talk about, that mattered to him. He was probably fourteen years old the first time I read one of his books and thought, Shit. This kid’s outgrown me.”
When I start to argue, Clint lifts a hand. “I don’t mean that in a self-deprecating way. I’m a smart enough man, in my way. But I’m amazed by my son. I could listen to that kid talk for way longer than he ever would, about pretty much anything. The first time Sal and I visited him in New York, it all made perfect sense. It was like he’d been living at half volume until that moment. That’s not what a parent wants for their kid.”
Half volume.
“He’s been different these last few weeks.” In the twitch of his mouth, I see shades of his son, biological or not. “More comfortable. More himself.”
I’ve been different too.
I wonder if I’ve been living at half volume too. With agenting. With dating. Tamping myself into a shape that felt sturdy and safe instead of right.
“You know,” I say cautiously, not wanting to out Charlie in any way but also needing to be in his corner, to not choose politeness or likability or winning over anyone over him, “maybe you’re trying to prove you don’t need him, because you think he doesn’t want to be here. But don’t act like he’s not doing any good, or like he can’t help. This place already gave him enough reason to feel like he was the wrong kind of person, and the very last person he needs to get that from is you.”
White rings his eyes. He opens his mouth to object.
“It doesn’t matter whether that’s how you feel or not, if that’s how it looks to him,” I say. “And if you do let him help you, he’ll do it. Better than you ever expected.”
With that, I turn and walk away before any more tears can fall.
36
WHEN I STEP out of the building into the crisp September afternoon, a flurry of pink and orange hurls itself at me. Libby’s lemon-lavender scent wraps around my shoulders as she squeals, “You did it!”
“If by it,” I say, “you mean ‘completed the first step of an interview process that might go nowhere,’ then I sure did.”
She pulls back, beaming. Her hair has faded almost entirely back to blond, but her clothes are as colorful as ever. “What’d they say?”