I look up to see Beau’s face stretched in anger. “Tell me the truth. Did he touch you?” he yells, and I can’t answer. I don’t even register the question. Shaking him off, I continue my march toward the door.
“Where are you going?” Emerson asks, blocking my path. As I bend down to retrieve my bag, a tear shatters on the shiny black surface of my high-heeled shoes. And I stare at them for a second. Who even am I? I lost my identity the minute I walked through that door. I gave it to a man who doesn’t even care about me.
It’s nothing, he said. About me. About us. Every single hopeful, lovesick, enamored thought in my head suddenly seems foolish.
God, I’m so fucking stupid.
When I tear open the door, he blocks me again. “Don’t go,” he says, and I hear the tone in which he says it, expecting me to follow it with an obedient, Yes, Sir. I keep my gaze away from his face as I obstinately mutter, “No.”
No, to your commands. No, to your promises. No, to your praise.
There’s another scuffle between them, and I’m able to work my way around Emerson. All my mind registers is the need to leave. So the minute the door is open, I disappear through it, and I don’t dare look back. The next second, I’m in my car and a moment later, I’m cruising down the highway toward my house. I manage to make it all the way to my bed before I sob hysterically into my pillow.
RULE #32: DURING A HARD BREAKUP, REFER TO RULE #4—TACOS AND MARGARITAS ARE ALWAYS THE ANSWER.
Charlie
“Get up,” Sophie says, slamming the room to my door as she marches in. It’s been eight days, four hours, and thirty-two minutes since I walked out of Emerson Grant’s house for the last time. And I haven’t done much but create a Charlie-sized indent on my bed, binge an entire Netflix true crime series, and eat my weight in Swedish Fish.
And cry. A lot.
When I look back at the last two months, I feel a sting of grief and shame. I can’t help but miss the way things were and the way I felt when I was with him, but it was all an illusion. I literally played a part, and I played it well. The things I did for him just to win his attention—it’s humiliating.
But then I remember the feel of his arms around me when I wake up, and the look in his eyes when he gazes down at me. That shattering night on Saturday when he confessed how much he cared about me…it’s hard not to feel like I’m throwing that love away. But he loved Charlotte, not Charlie.
“It’s Taco Tuesday. Let’s go fill up on chips and salsa and eat until we can barely walk.”
I grumble into my pillow.
“Are you paying? I don’t have a job, remember?”
“If you sneak me a sip of margarita, I will.”
I force out a laugh. As much as I want to roll over and ignore her invitation, I can’t do that to Sophie. It’s not her fault I’m a loser who falls for all the wrong guys.
“Fine…let me shower.” My voice sounds like gravel and my head is pounding from the bottle of white wine I destroyed last night. Maybe a margarita will help me feel better.
An hour later, Sophie and I are scarfing down carne asada and queso. I mean, it doesn’t exactly solve all of my love life woes, but it sure does help. You can’t be unhappy in a Mexican restaurant.
About halfway through dinner, I notice the booth across from us. It’s a family with two teenage boys, and I instantly notice the way they’re staring at Sophie. When I hear them muttering to each other, followed by laughter, I grip my margarita glass so hard, I’m afraid it’ll shatter.
Sophie must notice because she stares at me over the top of her soda and whispers, “Just ignore them.”
Looking up at her, I realize…shouldn’t I be the one saying that to her? I mean, we’re used to it by now, and we’ve all learned to ignore the ignorant assholes of the world, but how is my little sister somehow braver and more confident than I am?
“I wish I had an ounce of your confidence, Soph.” I suck down what’s left of my drink and switch to water. Sophie freezes and glares at me with a furrowed brow.
“What are you talking about? Where do you think I learned to not give a shit what people think?”
“Language,” I joke. “And what do you mean ‘I don’t give a shit what people think?’ I always worry about what people think.”
“Well, you don’t show it. When I came out to you, do you remember what you said to me?”
I stare into my glass and try to remember. I feel like I said a million things to her that year, saying any and everything I could to get her through it. “Remind me.”
“You said what people think in their heads is a them problem. Don’t make it yours.”
“Damn. I said that?”
“Yep. I thought you were the most confident person in the world.”
“Ha!”
“Then you started dating Beau…” Her voice trails off, and I watch her twist her lips with worry.
We sit quietly for a moment in the white noise chatter of the restaurant as I wait for her to finish that sentence.
“And?”
“And you just didn’t seem as happy. It was like you lost all of that confidence. Especially after Dad left.”
I let out a heavy sigh. “I just keep ending up with the wrong guys, don’t I?”
“You know…I know Emerson is his dad, right?”
I nearly suffocate myself, letting a gulp of water go down the wrong pipe. “You do?”
“Well, let’s see…” she says in a sarcastic tone, “I was with you the day Beau gave you his dad’s address. Two days later, you had a new job. And a month later, you bring this mysterious older man to my birthday party. Doesn’t exactly take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out, Charlie.”
I drop my head, rubbing my forehead. “Does Mom know?”
“I assume so.”
“Why didn’t you guys say something?”
“You were happy!” she snaps. “The happiest I’ve seen you since before Beau.”
“Don’t you know how wrong that was? Dating my ex’s dad?”
She tilts her blue-haired head as she adds, “You mean, will people think it’s wrong? That sounds like a them problem.”
I can’t help but chuckle. “Touché, Smurf. But Beau found out, making it all of our problem.”
“Did you guys…break up?” she asks.
Solemnly, I nod. “But it wasn’t just about Beau. It’s…complicated.”
“Shoot. I can handle it.”
I laugh again. “Okay…here’s the PG-13 version.”
Sophie screws up her nose, making a disgusted expression. “Yes, please.”
With a tight smile, I tell her everything. How Emerson was always in charge. How I had to change my entire identity to be with him. How I would have done anything to please him. And how toxic it became.
And instead of agreeing with me or commiserating with me, she stares at me as if she has something to say. “What’s that look for?”
“Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “It’s just that…I don’t think you changed your identity. From my perspective, it was like you got all of that confidence back. Did he really make you change or did he let you be yourself?”
My head is a mess. I know on some level she’s right, but something is blocking me from seeing it that way. It reminds me of that first day I started as Emerson’s sub and how he said, ‘On some days, I want you just to be Charlotte.’ What did he mean by that? Did he like the regular me enough or did he just not want to deal with the hassle of teaching me on non-sub days?
Did he let me be myself? It was my idea to take on the sub-secretary role. I was the one wandering down dark hallways in the club. I was the one eager to learn it all.
And I’m the one who really wants to go back to that club.
“Dad left because he couldn’t accept me as I am. He would have rather seen me unhappy than accept the change I knew I needed. But you found a guy who wants you exactly as you are.”
“I wish he wanted me, Sophie. But he has to put his son first…and that leaves no room for me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Tell Beau to get over it.”
A laugh bubbles out of my chest again. “Trust me, I would if I could.”
That night, I lie in bed and stare at the eight texts from Emerson I’ve left unanswered.
Can we talk?
I just want to apologize.
I made a mistake.
I miss you.
I understand you need time. I can wait. My front door is always open.