Charlie could have slept with me, but he didn’t. He knew I wasn’t ready, so he waited for me, and it never wound up happening. It’s something I’m both grateful for and regret. Early on, Charlie said all the right things, did all the right things. It was something he was especially good at.
The Jefferson Hotel in Montreal was lovely. It was in Mile End, a trendy neighborhood—walkable—its streets lined with shops and cafés. It was only my third time out of the country, the first being France with my parents when I was little, and the second Niagara Falls just last year, which hardly counts for anything. My parents thought Charlie and I were on a trip with Charlie’s parents; they also thought Charlie’s parents were just as much a unit as they were—strong and steady and loving. Not the kind who’d rent us a private suite in a five-star hotel for the express purpose of our private vacation.
Charlie’s parents, they didn’t think like any of the adults I knew in Illinois.
It made me nervous. But they were cosmopolitan, cultured. They treated Charlie like an equal. “They trust me,” he said over and over when I said, gaping at the lobby—which resembled an old gentlemen’s club from another era—“Are you sure this is okay?”
“If it’s not okay, Bree, it’s too late now,” he told me, slinging an arm around my shoulders. I remember leaning into him, responding in such a natural way to his touch. His wool felt pea coat tickled my cheek; it was cold in Montreal—a chilly autumn, just a few months after we met. It all felt so grown-up—like we were playing house. But I wanted to assimilate well to this world; I figured it was no better or worse than the one I came from, just different. I wanted to understand it, to be a part of it. To maybe decide whether to belong to it.
I wasn’t sure, having met Charlie, whether I could ever go back to the way things were, when I was just a suburban girl in Illinois. That’s what happens when you meet someone different, I thought to myself as I stood there, taking in the grandeur of the hotel. Your world opens up just a little. I felt scared then, because I was certain I’d never stop craving that expansion, bit by bit, relationship by relationship, person by person.
The thought made me cold; I didn’t know where it had come from. I hugged Charlie tighter, waiting for him to complete check-in. There was a staircase to my left, stretching upward in the tradition of the kind of European elegance I’d seen in books. It was wide and sprawling and covered in thick carpet in a shade of dark green. On its underside, facing out into the room, were row upon row of books. They weren’t just for show. I wandered over and ran a finger over the titles as Charlie got everything organized. They were mostly classics: hardbound, with the kinds of spines that have visible stitches. The kind I was used to finding in my grandparents’ house when I was a kid.
A young family took up a large portion of the room. Two blond children were playing with a chessboard while their parents discussed something quietly in nearby leather chairs. Their mom was also blond—and glamorous, in a tweed blazer with elbow patches and brown leather riding boots. Their dad was sturdy and handsome, like maybe he played one of those highbrow sports like polo. The little girls spoke with British accents, and their suitcases were made of pink leather.
In Illinois, my parents were probably just sitting down to dinner. Maybe they were smiling at each other across my mom’s famous turkey tetrazzini casserole, saying things like “I hope Aubrey knows what she’s getting herself into,” and “You like this boy, don’t you, Mac?” and “As well as any other boy her age, I guess, though they’re all a pretty sorry bunch. This one doesn’t follow any sports teams, not even college football. He’s not my kinda guy; but I’m not the one dating him,” and “I just want her to be safe. Did you hear her say he isn’t any kind of religion at all?” In my imagination, their smiles faded and their brows creased and they leaned toward each other over the vinyl floral tablecloth, spooning turkey and noodles and mushroom sauce into their mouths as they lapsed into a worried silence.
Charlie tugged on my sleeve as I stared at those books, bringing me back to the present. I clasped his hand tightly, letting the warmth of his palm seep into me. I remember thinking: I have to stop being this way. I need to start believing this stuff is real, because sometimes it all felt like I was playing a part in a story. Stuff like this only ever happens in novels.
“Here,” Charlie said, handing me a glass of sparkling wine. “This is for us. Complimentary at check-in. We can take it up to our room.”
“Don’t they—?”