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Charlie’s trying to put up a good front, even giving me a tiny apologetic smile, but I can see right through it.
Her eyes are a flat gray, all her hope from the beginning of the day drained out of them. Shoulders drooping, chin tight and jutting, her lips trembling just the slightest bit, like she’s trying not to cry. And she seems so much smaller than when we left the apartment this morning, crushed by a series of rejections.
She looks so dejected I can’t stop myself from reaching out to comfort her. I lightly touch her arm. “There’s nothing to apologize for, Charlie.”
I’m not going to mention that it’s my job to follow her around—somehow I don’t think that will make her feel better. So I go with another truth. “And it’s a beautiful day, I got to explore some of the city; how could I complain about that?”
“Still.” Charlie grimaces as she steps onto the grass strip next to the sidewalk, avoiding the flow of pedestrian traffic. “I hate that you had to…” she trails off, her cheeks flushing a dull red.
I want to tell her there’s nothing to be embarrassed about, but I don’t think she’ll believe me.
When we left before nine this morning, Charlie was cautiously optimistic. She had a list of a dozen shops and restaurants in Saratoga that had posted help wanted ads, a stack of resumes, and a determined expression on her face.
Walking out the door, she glanced down at her outfit and shot a quick worried glance my way. “Do I look okay? I didn’t want to dress up too much for this kind of job. But maybe this isn’t enough?”
In a tailored white shirt and a knee-length skirt with a tiny slit in the back, her hair pulled into a low ponytail, she looked conservative and professional and I couldn’t imagine anyone having a problem with what she was wearing. “You look great,” I told her. “Really.”
Although I prefer her in the clothes she wears around the apartment—shorts and yoga pants and a collection of T-shirts emblazoned with college mascots and the Yankees logo and jokes about attorneys. And if I’ve noticed how good her legs look in those shorts, or how well she fills out those T-shirts… it’s just an observation. It doesn’t mean anything.
After all, I’d have to be blind not to notice how beautiful she is. Glossy brown hair that changes with the light; a forest of colors, walnut and chestnut and mahogany. Creamy skin with a flush of pink, full lips with the slightest curve upwards, like she's always on the verge of a smile. And her eyes—it’s not just the color, which is stunning, but how much emotion is in them.
Which makes it nearly impossible for Charlie to hide how she’s feeling.
Now that I’ve seen her smiling, happy—like when she gleefully beat me in Grand Theft Auto the first night we were here, her eyes a shimmering silver—it’s so much more obvious when she’s upset. And it’s so much harder to watch, now that I’m getting to know her.
Not that I blame Charlie for being upset. We’ve gone to all the places on her list, and it’s been one rejection after another. While I stood a safe distance away—close enough to intervene, but not enough to intrude—each person she talked to said some variation of the same thing.
Thanks, but no thanks.
Some managers were polite, thanking Charlie for her time, but coming up with some excuse why they couldn’t hire her. The position was already filled. They were looking for someone more qualified. Even though she had both retail and restaurant experience from jobs she held back in college.
Others were unpleasant or outright rude. One retail shop manager laughed meanly in Charlie’s face, saying, “Not making enough money online? Maybe you should try harder.” And a restaurant owner sneered at Charlie, telling her he couldn’t have someone with her kind of reputation working there.
And each time we left after another rejection, Charlie collected herself, rebuilding her defenses, and took a steadying breath before saying, “Maybe the next one.”
It was the last visit that finally broke her. We were in a bookstore—they had posted an opening for a sales clerk—and Charlie seemed pretty excited about it. Everything was going well, the manager seemed to really like her, there was even talk about pay and scheduling.
Then a younger employee came over and pulled the older manager aside. After a brief conference, the manager returned to Charlie, all geniality gone. “Sorry,” the older woman told her in a clipped voice. “But we have children coming in here. You’re not a good fit for us.”
That’s when Charlie was done. She quietly thanked the manager for her time and walked over to me, her eyes downcast. When we hit the sidewalk, she tossed the last few resumes in the nearest trash bin, her shoulders sagging, pretty features dragged down in defeat.
Now Charlie is staring down at the grass and biting her lip, her arms wrapped around herself. After a heavy sigh, she looks up at me. “I guess we should go home.”
“Hey.” I jostle her arm a little, drawing her gaze. “It's just the first day. You’ll find something.”
She sighs, glancing back down the street at the bookstore we just left. Then she pulls her shoulders up and takes a deep breath. “You’re right. I should start searching outside Saratoga. There are plenty of other places to look.”
“I think that’s a great idea.”
This time the smile she gives me is genuine. "Thank you, Rylan. For being so patient, and doing this with me."
“Any time, Charlie. And you don’t need to thank me. I’m happy to do it.”
In wordless agreement, we start walking back to her apartment, a few blocks east of the main strip through downtown Saratoga. It’s a nice day, sunny, mid-seventies, with lots of people out to enjoy the weather. All the restaurants have their outdoor seating areas open, the soft clink of silverware and the aroma of food hitting us as we pass.
Charlie’s gaze is focused on the sidewalk in front of her, I have my hand resting on her lower back, and I’m scanning our surroundings for any possible threat. As we pass by one of the dining patios, there’s a surprised, “Charlie?”
She jolts, scooting closer to my side, not touching but less than an inch away. I locate the voice—it’s a blonde woman sitting at a table right by the sidewalk, and she’s squinting past the sun to stare at Charlie. As Charlie turns and follows my gaze, she tenses, and I ask quietly, “Is she a problem?”
