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Charlie
May 31, 2016
I PRACTICALLY RAN into work the next morning; my footsteps only slowed once I was inside and spotted my notebook where I’d left it the day before. I glanced around at the few workers already inside—none of whom were looking in my direction—and walked up to the greeter’s desk.
I took the torn paper between my fingers, and eyed his scrawl in wonder. I didn’t realize I was smiling until I had flipped the paper over numerous times, looking at each side and how our words mimicked each other’s.
But the smile faded when I read the note he had left for me.
I wanted to write back, saying that I’d thought he was listening to me, but knew those words sounded immature and ridiculous given the situation. Just as my excitement to hear back from a stranger had been.
What I had been expecting, I couldn’t say, but it had been more than that.
Maybe Grey was right. Maybe I did read too many romance novels.
I started to crumple the torn out paper, but stopped and placed it inside my notebook instead. After closing it up, I placed the notebook inside my waist-apron pocket behind the check holders, and got to work.
FIVE HOURS INTO my shift, on one of the many journeys up to the front of Mama’s Café to greet newcomers, something caught my eye.
A napkin on the greeter’s desk with a familiar scrawl on it, and the words:
Where’d you go? I’ll come back for you.
I inhaled softly, and a stupid, stupid fluttering took up residence in my stomach. One I knew needed to go away because there was no reason for it to be there in the first place, but one that was there nonetheless.
I glanced at the three people in front of me, quickly taking in the confused looks they were giving me before slapping my hand down on the napkin and pulling it close to my body.
I whirled around to see if anyone was watching, waiting for someone who would have a reaction to that note . . . but there was no one. Just residents of Thatch eating, others serving, nearly all people I had known most of my life. None of them paid any attention to me, or the chaos of emotions flooding me.
Again, stupid fluttering and emotions that made no sense. Because this person was nothing more than an opinionated stranger, and I was making him and this situation out to be much more than they were because of my obsession with romantic fiction.
“Um, table for three?” I asked through the lump in my throat, and shoved the napkin into one of my pockets so I could grab menus. “Right this way.”
By the time I left work that night, my notebook was on the desk, the slightly crumpled piece of paper had been smoothed out, and had my plea not to move the book facing up. No words had been added to Ben’s song, but there was a note left to the stranger.
You gave me relationship advice that was a few years too late; I didn’t know you expected a response. Since you want one: Thank you, stranger. I’ll make sure to remember your words for the next guy who comes into my life.
I didn’t work the next day, but there was a response waiting for me when I came in the day after. And though I tried to watch the front desk as much as possible, I never saw anyone take my notebook. I had studied almost everyone who sat in the café, studied everyone working . . . no one seemed to touch it, and no one seemed to watch me. But by the time my shift had ended that day, there was already a response.
Is this where I say that I’m sorry that you aren’t with this guy anymore? Because I’m not. I don’t know if it’s because that guy was a dumbass for treating you the way he did, or if after reading most of what you have written in this journal, I’ve decided that I want to be the one who gets to listen to you.
Those are big words, stranger. Words can be deceiving. Are you so sure that once you find me, there will be any words to listen to at all? Maybe this is all I have . . .
Your words have kept my interest longer than any girl has ever been able to. I’ll take my chances. Who are you?
Won’t that ruin everything?
Because it could, and would, ruin everything for me. I was just Charlie. Shy Charlie who struggled to talk to anyone outside of Jagger and Grey, and who definitely couldn’t talk to guys. Shy Charlie, who, in the real world, had a toddler and no clue what she was doing with her life.
Chapter Six
Deacon
June 3, 2016
I GROANED INTO my hands as I scrubbed them over my face, and leaned back in the driver’s seat of my car. “This thing is gonna be a disaster.”
“What?” Graham asked as he shut the passenger door. “The dinner?”
