“You know my name.” Had I given him mine and he hadn't told me his? I would have surely remembered it. “We didn't exchange them.” I look at him curiously.
“Let me.” He offers to take my coat off for me, and I let him. “You can call me Charlie. Your name was on your cup yesterday.”
“Oh, right.” Charlie must pay close attention. He pulls out my chair for me.
“I got us drinks already.”
“Thank you.” I take my seat. He's not as dressed up as yesterday, when he appeared as though he'd come from the office. Today he's in a sweater and black pants, but they are still very much on the expensive side.
“I don’t know if it’s allowed, but I brought a few things I baked.” I glance around and see that the baristas aren't paying any attention, engrossed in their own conversation.
“You baked for me?”
“Yes,” I say and instantly know how wrong that sounds. “I mean, I baked and brought a few with me for you to try. They were extras.” I try to cover. This is bad; I shouldn't be doing this. My wedding ring is heavy on my finger. It doesn't stop me, though, from reaching into my bag and pulling the box out. What’s done is done. No use them going to waste now.
“You enjoy baking?”
“I do. It relaxes me, and if I have an extra audiobook credit, I can listen to a new book.”
“Audiobook credit?” Of course he doesn't know what that means.
“You can sign up for them. It's like a deal to get one book cheaper each month.”
“How many books do you listen to a month?”
“New? Well,” I laugh. “Just the one.”
“But you'd listen to more if you had these credits?”
“I suppose, but I enjoy listening to the ones I already own again. I'm a big rereader.” He leans back in his chair, all his attention on me, his eyes soft around the edges.
“I don't believe I have ever reread a piece of fiction before. Do you enjoy them that much?” He's appearing genuinely interested.
“There is a bit of comfort when you go back to a book you love and listen or read it again. You might know what's coming, but it feels safe, and sometimes you really just need that comfort. I even know some people who are end-readers. They don’t like the anticipation of the ending not being what they’d hoped for. I mean, I don’t do that, but to each their own.”
“You don't feel safe.” He sits up, leaning toward me now.
“Not in the physical sense,” I laugh, pulling my cup closer. “It's emotionally safe. You get lost in the pages and pretend that world is yours.”
“An escape.”
“Basically.”
“You want to escape your own life?” His brows pull together.
“It can be a lot less lonely.” I say this before I consider my words. That's going to make him think I'm in a shitty marriage. Which is not a lie. I mean, I’m really not in a marriage at all in the normal sense.
Charlie is far too easy to talk to, or maybe I'm dying to talk to anyone. It could be a bit of both. Either way, I don't want to stop.
Chapter Eight
WICK
“Where’s your book?” she asks, changing the topic. She doesn’t want me to ask her questions about her lonely life with her husband.
“My phone,” I improvise. I don’t have a book. My mind was full of competing thoughts as I watched my wife get ready for a date with another man on the security cameras.
Now I’m sitting across from her with a container of baked goods she prepared while she talks about her shitty marriage. I can’t even be mad because I put her in this situation, in that big apartment with the only contact being my assistant.
