Autumn met her with a bright smile and reached for the garment bag that Charlotte had just assumed held her dry cleaning. “Already grabbed this from your personal shopper!”
“Wonderful.” The only question she really had about the evening was if there would be food at the event.
She could only hope.
Shewasfashionably late.
Fortunately, people were still milling about and chatting freely—meaning none of the speeches had started before her arrival—as Charlotte made her entrance.
She shook a few hands and gave as many mindless, perfunctory greetings, as was second nature for her at this point, because her mind was on one single thing: the table of finger foods at the other side of the hall.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. She paused for only a few seconds to read:
Autumn Alton—7:57 p.m.
Also a reminder that Marcy from the publishing house wants a name for the author of your biography by the end of the week. Know you had a long day, but she’s emailed again. I’ll re-send you the writing samples we have of the top contenders.
It was Charlotte’s own fault for pausing, she decided, as a man in a chic blazer stepped up to the podium at the front of the room precisely as she slipped her phone back into her pocket and called for everyone to come to a halt.
“If you wouldn’t mind settling in for a few words, I’m Zeke Heller, and it’s my fault we’re all here.” He flashed a charming smile and chuckled along with the room. “It’s been my goal to fund these centers…”
Charlotte would admit, in spite of her growling stomach, that Zeke told a very inspirational tale about how his brother had failed out of school when he was fourteen because he struggled academically and there was no affordable help for him. Meanwhile, their dad had worked two full-time jobs, and because he couldn’t be home often, this led to his brother being involved in gang activity in his teens. Zeke outlined his solid plans for academic and recreational activities at all three of The Zones, as the centers were called and how he’d been working toward this since he’d been in undergrad.
Charlotte quietly smiled from her spot in the crowd. She understood exactly how and why her grandmother had signed the Thompson name onto funding the project.
She was interested in listening, though she was still inching—as indiscernibly as she could—toward the food.
Charlotte clapped along with everyone else as Zeke finished his speech, starting toward the refreshments on the other side of the room as she did so. This was so far from her first rodeo; she knew that as soon as the dust settled, she would be swarmed with people who wanted her attention.
Not just to discuss tonight’s benefit, but also her thoughts on the latest in Congress, in the Middle East, on policy reform—that’s how it always was.
She needed a bit more energy tonight before that all happened.
As she closed in on the cucumber sandwiches, Zeke was introducing the next speaker. “And it is my immense pleasure to introduce the woman who responded to my outpouring of requests for help in forming our academic programs, the reason why we arehereat Georgetown tonight, Sutton Spencer.”
And just like that, Charlotte’s world stopped.
The clapping that echoed through the hall dimmed under the roaring in her own ears, and she swore that every light must have dimmed, save for the one up on the stage.
For all she wanted to tell herself that there had to be a different Sutton Spencer out in the world, her stomach was already clenching. Sheknew.
There she stood. Tall, even taller thanks to the slight heels she wore, with a long-sleeved, dark blue dress that accentuated the light curve of her hip and showed off her long, smooth neck. Her hair, that vibrant, lively red, was slightly shorter now than it used to be, cut to just below her shoulders instead of cascading down her back.
Charlotte had the sudden wish that she hadn’t kept to the back of the room. She couldn’t see what she wanted to see—What lines had life given Sutton around her eyes or punctuating her mouth? Were her eyes still the most arresting shade of blue?
Was she wearing her wedding ring?
“Hi,” she warmly greeted the crowd. “I’m Sutton Spencer, an assistant professor of literature here at Georgetown.”
For an involuntary moment, Charlotte’s eyes closed. Her voice, the timbre of it, sounded exactly the same as she remembered.
She hadn’t heard it since that day they’d met in a café. The final day. The one when Sutton had proclaimed her love for Charlotte, denounced any sort of friendship they’d had, and then walked out of her life, totally shattering her heart in the process.
Thirteen years.
The thought bounced around in her mind as her eyes snapped back open to take it in. To takeherin.
Thirteen years, and she remembered that—and so, so many other moments—like snapshots saved to a hard drive.
