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“I’m not sure yet,” Quentin said, sounding truthful, and frankly curious. He cleared his throat, softening slightly. “To answer your question, it was a relief to give it up for this.”
Charlotte’s eyes widened.
“I was exhausted. I was tired of all the drugs. I was tired of drinking till dawn. I was tired of living for no one else but myself. I’d been a long-time reader of MMM, and, a few months after Morgan was born, I just walked into the offices and asked if they’d give me a chance. The band was breaking up. I needed something else to do.”
“So, they gave you a test?” Charlotte asked.
“No. First, they flipped their shit,” Quentin said, laughing. “They were only used to seeing photographs of me. They weren’t used to seeing me up close, much less talking to me. Then, they assumed I was fucking around. But I came prepared. I brought a few reviews I’d written about the bands I’d toured with, and they were impressed. And with my name on the MMM writer list, they knew they might sell a few more copies. It was worth it, for them.”
“Wow,” Charlotte breathed. “And just like that, you became a new person.”
“I’m sure you feel similar,” Quentin said. “You just moved to the big city from the middle of nowhere. Everything must seem chaotic and bizarre and otherworldly.”
“I don’t often talk about it,” Charlotte admitted softly. “I don’t want to sound like that little country bumpkin.” She swallowed sharply. “How strange that your daughter will never go through that kind of fear. She’s ahead of her age in confidence, surely. And she’s got beauty and brains. A treacherous combination.”
“I’m terrified,” Quentin admitted, laughing. “To tell you the truth.”
“I think we’re all terrified,” Charlotte murmured. She sipped her wine, feeling closer to him, emotionally. Her heartstrings yanked. Why was this happening? Should she even question it?
“What time is her mother coming?” Charlotte asked, remembering what Quentin had said. “Morgan’s spending the night over there?”
“Right. Yes,” Quentin said, shaking his head, jostling himself from somewhere far away. “She’ll be here in about twenty minutes, I guess. She lives just up the road and never runs late. Ever. She’s like clockwork. It’s almost freaky.”
Charlotte exhaled through her nose, her eyes holding such light and humor to them. She licked her lips, gazing up at him. When she felt the tension between them might crack the very molecules of the kitchen, he suddenly burst forward and kissed her on the lips. Charlotte swept her hand back, leaving the wine glass on the counter, and then wrapped her arms around his neck, bringing him into her. Accepting him. What the hell? If she wanted it, she was going to have it.
She sucked at his bottom lip for a moment until he tore into her, allowing his tongue to part her lips, and then searching through her, toying with her. He reached down, grasping her ass and yanking it upward, holding tightly to her. She cried out quietly, breaking their kiss with the shock of pleasure bounding up and down her back.
Fuck.
She gazed into his eyes for several moments, pressing her hands against his chest.
“What are we going to do?” she finally whispered. “What on earth are we going to do?”
Suddenly, they heard Morgan break her hands from the piano keys. She began to pad into the dining room and kitchen, her blond hair waving behind her like a flag. Quentin stepped back casually, his face breaking into a smile, void of the emotion he’d just held for Charlotte.
Charlotte felt broken, aching. She crossed her arms tightly across her chest, trying to smile at Morgan. In reality, she wished she was somewhere far away.
“What did you think?” Morgan asked her, popping up on her toes. “Did I do good?”
“Well, Morgan. Did you do well,” Quentin said, correcting her.
“Well, whatever. Did I?”
Charlotte nodded primly, taking a step toward the door. She sensed it was her time to leave. The spell had been broken. “You are a wonderful musician. I can’t wait to write about you one day, when I become a real music writer, and when you become a renowned musician.”
“Promise you’ll give me a good review?” Morgan asked, laughing.
“Promise. And I’d never lie,” Charlotte murmured, her voice wavering. She felt fatigued, aghast, frustrated. She waved to Morgan. “I suppose I better get back to my house. I know you’re heading to your mom’s, as well.”
“Aw. Dad, make her stay.”
“I can’t,” Quentin said.
Still, what Charlotte had said seemed to echo in the air around them. “What are we going to do? What on earth are we going to do?”
But the question remained unanswered.
Charlotte gave a final wave to the father and daughter before rushing into the hallway, racing down the rug, and finding solace in her aunt’s cold, dark apartment, exhaling roughly and finding it difficult to regain composure. Tears ran down her cheeks, wetting her black V-neck. Her unsteady legs forced her to the floor in front of the wooden door. Her ears grew accustomed to the silence around her, and the air felt sick with her panic.
