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This was just how he’d handled the broads ten years before. And it would be how he would handle it now. Charlotte was nothing—a bug to be squashed. And now, she could return to her intern-lifestyle, allowing him to return to his editor-in-chief status. The no-fraternization policy would remain.
He had to behave himself. He was a father. An editor-in-chief.
He had to play by the rules.
19
Charlotte retreated to the bathroom, sliding down the side wall of the stall and weeping, fully, into her palms. After the night they’d had, just two days before, he’d ignored her completely. He hadn’t even allowed his eyes to grace her face. The normal, sexual tension had existed, certainly. But perhaps that only existed in Charlotte’s own mind? She couldn’t be sure.
Perhaps he’d used her up and planned to spit her out, like a dog toy.
His sexual deviance, thought to have been left in the past, ten years before, had just followed them both into this future. And now, it had destroyed Charlotte’s very sense of self. She quaked with sadness, feeling her stomach lurch.
As it was nearly lunch, she excused herself early and fled the office, sensing Randy’s eyes upon her, curious. Slipping her sunglasses from her face, she bounded down the street, feeling her blood rush through her veins. The world was crashing around her. Somehow, she felt electric, incredibly aware. This was what heartbreak felt like.
She wasn’t sure she’d felt it before.
The side corner, several blocks down, held a large, shaded bar, in which several winos drank in the bright light of the early afternoon. She joined them, tossing her purse to the ground beneath the bar and smacking her palm on the counter, eyeing the bartender, her sunglasses still plastered across her face.
“I’m going to need a Manhattan,” she said, her voice trying to find certainty.
“Darling, we don’t make that shit here,” the bartender said, his voice gruff, yet kind. “Better order something hard. Or wine or beer.”
Charlotte nodded, recognizing she was inexperienced. A Manhattan? She didn’t even really know what that was. “Right. I’ll have a wine, please. Better make it white. Don’t want to stain my lips, for work.”
“Right,” the bartender said, half-rolling his eyes and stomping toward the back refrigerator, finding a new bottle of white, unopened. “Don’t think I’ve had anyone drink white in here for a few months. Not that kind of establishment, you know. The kind that draws in white wine drinkers.”
Embarrassed, Charlotte slipped the sunglasses from her nose and blinked rapidly at him, sensing tears begin to build behind her lashes. “It’s just—I want to feel—”
“You want to take the edge off. And this is your poison. I get it,” the bartender said. His bald head gleamed beneath the orange lamplight. It seemed that the springtime sunshine didn’t seep far in through the windows, leaving them both in shadow at the bar top. “What’s your name, sweetie?”
He couldn’t have been younger than sixty. Charlotte felt oddly safe with him, unquestioning his purpose in asking her questions. He seemed like a lonely old man, behind a bar all day, watching the rest of the world go by.
“It’s Charlotte,” she murmured, sipping the white wine. It tasted tart against her tongue, unlike the nice wine her aunt had tucked away in her cabinet. But it would do.
“Charlotte. That’s not a name you hear very often anymore,” he said. “I’ve always liked it. Reminds me of the early century. Of Europe, even. Hell, I don’t know.”
Charlotte laughed appreciatively, already feeling the wine dance around in her head. She hadn’t yet eaten and had even foregone breakfast. She shivered. “I was the only Charlotte I knew growing up, that’s for sure,” she said, grinning. “In a group of Stephanies and Carries and Laurens.”
“Lauren. That’s my granddaughter’s name,” the bartender said, revealing a small sliver of his life. “Never liked the name, but love the girl. When I get down to Tennessee to see her.”
“Wow. So far,” Charlotte breathed. “My family all live in Ohio. Not far.”
“Nope. Although, after living in New York, I’m ruined for anything else. I don’t know where else you could possibly live. My daughter didn’t feel the same, hence this granddaughter I have a million states away.” He chortled. “You’re just a bit younger than her. Than my daughter, I mean. What are you? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-three,” Charlotte murmured, sounding miserable. “But I feel four years old right now. Trouble at work. And I worked damn hard to get this job! It’s the only one I want on the planet. I definitely don’t want to leave. But something horrible happened…” She trailed off, sipping the wine down. The bartender refilled it, gesturing, as if to say it was free. Charlotte sure hoped it was.
“Well, then, you can’t give up on it. No matter what happened,” the bartender told her, his voice firm. “My daughter used to give up on everything, even if she liked it. She didn’t want to fail at it. She gave up on sports, dance, music. On everything. She even gave up on me, at least for a while. And it hasn’t gotten her anything but an early divorce and a custody battle.” He paused, recognizing he’d gone too far. “Of course, that’s nothing like you. And that’s my problem. Not yours.”
