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Embarrassment colors his face, and his hand covers mine where it rests on the table. “I’m sorry. If you don’t want to talk about this, we don’t have to. I knew you were close, but I guessed a boyfriend, not more.”
I continue, needing to let him off the hook and not worry about missteps in assumptions. “We weren’t when he passed.” Passed, I think, twisting the word around my tongue. It doesn’t sit well with me. Passed sounds temporary. I search for a word that makes it the most real to me. “Died. We broke up about six months ago.”
I laugh at the irony of a fated realization. “We were supposed to be married this month. I hadn’t thought of that until now.” He watches me, intrigued. “I didn’t break us up—”
He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “If you’re not ready to talk about this—”
“No, it’s all right. I haven’t talked about the breakup in a long time, and his death feels new, foreign to me. He’s dead.” I repeat it more for me than Charlie. His hand is warm, and though my body is frazzled from the reality of the day, I’m calmed by his simple gesture. It feels good to have someone touch me in this way. It’s the kindest touch I’ve had in a while.
His hand slides away too soon, leaving mine abandoned and cold once again. His expression reveals he feels he overstepped a boundary. Doesn’t he understand we’re a team now? As of today, we’re friends.
The last drink hits me harder than expected. Several reasons come to mind. I haven’t been drinking that much in the last couple of months. My emotions are a tangled mess because of Jim’s death, and the funeral brought everything bad about Jim and our breakup to the surface.
Charlie doesn’t interrupt the long pause in my story, letting me think and talk on my own timeline. “I haven’t talked about this . . . stuff in a while, and today was more difficult than I care to burden you with. Do you want to get some dinner? I think I should eat.”
“Dinner would be nice.”
As soon as we stand, he dashes forward, racing me to the bar to pay our tab. From behind, I say, “My treat. You got the cab.”
He backs away, hands in the air, surrendering, and lets me buy the drinks.
We’ve sprung forward with the time change, but it’s still darker than I expected. As we walk down the street, I peek at my watch.
“Am I boring you?” he asks with a smile.
“Quite the contrary. You interest me very much.” I automatically wink. Oh my God! I actually just winked at him. I really need to keep myself from flirting. He’s just being nice to me. I don’t want to ruin this.
He laughs. “You interest me very much, too, Charlie.” Then he squints. “I’m not going to wink, though, because I won’t look half as good as you did when you winked.”
I hit him on the arm. “You’re not supposed to call a girl out on her idiocies.”
“You’re not an idiot, but you are entertaining.”
“Changing the topic to anything other than this one. Hey look, it’s dark outside. I didn’t expect that.” It’s seven thirty, and I’m kind of shocked at how the time flew. “I knew I was hungry, and now I see why.”
He smiles, and we see an old-school Italian restaurant coming up on our left. He says, “Hey, I’ve eaten here before. It’s fantastic. Do you mind Italian?”
“I could eat Italian every night.” His enthusiasm is contagious, but that he let that embarrassing conversation and wink go is full-on attractive. He’s quite the gentleman.
Our table is quaint and very traditional in its appearance. We order our food and both stick to water. He still holds my complete interest as I sit across from him. His eyes reveal what he tries to hide from most.
“He cheated on me,” I say, picking up where I feel comfortable. His lips separate in surprise at my admission. “He cheated and then broke up with me.” I look at the checkered tablecloth and run my finger down a red line, then back up a white line. “I wish I had been the one to do it . . . but—” I shake my head, letting him know that I’m done talking about it tonight.
~ Charlie A. ~
She fascinates me. The way she speaks, the words she chooses, she’s different. Charlie shakes her head. She can’t go on with her story, and I’m not going to push. I offer her a breadstick, and she happily accepts, eating it in place of talking.
Time passes, but I don’t rush it. The silence doesn’t bother me. It gives me time to think—to sort out what I’m doing with this woman, what I’m feeling for her. By the way my heart is clenching, I can tell I’m not going to figure this out in one day. She’s much too complicated for that and intriguing, and damn beautiful.
