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“Orange juice would be great. Thank you.”
I fill the glass and hand it to him. He drinks over half before setting the glass down on the granite countertop, swiping his thumb over the corner of his mouth. My mouth might have dropped open while watching that little bit of juice-tainment. My own glass remains untouched since I’m still stuck on the fact that Charlie is here in my apartment and looking as hot as he does. I only saw him once before in casual clothes, and that was on the subway. I wasn’t paying that much attention then. I am now, and he wears them well.
“Why are you here, Charlie?” I ask because I need to say something instead of just gawk.
“Why did you leave this morning?”
“You came here to confront me?” I can’t stop my defensive tone. “I had to do the walk of shame in an evening dress and heels, and now you’re here to make me feel worse?”
He steps closer, but I turn around to focus on cleaning the mug and bowl in the sink. To focus on anything that allows me to think clearly because I’m not so sure I do when he’s around. I can’t look him in the eyes right now. He must think I’m horrible or, even worse, slutty for my drunken antics last night. I practically ravaged the boy with my mouth.
“No, that’s just it,” he says, not sounding as sure of himself today. “I didn’t want—”
“I’m sorry about last night. I know it was wrong, just a stupid drunken mistake. I hope we can get past this and still be friends.” I hear nothing behind me, silence holding court, so I continue, hating the tension that separates us. “The other day meant a lot—”
“Why are you so nervous?”
“Huh?” I ask, glancing at him to see his eyes are still on me.
“You’re nervous. I don’t mean to make you nervous or upset you. I can go if you want.”
“No!” I shout, startling him. I laugh, anxiety laced with shaky giggles. He smiles at me, and a calmness engulfs me. I take a deep breath before explaining. “No, you don’t need to go. I’m glad you’re here. I should apologize.” I take a step toward him and smile. “I’m sorry about this morning, and I’m sorry about last night.”
His smile falters before he regains his composure, and as much as I want to ask what just went through his mind, I don’t want to push my luck, either.
“You’re sorry about last night?” he asks, studying my eyes.
“Well, yeah. We had such a great time until the alcohol went to my head, and I attacked you.” I feel my face heat, remembering how I begged him to kiss me. “I’ll understand if I’ve ruined everything, but I want you to know how much I’ve enjoyed our time together, as much as one can at a funeral.” I’m rambling and can’t seem to stop myself. “I was referring to talking with you at the Subway Inn afterward and then—”
“Stop, Charlie. Just stop.”
My mouth clamps shut, and my heart hurts because I can hear the words coming from his mouth before he even says them. I grip the edge of the counter and close my eyes in preparation.
“You didn’t beg me, and you didn’t ruin anything. I want to be friends with you.”
Those aren’t the words I expected at all. “So you’re not mad at me?”
He shakes his head, and a small smile reappears. “No, I’m not mad.” He rubs behind his ear. “I was hoping we could be mo—”
My oven timer sounds, drawing both of our attention.
“My cupcakes are ready.”
I can feel his eyes on me as I take the cupcake pan out of the oven and set it on top of the stove. Looking back at him, I ask, “You were saying?”
“You do bake.” He sounds surprised.
I nod. “Baking relaxes me.”
“Eating relaxes me,” he jokes, then looks down at his feet like he’s said too much.
That makes me smile. He makes me smile, and the tension from a few minutes ago has evaporated. I don’t feel the need to fill any voids with ramblings or explanations or any more apologies. I can be me, Charlie’s himself, and this is right.
Even though we haven’t talked everything through, we’re on the right track. We’re friends again, just how we were meant to be.
Chapter 15
Charlie B
He frosts.
He does dishes.
He’s funny and smart.
Is this guy for real?
I watch as he looks over the frosted cupcakes and carefully selects one. It doesn’t slip past me that he chooses the one I was going to pick. It’s the largest in the batch. That amuses me.
He appears to be on the verge of drooling, but looks up and smiles, presenting the cupcake to me. “The chef should get the biggest one.”
No, he’s definitely not for real. Men like this don’t exist among us mere mortal women.
