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I return home and slip on my favorite flannel pajamas. After eating my dinner on the isle of denial—otherwise known as my bed—my purse beckons me. I walk into the living room and grab it, bringing it back to the bedroom. The book inside draws my attention, my curiosity piquing. I pull it out and set it on my nightstand. I shouldn’t read it, I tell myself. I feel bad enough about how everything with Charlie has turned out. The last thing I need right now is to hear his voice in my head as I read the words he wrote. I roll over, ignore it, and fall asleep.
Chapter 33
Charlie B
The following morning, I’m feeling better, but not by much. By late afternoon, I’ve taken three naps and only left my bed to pay for the pizza I ordered and to refill my water glass twice. Too scared to check my appearance in the mirror, already knowing how horrible I must look, I do what I haven’t done in a while—I avoid.
My phone beeps with a text message. I’m in no mood to deal with people, so I leave it. An hour later, I see Charlie’s book and reach for it. I take it in hand, admiring the nice cover, and set it on the blanket next to me. I stare at it for several minutes, rereading the title several times. My Everything. The pull of his printed words draws me in, making me want to open the cover and read more.
Resisting the temptation, I trudge into the bathroom. Lethargy has set in from lounging around for the last twenty-four hours. As I grab some toilet paper to blow my nose, the spool flies off the holder and lands in my toilet.
“Dammit!”
Using the plunger's handle to retrieve it, I’m struck with déjà vu.
Toothbrush.
Toilet.
Fishing it out.
All too familiar indeed. My life was so off-kilter there for a while, then it seemed to hop back on track when—
Charlie!
The thought occurs like a lightning strike. He’s gone from my life, and many of these irritating events are happening again.
Dropping my keys down that grate outside work three months ago, the bird poop that fell on the side of my head on Christmas Day, and the time I tripped in Central Park on nothing but my own feet. Yep, I’m out of whack again.
I dump the soggy toilet roll in the trash, then rush to my purse to grab the orange rabbit’s foot. After climbing back in bed, I glare at the book again, fighting the urge to pick it up. I reach out and my finger finds its way to the cover, and drags across his name.
Charlie Adams.
Charlie Adams.
And a third time. Charlie Adams.
I sigh, disappointed in myself. “I have no willpower.” I pick the book up and start reading. The dedication page is simple with three words: To My Destiny.
A sudden lump in my throat makes me gasp for air.
Destiny.
I turn to chapter one, interested to see what kind of book he wrote with a dedication like that.
* * *
My Everything ~
I want to say I fell in love at first sight. That would be the romantic version, but that’s not the truth. I fell in love with the woman who would become my sun, my beacon, my compass, my everything when I sat next to her at a funeral and saw the depths of sadness and true beauty for the first time.
* * *
My breathing is staggered, and my heart pounds as I read until I reach the end of the first chapter. This isn’t a book of New York observations. I flip through it, recognizing different passages with each word, setting, and scenario. This is a book of us observations. Us. He’s writing about us. This can’t be. I’m being silly. This isn’t us. This is fiction. We’re real . . . or we were.
I turn to the end, needing to know what becomes of these star-crossed lovers he so eloquently writes about. These lovers. Lovahs. I can hear Charlie in his bad British accent saying the word, and I giggle, remembering how happy I was that day. Even when things were sad, he gave me hope and comfort. He made me happy every day I was with him. He was the light in the dark. He was my light. My sun. My beacon.
* * *
My Everything ~
I kissed her, exposing my past, giving her my present, and offering her a future we could share together—a kiss that would span more than a lifetime. A kiss that told her she was my forever and a day.
* * *
The book falls from my hands as I lie back, closing my eyes, his words engulfing me in warmth and love, hope and a future. My compass.
I hold the rabbit’s foot in front of my face, our own past and present flashing before my eyes.
