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She looks down at her wrist then, because I still haven’t let go. “Sorry,” I say again, absently this time as I release my hold on her. I’m still buzzing and lightheaded, the sound of my name on her lips and the feel of her soft skin doing something powerful to me that I cannot define.
“Mr. Wade, are you out there?” Vargas calls from his office, bringing me back down to earth. I still haven’t taken my eyes off her though, and now she’s looking back at me. The moment probably lasts no more than three seconds, but it feels meaningful, important.
Her cheeks redden when she says, “See you tomorrow.”
That night I dream of Charlotte. I picture her standing in the shallow end of the creek. She’s wading in water up to her calves, wearing a sundress that skims her thighs. She’s laughing and smiling at me as she kicks one leg out to splash water in my direction. I rush her and she shrieks as I throw her over my shoulder.She’s mine, I’m telling myself, and I smile as I take us out deeper into the water, clamping one arm around her backside to keep her still. She’s squirming and telling me to put her down, but she’s playing with me. When I loosen my hold, she slides down the length of my body, both of us submerged chest deep now. She presses herself close and I drag her hips in even closer in response. I want her to feel me and she does, dragging in a breath when we make contact. “I love you,” I tell her. And I feel it so deeply that my heart physically aches.
I wake up startled, one hand rubbing the center of my chest, the other wrapped firmly around my dick. I finish myself off before climbing out of bed. I’m tired, or sad, or maybe some combination of both. Standing under the steady stream of the shower, I understand that the dream represents reality: being close to her could bring me happiness like I’ve never known before, but it would most certainly bring both of us pain.
* * *
Charlotte
Why do I keep dreaming of you?
That’s what I want to ask him this morning. Most nights, even the night Wes held me in his arms and gave me comfort, it’s Simon Wade I dream of.
In my dreams he’s not the boy who shows himself to me in everyday life. No, in my dreams he’s sweet. He smiles instead of grimacing, he’s lighthearted instead of sullen. He holds me close instead of acting like the subtle brush of my skin burns worse than straight lye.
He’s standing outside the hardware store. His chin is perched on hands that rest atop the broom he’s holding but not using. He’s lost in thought. He doesn’t look happy or sad, just lost. I think he knows I’m standing out here too, but he won’t acknowledge me. We’re North and South Korea, locked into some sad, silent cold war.
I take another short break at ten and then another at one. He’s always outside at the same time, it never fails. I look his way, hoping for something, but I’m never rewarded. I’m restless today though, something’s off, and by the time my shift comes to a close I can feel it unraveling in me, angry and mean. So instead of turning right towards the parking lot, I march across the street and wait behind him while he moves a load of paving stones from a delivery truck. He makes three round trips to the truck, ignoring me as he hefts the stones to an area where it looks like they’ll be setting up an outdoor furniture display. A patio dining set waiting to be assembled sits there with an umbrella still wrapped in plastic perched next to it. I have plenty of time to take it all in as I stand there like a fool. I don’t even know why I came over here. I have no plan, no idea of what to say. I turn to go when I feel the first tear threaten.
Get it together. You are not crying over him.
“Did you need something?” He’s caught up to me in the middle of the street that divides us, taking my elbow to stop me from moving, from running away.
I shake him off. “No, I don’t need anything from you.”
“That’s for the best,” he says to my back, and that pisses me off.
“Why do you hate me?”
His eyes go wide for a split second, but then he’s back in control, cold and impassive. “I don’t even know you or think about you, so how could I possibly hate you?”
“You hate my family,” I challenge.
“I do.”
“Well, I was brought up to hate your family too, but I never bought into that. No one’s a saint or a sinner. You should know that better than anyone.”
My bold mouth and bravado abandon me when he takes one step closer. He towers over me, his expression menacing. “What exactly are you trying to say?”
“Just,” I pause to catch my breath, “that your family, I mean, your brother’s no angel.” I’m so scared and nervous that I hardly know what I’m saying anymore. And he’s waiting me out, making me suffer, squared off and staring at me with that all familiar look of disgust. “Your brother’s negligence destroyed my brother’s future.”
“Simon.”
“Be there in one minute,” he answers his boss without turning back around.
“Yourbrother’s future…That’s all anyone in this county cared about after the accident, as if my brother was nothing, as if he hadn’t lost everything too. They were on the same football team, both had college coaches recruiting them. My brother had just as much going for him as Christian Mason.”
He steps even closer and forces my chin up with a rough finger. “Your brother is a piece of shit.” He nods for emphasis. “When questions were asked, he acted like my brother all but ran him over instead of admitting to the fact that they were both out drinking together that night and decided to drag race like two seventeen-year-old idiots.”
He laughs and smiles then, but it’s wicked the way he does it. “I think Christian truly believes his own bullshit, believes he was wronged. I guess that’s what happens when you’re the golden boy and everyone’s been blowing smoke up your ass your entire life. My brother was in the same hospital, but while yours was being visited by friends, by their coach and by every fucking hypocrite disguised as an upstanding member of the community, Timmy was being interrogated by the cops. I think if they could have framed Timmy, staged it as a hit and run or something, they would have, but there were too many witnesses.”
I was always under the impression that Tim Wade was doing drugs the night of the accident. The thought spills out before I can censor myself. “He’s a drug addict.”
“Little girl, you don’t know shit.” He turns to go but doesn’t make it more than two steps before he turns back around. “You know what? You’re right, princess, my brother is a drug addict. He got hooked on painkillers after your brother made sure Timmy got what was coming to him. He spent three weeks in the hospital after they beat him and left him for dead…Your brother and his boys.” His shoulders fall like the heavy weight of the memory is dragging him down. “I always thought it was ironic, your brother’s name...He’s got to be the least Christian-minded person on the face of God’s green earth.”
