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Charlotte
I quicken my pace, ignoring him as he leans against the squad car parked at the curb.
“Charlie, wait.”
“Stop coming around when my brother isn’t home. I have nothing to say to you.”
“I was right behind you, trailing you the entire way. And Jesus, you were no more than half a mile from home!” When I turn and shoot him a scowl, he backpeddles. “I was wrong, really fucking wrong.”
“Go. Away.”
But I’m not quick enough. “I need to talk to you.” He wedges his foot in the doorframe. “Why didn’t you tell me what happened at the diner yesterday morning?”
“I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”
“Come on.” His eyes are pleading. “The guy who killed Rudy Wallace is a serial rapist. Do you know how lucky you are?”
“He was looking to rob Rudy. He only turned on me when I went to stop him.”
“Yeah, that’s what the police report says. It’s how your statement reads, anyway.” I tilt my head and widen my eyes as if to say:Yeah, and?Wes studies me but I turn away, busy myself with the stack of mail that sits on the kitchen counter. “I also read the other witness statement.” He pauses. “Simon Wade?”
“He works across the street.”
“He backs your story up, or you back up his story. The statements are nearly identical.”
“There aren’t too many versions of the truth.” Looking over my shoulder I add, “Well, maybe not in the world you and my brother live in…I can totally understand your confusion.”
“Dammit, Charlotte,” he says, taking me by the upper arm. “I’m concerned about you. Stop acting like this!”
“Concerned? You left me to walk home alone on a dark stretch of highway and I’m supposed to believe you’re concerned about me?”
He backs away from me and sinks into one of the dining room chairs. “It’s not like that…That night,” he trails off. “You know I care about you.”
I open the front door to make my intentions clear. “I don’t want you to care.”
He doesn’t breeze past me in the hallway this week. I get a head nod. He doesn’t take off when he sees me with Sienna and the other girls on the dance team. He acts as if my presence is no big deal. When the redhead from the gym tries to flirt, I catch him looking my way as he physically extricates himself from her hold.
I’m certainly not being pursued, or heaven forbid wooed in any way, but the simple gestures are meaningful to me.
I read and reread that letter so frequently, touch the paper he held in his hands so often that I’m afraid I’ll wear the ink away.You are everything I imagine a man could want. You’re everything I want but can’t have.His words warm me up, fill me with something thrilling and blissful.
My mother used to love to watch the movie version ofWest Side Story. When she first had the stroke—when my father still cared about her—he used to put headphones on her ears and play the soundtrack. I guess he thought it would jog her memory, bring her back to us. And as sad as the memory of her listening to that music makes me in one respect, I can’t help but sing those songs to myself this week. Because I feel it:Something’s Coming.And yes, the way he looks at me, even though it’s no more than a passing glance, makes me want to belt out the lyrics toI Feel Prettyat the top of my lungs. I sing in my room, I sing in the shower, and when I’m in public I sing in the quiet of my own mind.
This has been a week of extremes, of highs and lows. I know I’m a little off, I recognize it, see my mood swings for what they are. But in those moments when I can block out Rudy, block out that man, block out everything except Simon and that letter, it’s as if I don’t have a care in the world. I’m downright giddy.
By the end of the week, Simon has checked on me four times. He cuts into the lunch line like he did that first time and asks if I’m all right. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he simply replied, “Good,” before turning to leave, but today he actually nods and bestows a smile on me when he says, “Good. Let me know if you need anything.”
I want to tell him that yes, Ineed. Ineedbecause you areallI think about.
Everyone is hopped up. It’s edging up towards seventy degrees by the time the last period bell rings on Friday so people linger in the parking lot. Jackets have been stuffed into backpacks and sweatshirts have been tied around hips. It’s not even that warm, but the first taste of spring in this typically bitter corner of Pennsylvania makes people act a little loco.
Daisy and Sarah are wearing tank tops—loonies must have planned it out in advance—and are practically bouncing on their toes when I meet them at my car. “You’re shivering, Sarah.”
“Am not!” she says, laughing.
Daisy huddles us in, looking between me and Sarah. “There’s a party down at the river tonight. Skylar just told us and said we should come.”
My eyes scan the lot, settling on the corner where the seniors congregate. I see him. He’s surrounded by people but his eyes are fixed on me.
