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The first is leaving the house dressed like a homeless person because honestly, there is no excuse for that other than I needed to see him. Maybe he’ll see the charm in my pajamas.
The second mistake is that I left without my phone, forgetting to grab it from my bed because I was in such a hurry. Calling him would have saved me the hassle of standing on a dark side street.
When I get closer, I see a group of women with his book in hand. I sigh, frustrated that a crowd has already gathered, and briefly wonder if these women are professional stalkers. I lift my chin and walk toward the group, wanting to get a primo spot so he’ll see me. The fangirls are serious about maintaining their current positions, though, and I discover they aren’t afraid to elbow me to keep it.
“Okay, okay, I get it,” I mumble, irritated. Talking to myself is something I’ve started doing in the past year. It’s quite embarrassing, but whatever. I can’t worry about that right now. I have a Charlie to track down, to stalk.
The bookstore’s side door flies open, and two women walk out, directing the crowd to back away from the car. Then like a celebrity, he walks out. Charlie. I hear a collective swoon, including my own.
His body language shows his discomfort in the situation. His head is down, and he’s focused on the car door that’s open for him.
When the crowd starts calling his name, he looks up, all shy and a lot gorgeous, and smiles.
This is it!
“Charlie! Charlie! Charlie!” I scream, trying to be the loudest of the Charliegirls.
He doesn’t respond, and suddenly images of flinging myself on top of the car come to mind. That’s absurd . . . right? Yes, I nod. Totally ludicrous. I need an immediate and very different tactic. I jump in the air, which isn’t very high, and yell again. “Charlie! Charlie? It’s me, Charlie!”
He’s just about to duck into the car when he stops and looks up.
“Charlie!” I call his name one more time and hold the rabbit’s foot into the air. I grip his book to my chest and pray he can see the lucky charm even if he can’t see me among his fans.
Suddenly, everyone goes quiet, and I hear him say, “Charlie, is that you?”
My heart stops when I hear his dulcet tones calling me. I jump up once. “That’s me! I’m here.”
Then, like Moses parting the Red Sea, my Charlie parts the groupies, and he’s standing there with his hand out toward me and smiles. “Come here.”
My body responds, and I’m there, standing in front of him in pink cupcake-covered pajamas and smelling like pizza. Thank goodness my coat hides my unfortunate outfit choice. I pat down my hair, feeling where it’s matted, but try to be as presentable as possible for my declaration.
He takes my hand and pulls me closer as he backs up toward the car. “What are you doing here?”
I can’t help but feel encouraged hearing the hope in his voice.
My cheeks heat under his gaze, a gaze I can confidently call adoring. I gulp, praying my knees don’t buckle. “You didn’t sign the book for me.”
Looking between us, he sees the book, and a look of disappointment colors his handsome face. “Oh. Yeah, I can do that.” His hands drop to check his pockets, and he says, “I don’t have a pen.”
“And I’m sorry.” I blurt the words.
His eyes crinkle at the corners in confusion. “You’re sorry I don’t have a pen?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I mean, yes. Yes, I’m sorry about that, too, but really, Charlie, I’m sorry I’m always apologizing to you because I screw up so much. My head gets clouded, and my past was holding me back, but I came here tonight with hope. I read some of your book, and you wrote about us. I was late, and I was told it was sold out and I couldn’t come in, and then the lady with little glasses threatened to call security on me, so I had to leave the line and—”
“Wait! Hold up.” He throws his hands up between us, so I shush immediately. “You read some of the book, and now you’re here because you want me to sign it?”
“I read some of it, the beginning. I just started reading an hour ago and . . .” I want to clear the air and start over, so I take a deep breath to calm my nerves. “I came here because you wrote about us. This is us in here. Our story,” I say, tapping the book.
He nods as he backs us to the car. Considering he’s giving me all his attention, the groupies lose interest and start to leave. I mentally celebrate this small victory because I’m the last woman standing.
