Bittersweet Homecoming (16 page)

“What happened with you and Amelia’s dad? If you don’t mind me asking,” I qualify.

She shakes her head. “I’d rather not talk about it. Have you eaten?” she asks, redirecting our conversation. “Are you hungry? Can I get you something to drink?”

“How about you stop being a waitress for a minute and just hang out with me?” I propose.

“Old habits,” she smiles sheepishly.

“I don’t mind the hospitality,” I clarify, “but you clocked out for the night already. Let’s just enjoy each other’s company.”

“I think I can handle that.”

The TV is on in the living room with the volume turned low. A few table lamps brighten the room, but just enough. There’s a homemade afghan flung over the back of the couch.

Charlotte grabs the remote off the coffee table and flips through a few channels. “Do you want to watch a movie or something?”

I place my hands over hers and gently pry the remote out of her hands. “You seem … a little nervous.” I observe. It’s a stark difference from the confident, aggressive woman who had me in her bed the previous night.

I lean forward and cup one hand against the side of her face. Her eyelashes flutter at the touch. I draw her in, slowly, sweetly, cupping my hands on either side of her face. I press my mouth to hers for a soft kiss. Her breath tastes fresh and minty like she brushed her teeth moments before I arrived.

I kiss her again, this time capturing her lower lip and nipping at it with my teeth. Her tongue slides against mine and she makes a quiet, approving noise in my mouth.

“Is that better?” I ask, pulling away.

“Mmhm,” she murmurs, eyes still closed. Her smile relaxes and so does the rest of her body. “Sorry if I’m being weird. I guess I didn’t know what it would be like, seeing you a second time.”

“I feel like I need a shower,” I say, picking at my hair. “Emily and I were having a bonfire when you called.”

“I hope I wasn’t interrupting.”

“No. You actually had perfect timing. I don’t know how Emily and I ever lived under the same roof for so long.”

“Ahh, yes.” She nods sagely. “Siblings. No matter how old we are or how much time has passed, whenever my brother Max and I are around each other, we revert to children.”

“And the walls are starting to close in on me,” I add. “I know I should be around my dad’s house more, but there’s only so much of my family I can take.”

Charlotte’s features take on a pinched look. “I’m trying to remember your mom. I’m at your dad’s store all the time. What does she do?”

“Besides run away?” When Charlotte looks even more confused, I elaborate: “She took off when I was really little. Left a note saying this life was too small for her.”

“I’m sorry, Abby.”

“Like mother, like daughter,” I mumble.

“What do you mean?”

“She left Grand Marais because she wanted more than small-town life had to offer. I guess you could say the same about me.”

“Almost everyone wants that for themselves, Abby. It’s why we leave town to go to college.”

“
You
came back,” I point out.

“I didn’t have much of a choice. I had a newborn and my boyfriend was an abusive tyrant. Coming back to Grand Marais probably saved my life.”

I discover I’m digging my fingernails into my palms. “He-he hurt you?” The thought makes me ill.

“Physically, no. He never laid a hand on me. But I don’t know how many times I heard how stupid and inadequate I was. After swallowing down so many hurtful words all the time, you start to accept them as your truth.”

I don’t have words. I clench and unclench my jaw.

“I got pregnant my senior year of college. I lost my athletic scholarship because of it, but my parents had a little money saved away for a rainy day, and it was pouring.” She shakes her head a little sadly. “Amelia’s dad wanted to get his MBA, but we didn’t have the money to pay for baby formula let alone graduate school. I think he resented us for cutting short his grand life plans.”

“You’re really amazing, Charlotte. Beautiful
and
resilient.”

“It’s not a big deal,” she brushes off.

“No, really. I don’t know what I would have done in your position. I don’t think I’ve ever had any real life trial or struggle. Everything has always come easy for me.”

“We’re only dished out what we can handle.”

“Are you not very good at taking compliments?” I lightly tease.

“They’re just words. I’m a bigger advocate for action.”

“As a writer, I’m going to have to respectfully disagree. Words have amazing power.”

“Oh, I don’t disagree with you. Empty promises, assurances that have no follow through—they all have the power to hurt.”

I hollow out my cheeks, unsure of how to respond to such serious words.

“You’re not a bad person for leaving Grand Marais, Abby,” she says. “Your mom though, no offense, but what a bitch.”

“Can’t argue with that logic.”

There’s a hole in the knee of her jeans, and I absentmindedly play with the frayed material. Beneath the jeans is bronzed skin that my fingers skim over.

“I really like this,” I think aloud. “You and me getting to talk with no outside distractions. Like really talk. About things that matter. I can’t remember the last time I had a serious conversation.”

She makes a humming sound. “It’s strange. I’m normally not a big sharer. Especially not about this kind of stuff.”

“With someone you’ve only known a week,” I add.

“Technically we’ve known each other all of our lives,” she points out.

I continue to stroke her knee. “Just not like this.”

“No,” she agrees. “Not like this.”

It’s a long time between eye blinks. When I shut my eyes, a replay of the local nightly news is on. The next time I open them, the closing credits of a rerun of
Saturday Night Live
are scrolling down the TV screen. I’m acutely aware that I’m leaning heavily on another body.

The fingers stroking my hair come to a stop. “And you’re back,” Charlotte quietly murmurs.

I gingerly sit up on the couch. My neck is sore from sleeping at an awkward angle. “Geez, sorry. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you—like literally
on
you.”

“It’s okay. You’re cute when you sleep,” she remarks. “Even with all that drooling.”

I hastily wipe the back of my hand across my face, but there’s nothing there. “You’re mean,” I say, sticking out my tongue.

“Even Amelia doesn’t stick out her tongue anymore.”

“You must bring out the best in me,” I quip. I don’t know what time it is, but I know it’s got to be late. “I should probably go.”

“I’m not kicking you out.”

“I know. But I don’t want to wear out my welcome.”

She’s silent for a long moment as if she’s trying to decipher the real reason I’m taking off instead of spending the night with her again. “This happened fast.”

“It did,” I confirm.

“And I know you have no intention of staying in Grand Marais.”

I shake my head.

“Then why do you have to go tonight?”

“I’m just trying to do the right thing.” That’s the truth, but she still doesn’t know about Kambria, which the more time we spend together, the more heavily I’m burdened with unresolved guilt.

“I’m a big girl,” she says. “Why don’t you let me worry about myself?”

I don’t have the willpower to deny her.

I don’t want to think about the fact that I’m going back to Los Angeles in the immediate future. The knowledge is too heavy and complicated and that’s the last thing I want to think about right now. All I want to fill my eyes and brain with is the vision of Charlotte’s perfect breasts and how well they fit in the palms of my hands.

I tug lightly on her hair to direct her where I need her most. “God, right there,” I quietly pant when the up and down movement of her tongue makes my eyes roll backwards. “That’s so fucking good. Don’t stop.”

She lifts her head and does the very thing I begged her not to do. She stops.

“Why did you do that?”

Her face is serious. “You said to stop.”

“No I didn’t. I said
don’t
stop.”

She rests her hands on my inner thighs and squeezes. “You should speak a little more clearly.”

“I would, but I’m afraid of a six year old hearing us and walking in.”

“Maybe Amelia could have a sleepover at Grandma and Grandpa’s tomorrow night,” she proposes.

A frustrated, pained whimper reaches my ears and it’s a moment before I realize the noise came from me. “That doesn’t help me out right now,” I can’t help but pout.

I reach out and twist a long, blonde tendril around my finger. “Are you sure you’ve never done this before?”

“I’m sure,” she answers me. Delicate kisses are placed on the soft inner flesh of my inner thighs. “But I’ve had enough practice on myself.”

The imagery of Charlotte on her back, legs splayed open, fingers running through sweet folds and arching into her own touch flashes through my head. It’s a curse to be so visual sometimes.

It’s late, and I’m sure she’s exhausted from a long day of being a single mom and a bartender, but her body doesn’t surrender to sleep until we’re both fully sated. It’s like she’s found water after wandering the desert for years and can’t get her fill. I know because I feel that way, too.

+ + +

I’ve found paradise within the four walls of Charlotte’s bedroom. A long, naked limb peeks out from beneath the white cotton sheets of the bed. The furniture and wall decorations are sparse. There’s no TV or computer; the only real technology in the room is a digital alarm clock and the cell phone in the back pocket of my jeans. The entire room is filled with sunshine, but nothing is more golden than Charlotte’s hair or brighter than her sleepy smile.

“Good morning,” I murmur. I stretch my arms above my head. I’ve had only a handful of hours of sleep over the past few nights, but I feel amazingly rested and relaxed.

“Morning,” she returns.

Her long hair is tussled, and the combination of sex and a humid night has caused her hair to curl even more. I reach out to tame a particularly wild flyaway near her temple. “Now I see where Amelia gets her hair.”

She makes a humming noise. “The magic of hair products.”

I slip the baby fine hair over the pads of my fingers. “It’s like corn silk,” I think aloud. “Or cotton candy.”

“Hungry?” she teases.

“A little,” I admit.

She sits up in bed and the covers slide down her tan, naked form. She pulls them tight around her chest before they reveal any more. It’s cliché, but I think the sight of a naked woman beneath crisp, white bed sheets is the most beautiful view in the world.

“I feel cheated.”

Her words cause my throat to constrict, and the languid feeling of slowly rousing from sleep is replaced with dread. Somehow, she knows.

“You what?”

“Two sleepover parties, and no one’s braided my hair or painted my toenails,” she smiles.

I relax into the pillow. “What time do you have to be at the bar today?” I ask. My hand fits snug among her long fingers—fingers that only hours ago were exploring my body with dedicated curiosity.

“The late shift again.”

“Think I can take you out before then?”

“Depends.”

“On?”

“I’ve got a kid.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I was hoping the three of us could spend the day together.”

Charlotte chews on her lower lip. It’s clear neither of us have really thought much beyond what would happen when we woke up. A one-night stand can be written off. But two? She’s got Amelia, and I’ve got … my own stuff.

“I’ve got some errands this morning, and later on—”

“No, it’s okay,” I interrupt, suddenly embarrassed by my suggestion. “I get it.”

I slide out of bed and begin to pull on my clothes from the previous day. They smell like campfire smoke, but it’s all I’ve got.

“I would, Abby,” she apologizes from bed. “But Amelia—”

“It’s okay,” I cut her off again. “I’ll see you later.”

CHAPTER TEN

“Anthony.”

Mindful of the time difference, I wait for a respectable hour to call my friend in the morning.

“Well, hello, Miss Abby,” he greets after a long yawn. “Long time no chat. How are things in the land of lumberjacks and lesbians?”

“I need some advice,” I tell him.

“You’ve come to the right place.” His voice instantly sounds more alert. “What can Miss Fabulous help you with, child?”

Miss Fabulous is Anthony’s alias when he’s performing in drag. She’s a little bit hip-hop, a little bit beauty pageant, and all sass.

“If a person breaks up with someone over voicemail, but they never respond to the message, are you really broken up?”

“Is this one of those trees falling in the forest kind of hypothetical questions? Or is this a page taken from your disastrous dating life?”

I groan into the phone.

“What’s going on, sugar?” Anthony presses.

“I broke up with Kambria in a voicemail, and I haven’t heard from her, so I don’t know if she got it, which means I don’t know if we’re really broken up.”

“Number one, I can’t believe you’d break up with someone in a voicemail. I thought you were better than that.”

“I know. It was totally juvenile,” I agree.

“And why are you so anxious to be suddenly single? Don’t tell me you’ve already found your next girlfriend in the land of milk and cheese,” he laughs.