My tears are swift and immediate, and Charlie is right there beside me, hands on my back.
“Are you alright?” His voice sounds worried as I look up at him behind lashes laden with moisture. He reaches for my hand to inspect the small pink welt appearing on the back of it.
“I ruined dinner,” I sob, unable to contain the tears, unsure of where they came from. I slide to the floor as the sobs wrack my body. I feel guilty over the ruined food, but it’s more than that, more than just the pain from the burn. It’s everything. It’s two months of being injured. Two months of not remembering my own life. Two months of focusing on getting my knee and ankle working right. It’s Thanksgiving: a holiday I would have spent with my parents, a holiday that I spent with my friend Vivian’s family after the parents died, a holiday that’s about family and yet I feel utterly alone except for Charlie. In him, I find a similar soul, cast adrift with no close family ties. When I asked him about spending the holiday with his family, he just shrugged and said that he hasn’t done that in years.
Charlie is sitting near me on the floor and during my crying jag, he cradles me to his chest. He eventually lifts me into his lap, when he senses the shift in tears from physical pain to emotional pain. He doesn’t say anything; he does try to shush my tears and soothe me. He rocks me against him, trying to find something without words that can offer me comfort.
We don’t acknowledge the open oven door or the other food still burning inside.
“I’m so sorry,” I finally manage once my crying has slowed. I’m reaching up and wiping my tears when Charlie pulls back and looks at my face. He’s pensive, one brow ticking down.
“What for?” He brushes the hair from my face and gently cups my cheeks.
“Everything? I ruined dinner, to start. I’ve crashed into your life without a care. I’ve--”
“You’ve made my life so much more than it used to be,” he says, his voice rough.
And then he is kissing me. His mouth is soft, so much softer than I would have guessed. I’m so startled that I don’t even have a chance to react before he pulls away, a blush creeping up his neck.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”
I open my mouth to object but the biscuits are now so badly burnt that smoke is wafting out of the oven. We both scramble off the floor, trying to get there first. Charlie turns both ovens off while I use an actual oven mitt instead of the towel I was using when I burned my hand. I drop the tray of blackened biscuits on the stove top and turn on the vent before looking back at Charlie, who has rescued the rest of the ruined dinner.
Laughter bubbles from my chest, such a change from the tears just moments earlier.
“So, Thai on me tonight?” I ask, finally earning a smile from Charlie, who still refuses to look anywhere near my lips.
Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I’m not alone in this growing attraction for the man who helped save me.
I wish I could say it isn’t awkward after the kiss. Charlie is extra deliberate when he moves around me. Any attempts to try to get him to talk about the situation falter. He is always quick to change the subject, though I catch his eyes following the length of my legs or lingering on my lips.
After an insufferable, isolating week, I corner him the best I can in the kitchen. I brace one hand on the island and the other against the wall. He could easily move around me, but he doesn’t.
“Can we talk?” I ask. It’s late, it’s really later than late. It’s close to three in the morning, and I don’t even care about the kiss at this point, I just want my friend back.
Charlie looks like he would rather eat glass, but his posture deflates just a touch and he nods. “I’m sorry things have been busy.”
The excuse sounds weak to both of us, but I only cross my arms.
“You’ve been avoiding me,” I correct.
He has the decency to look chastened. “You’re not wrong, but you’re also not right. I did have a tremendous amount of work to get done. With good reason.”
“Are you going to tell me that reason, or am I going to have to hold my breath?”
He reaches toward me, his hand coming to my arm. I go still, surprised by the intentional touch.
“We’re going to get out of town.” His words suck the wind out of my sails.
“I’m sorry, what?”
“We’re going to go on a trip. The neurologists have been saying that you need space; you need different stimulation.”
My body flushes at the word stimulation. “What did you have in mind?” I am thankful that he’s talking to me, so I let my annoyance rest.
“We have a flight tomorrow, which is really today, so probably too late for me to even have Ashley get you clothes, but really, it’s not a big deal, if you just pack what you have it’s fine. I have a bag you can use.” He’s rambling. This man, this perfectly polished, put together man with his smiles and his crisp hundred dollar bills, is incapable of stringing words together.
Is this the final hoorah? Is this how we part ways, a trip to soften the blow of ‘get the fuck out of my house’? I can’t believe how much the prospect of that makes me sick. The last thing I want is for us to say goodbye, for me to leave and go back to my solitary existence. I had that for a week while he bustled to and from work and I am not excited to do it again.