The Charlotte Chronicles (15 page)

I
t’s been
three years since I received Charlotte’s last letter. It was the first letter she didn’t sign with love. The paper is crumpled from my reflexive anger when I first received it. It was anger directed at myself. But it’s also worn due to the many times I’ve read it and re-read it. I know it by heart. I know all her letters by heart. I’ve written her back a thousand times in my head, but only a few words have ever made it to the page. I couldn’t describe to her what I felt like in those early days. How much I hated myself. Greta. Women. Everything.

I trace the splotches, her tears, like a morbid tic-tac-toe. I’ve started so many letters to her and wanted to kiss her so many times. It was fucking awful to see her and not touch her. As she grew older and more beautiful, each visit home was more painful than the torture they did in Special Forces to prepare us for capture. So I went home less and less, until I just stopped going home altogether.

I stayed away, telling myself it was better for her to find someone else. That she’d be happier. That the whole “Nathan and Charlotte” thing was a child’s dream. I thought that she’d give up over time, but she never did. She held on so long. And the longer she held on—the more amazing she showed herself to be—the more I realized I didn’t deserve her, no matter how much I wanted her.

It’s been nearly two years since I last saw her in person. Mom and Dad and Nick have learned that if they want to see me, they come to me because I can’t go back to Chicago.

I pull up her profile on my phone. It’s still the first entry. Every new phone I’ve ever gotten, I’ve punched in her number first and added her picture. I’ve got recent ones that Nick furtively sends me. They are still good friends, maybe even best friends, but Charlotte would be so angry if she knew that 99 percent of the pictures of Nick takes of the two of them are for my eyes.

“Who’s the hottie, Monk?”

Some new recruit peers over my shoulder at Charlotte’s smiling face. I turn the phone screen face down and give him a glare that has new seamen crying in their boots.

“Don’t even look at her. He’ll kick your ass,” calls Bride. He’s a teammate of mine. I can’t wait until we get off this fucking ship. Most of the time we fly in and out of these carriers, but right now we’re cooling our heels, waiting on orders to see whether we’ll be going in to rescue some rich guy and his wife who were kidnapped in the Mediterranean.

“She looks like she’s worth an ass kicking or five.”

“Move the fuck along,” I bark.

The seaman hesitates, but when I start to rise from my seat, he scuttles off.

I shouldn’t call her, but I can’t help it. Not after the last mission. Not after the journalist we’d rescued looked me in the eye and said that bravery was living, not pretending to live. Not after spending another evening reading through all of her letters. I have a lot of apologies to make, a lot of fences to mend. I have a lot to make up for, but after spending nine years running, I’m ready finally ready to face her and tell her that I still believe in Nathan and Charlotte.

With a deep breath, I press send and the phone rings once, then twice.

“Hello?” A man’s voice. A sleepy man’s voice is answering Charlotte’s phone in the middle of the fucking day.

“Is Charlotte there?” I bite out.

There’s a rustling and then the sleepy voice says, “Charlie, someone’s on the phone for you.”

Charlie?
 This guy, who’s sleeping close to her phone, has a fucking nickname for her? It takes superhuman effort not to crush the phone in my hand.

“Who is it?” I’d recognize her voice in hell. I feel like I’m already headed there.

“Dunno.”

“Oh my god, is it two already? I need to go. Where’s my shirt? Reese? Don’t go back to sleep. Help me find my shirt!”

The phone must lie forgotten on the . . . bed? Bile rises in my throat.

“I can’t go without my shirt. Get out of bed, you bum, and help me find it.”

“Here it is. It was under the bed. I must have tossed it there last night.”

“Can you do up my skirt in the back? I can never get that hook. I think my hands are broken from all the rubbing you made me do last night.”

I hang up before I can hear another word. Dropping the phone to the table, I take deep, gulping breaths to corral my burgeoning rage, but concentrated breathing isn’t doing a thing for me. With a roar, I shoot to my feet and grab the side of my table. With one heave, I flip it over. Plates go flying, and the guys on the other side look shocked and pissed off, but I don’t give a goddamn. I start throwing around chairs, benches, anything I can get my hands on. People are shouting and running, but I’m in full Hulk mode now. Destroy. Destroy. Destroy. Four hands grab at me, two at each arm, and they drag me backward out of the room. It’s Bride and another teammate, Cabby.

“Whoever she is, she’s not worth it,” Bride says as we clear the door. They drag me all the way to the head and shove me into the shower. I get in a punch on one of them before the cold water hits my head and the shock of it snaps me out of my rage-fueled mania.

“Not worth it,” Bride repeats.

“No pussy ever is,” Cabby agrees.

As the water drips down my face into the tiny drain, I lean back against the hard metal wall. Regret swarms me like locusts, and I stare at the two of them who look back at me with concern and disbelief. Rubbing that left area of my chest where my heart once resided, I tell them the shitty truth. “She was, and I fucked it up.”

I
pull
on the T-shirt Reece threw to me and ask, “Okay, how do I look? Slutty bartender?”

“Not really. More, I slept too late and I’m too lazy to do anything about it.”

“Thanks. That’s really nice, Reece.”

He shrugs one shoulder. “That’s what girlfriends are for. Who was it on the phone?”

I look. Unknown caller.

“Must’ve been a telemarketer.”

“What time do you have to be at Stack’s?” Reese asks me, pushing up from the sofa where we’d both fallen asleep. We were up all night massaging the belly of his pregnant horse. Reese’s family ranches the same land his great grandfather settled on just after the first World War. Reese loves his family and his horses but hates ranching. He’s currently my right hand man and one of my best friends, but currently I’m cursing him because my fingers are stiff and sore and I’m going to be late.

“I’m opening it up. Lainey has a pediatric check up with Cassidy at four. It’s the only time they could fit her in. I’m wondering whether I’ll even be able to grip a glass.” I raise my hands and flex my fingers, wincing at the ache.

“You look like you’re auditioning for Cat Woman,” Reese jokes. “Or doing jazz hands.” His fingers waggle obscenely at me.

“No, thanks.”

“You should take that cool drink of water home with you tonight,” he advises, lying back on the sofa. Obviously he has no plans to get up.

“Who’s that?” I ask absently, checking to see that I have everything I need. Keys, credit card, ID. Bag full of notebooks. Phone.

“The head bartender. Martin? Maxwell? Mysterious Man?”

“You mean Michael?”

“Yeah, him.” Reese growls low in appreciation.

“Michael is . . .” I pause because I’ve never really noticed Michael. I have a vague memory of someone dark haired and tall.

“Tall, built, hot. Did I mention built? Did you not see him at the flag football game last week? We were sitting right next to each other!” Reese is completely affronted.

“There were a lot of nice chests on display,” I say weakly. I remember the flag football game, or at least I remember going to the park with Reese and Lainey, but I was making out my schedule for this week.

“It’s all those professional athletes, you know,” he accuses. “You’ve become numb to ripped bodies. You think everyone has them.”

“I don’t,” I protest. But maybe he is right. There’s no shortage of sculpted abs and amazing physiques in my circle. Maybe I have become desensitized to them.

“Get out of my sight,” he says, throwing a pillow at my head. “I can’t be around someone who doesn’t drool over a good man chest.”

“I promise to work on my drooling. I’ll even try to sexually harass Michael during work. In the meantime,” I throw the pillow back, “will you please double check my schedule and plane tickets? I’ve got a million and ten things to do when I get to San Diego tomorrow.”

“I liked you better when you were a romantic!” Reese calls out after me. “When you cried at soda commercials and tampon ads.”

It’s not until after the door closes that I answer him. “I didn’t,” I say to the empty stairwell.

When I was a girl I used to think writing letters, for example, was super romantic. But after years of writing and receiving almost no response, years of waiting only to be left alone time and again, I woke up finally and realized that romanticism is simply a cover used to conceal decay and sickness.

Men cheat on their girlfriends. Girlfriends cheat on their boyfriends. At least some guys know that they can’t be in a relationship because they’re too busy sampling every type of woman, as if God created the female in a buffet form just for their pleasure.

It’s not that I don’t believe in love. I just don’t believe it’s for me. I had my one great chance at love, but when it was exposed to a few harsh conditions, it collapsed like a shitty ass umbrella in the Windy City.

I believe in friendships like the ones I have with Nick and Reese and Lainey. I believe in the love of my parents. God knows they’d do anything for me. I believe in long walks in the park, the surprise pleasure of a warm summer rain, the rotation of the spiral pass, and the glory of the no hitter. I believe in a lot of things, but I don’t believe in love.

When I arrive at Stack’s, the doors are propped open. The summer heat is baking into the concrete, loosening the odor of the Las Colinas streets. For a swanky neighborhood in Dallas, sometimes the smell of progress stinks.

“Why do you have the doors open?” I ask Lainey, my other best friend and current manager of Stack’s.

“Smelled like someone died in here last night,” she explains.

“It’s awful out there.”

“Was worse in here.”

Seeing that I’m not going to win this battle, I stick my purse under the bar and tie my apron on. “Should I cut the limes first?”

She nods and checks her watch. “I’m going to be in back counting bottles. When Michael comes in, tell him to record the opening bank and then he can come back and finish up inventory.”

“I’ve got this covered.” I shoo her toward the door. “You go on and get Cassidy to her appointment.”

“Seems like it was only yesterday you plopped down here asking me about all the good places around the Mustang’s training facility, and now you’re telling me what to do,” she replies with a wry smile.

“A good bar owner knows everything,” I say affectionately.

Looking around, I take in the wide oak-paneled walls, circular wooden tables, and cheap stage that have been my home away from home for three years and sigh. Maybe I’m still a teensy bit romantic because this rundown joint looks beautiful to me. When I came here three years ago, I was heartsore and trying to find myself. Here I found Lainey, a bar waitress with one kid, a bad boyfriend, and a big heart. And Reese, a man child looking for love in every conceivable wrong place but still smiling no matter how many times the guy of his dreams turned out to be a cheating bastard.

I’d started a business and found comfort in new friends and a good career. On most days, this is good enough.

When Nick got drafted by the Mustangs, I came with him to ensure the transition from college to pros went as smoothly as possible. I bought groceries for him, made sure his clothes were cleaned, paid his bills, and generally made it so all he had to do was concentrate on football. Oh, and women. He had plenty of time for women. I was the buffer between him and everyone who wanted something from him. Every rookie he came into contact with envied him.

When he won the Super Bowl his second year out, my little business expanded from one player to ten. And in the past year, it has grown from ten players to twenty-nine, and I’ve had to leave the bar to keep up with demand.  After Lainey’s job was threatened by the old manager because she’d had an emergency at home, Nick, Reese and I bought this bar—although Nick is a silent partner because Lainey and him don’t get along.

Forget Me Not, or F’Me as my players like to call it, now aids the transitions of professional athletes in nearly every major city and for every major sport as they are drafted or traded. Each athlete is handled by one person.

I find them places to live close to the training facility along with restaurants, grocery stores, schools, nannies, dry cleaning, and churches. And I take care of all the details back home—getting a house sold, making sure all the bills are taken care of, finding that lucky pair of shoes that was left behind. All the player has to do is pick up his bag and leave. I—or one of my employees—take care of all the details.

And because I am scatter-brained I have to write things down. I have written lists, electronic lists, and a master list of my lists. When it was just me managing my small herd of players, I kept track of them by assigning them to a single notebook, color coded according to their new team colors. Reese is my admin because he likes a job without responsibility, or so he says. Even Lainey pitches in from time to time when she can. If there’s an emergency or something falls through the cracks, one of the three of us take care of it.

And tomorrow I’m flying out to San Diego to patch one of those cracks. A baseball player, Christian Glass, has just been traded from the Royals to the San Diego Commandants. This is his second trade in two years, and his family is anxious and unhappy. I promised Christian I’d come out personally and help with the transition.

This is a big deal for me, even though Christian doesn’t know it, because I never, ever go to San Diego. That’s where Nate is stationed, part of the West Coast SEAL teams. Despite San Diego being a huge city, I always worry about seeing him in some random place—like a shopping center or a bar or a grocery store. In every scenario he has his arm draped around a woman and I know if I ever see that, whatever is left of my childhood will be crushed. As I told him in my last letter, I will always love him.

I just don’t want to.