Afterthoughts: A Charity McAdams Novella (The Charity McAdams Novellas) (4 page)

Around two o’clock things start to die down and my bo
ss gives me a few minutes to have
something to eat and rest my feet. I grab my phone and a sandwich and sit at one of the tables near the counter, in case I need to pop up and make a drink for someone. I flip to my
texts,
there are three from Ashley but nothing from James. Ashley also called twice and left a voicemail. I read her texts and have a flash of guilt for not calling her last night. I knew she would be dying to know what happened but I hadn’t been in the mood to talk after
James dropped me off
.

I start to text
her back and let her know I’ll
come over to her house after work
and give her the rundown
. Before I
can
click send I get a call from my mom.

“Hey mom,” I answer.

“Hello Dear, are you
at work?” she chirps. My mom is using her
“phone voice
,
” which can only mean that she needs something.

“Yeah,” I glance over at my boss, trying to gauge her level of irritation, she hates when I make phone call
s inside the café. She says it’
s tacky. “I don’t have a lot of time, just finishing my break.”

“Oh ok, well I just need to see if you can do me a huge favor.”

There it is.

I roll my eyes. “What it is?”

“Well, you know how I a
m helping the
Weatherby’s
plan for Hillary and Joe’s wedding.”

I nod, as if she can see me, willing her to get to the point. “
Yes,
and…”

“We have a groomsman flying into Sea-
Tac
tonight and no one is available to go pick him up.”

I groan, “Mom, you can’t be serious.”

She starts to rattle off all the other people she has
already
asked but I stop listening. I
’ve
caught my boss’s attention and she is motioning for me to wrap it up.

“—
Valerie is too pregnant, she really needs her rest.
Joe’s grandma is available but of course they took away her license last spring, so that isn’t an ideal solution
,
but I suppose if you are too busy we can manage.”

“Mom, stop. I’
ll do it.”

“
Ohhh
good!” she squeals and I have to hold the phone away from my ear.

“I really have to
go,
I’ll call you later to get the flight number.”

“Oh, Charity you are just a lifesaver!”

“Ok, ok, I’ll talk to you later,” I say before hanging up and shoving the phone back into my purse.

Un-freaking-believable.

My mom fancies herself a bit of a wedding coordinator and somehow manages to wiggle her way into the center of all the local
weddings. I’m still not sure how she talks these people into hiring her as a wedding planner when she had no previous experience, other than my stalled out big day and my sister’s shotgun wedding, but she has done a few now and seems to be on quite the roll. What people don’t realize is how many “favors” she has to call in to pull out each event.
Mostly at the expense of my sister Valerie, me, and my poor father.

“Valerie is too pregnant,” I roll my eyes again as I repeat that to myself and stalk to the back room to scarf the rest of my sandwich and put m
y apron back on. Valerie is four
month
s
pregnant and the
worst thing she has complained about so far is gaining weight and some brief morning sickness. It’s hard to imagine her bei
ng so impaired that she couldn’
t drive to the airp
ort and pick up the
lone groomsman.

***

The rest of the day passes without too much incident. I called my mom and got the flight informat
ion and realized I basically have just enough
time to go home, chan
ge, and get on the road if I have
any hope of making it on time. Since it is Saturday there won’t be as much traffic but the airport is busy no matter what, or at least
it feels that way. Maybe that’
s just the small town girl coming out.

I call Ashley from the car and put her on Bluetooth as I start my
hour and a half
trek to t
he airport. I fill her in on th
e situation and let her know I’
m not going to make it over tonight
after all.

“I’m sorry, Charity, that really sucks. No offense, but your mom is
kinda
pushy.”

“Believe me, I know. I don’t know what her deal is with this wedding planning stuff. It’s like she is overcompensating for the fact that Valerie and I didn’t have the perfect, fairy tale weddings.” I sigh. “Oh well, she’ll probably give me a
mani-pedi
gift certificate for the trouble. Heaven knows I could use a trip to the spa.”

I glance at the back of my
hands,
working in a café is not exactly a fingernail friendly job.

“Whose
wedding is it again?”

“Hillary
Weatherby
and Joe Stuart.
I think they were a year or two ahead of us in school. Apparently they hated each other in high school but ended up at the same college and things changed. Kind of a crazy story from what my mom was telling me a few weeks ago.”

“Who is the guy you’re picking up? Anyone we know?”

“No, I guess he was Joe’s college roommate.”

“
Gotcha.
So, s
peaking o
f weddings…” Ashley starts, “I’
m assuming there was no proposal las
t night. As your best friend I’
m sure I would have known within a few hours if that had been the case. It’s in our
contract somewhere,” she jokes, trying to soften the question.

I’m quiet for
a moment and lean my head back o
n the headrest.
“Nope, no proposal, at least not of the marriage variety.”

“What do you mean?”

I give her the play-by-play
, st
opping for dramatic effect at the more horrific
moments.

“And he hasn’t called or texted you all day?” She asks when I finish.

“
Nope.
”

“Wow Charity, I’m so sorry. Do you think it’s
…
over?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know what to do next. I don’t even know what I want to have happen next. I don’t want to break up but I also don’t want to get engaged and if he is on that track and I’m not, I just don’t see how it could work. We would both end up disappointing the other and that’s not super healthy.”

“I think you should call him, offer the olive branch,”
she advises. “He’
s probably a little wounded right now and not sure what to say so he probably feels like he can’t initiate a conversation.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right. I really didn’t mean to hurt him like that.”

“I know that, you
just need to let him know you’re still
here and that you
do
want to work it out. He’s crazy about you,
Charity,
you guys will find a way to make it work. If that’s what you want.” She adds.

“
I know. You’re right.
I’ll call him when I get home. H
e usually stays up pretty late on Saturdays. Gives me a little more time to figure out what I want to say. Maybe that way I won’t make such an idiot out of myself!”

“You mean you shouldn’t interrupt people and say the first thing that comes into your mind,” Ashley teases, sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah.”
I laugh with her and it feels good.

“Well keep me posted! I’ll be up later
tonight,
I’m working on some new sketches
.”

“Ok,
I’ll try to text you before I go to bed. We can get lunch tomorrow to get all caught up.”

“It’s a date!”

I smile and hang up. It’s nice to know that when everything is
topsy
turvy
I still have Ashley to keep me sane.

**
*

By eight
o’clock I’
m standing at the bagg
age claim for flight 1210 from Detroit, m
ore irritated with my assi
gnment than ever
.
I still don’t know what to tell James and the prospect of entertaining a complete stranger for an hour and a half
, while I’m trying to figure that all out,
seems exhausting.

I have a
little poster board sign
(
that has clearly been attacked with the
Bedazzler
a few too many times) that reads:
“
Weatherby
Wedding P
arty
”
and
I feel a little ridiculous as people mill around waiting for bags to drop onto the conveyor belt. Not many of them look happy
and it makes me thankful I don’
t have a job that requires me to fly all over the country in stuffy looking business suits. Some people
do
look happy, greeting family and friends, grandkids getting passed around. There are a few couples that give each other looks and secret
smiles that make my heart ache.

Minutes tick by and most people have claimed their luggage and made their way outside. I stand o
n my tip toes, wondering who I’
m looking for. I wish I had thought to ask my
mom
for a picture or something.

I hear a familiar sounding voice and glance to the left by th
e customer service desk. There’
s a man with his back to me but something about him makes me step closer. When he turns his head slightly I let out a small shriek and drop my sign.

Brandon Hart is standing twenty feet from me.

I feel my jaw drop open and my mind flips
into full blown panic mode. It’s
almost like a carefully crafted puzzle has just shattered into a thousand pieces
,
which are now
all
bouncing around
my brain. I don’
t know if I should run, hide, scream, or physically assault him.
I haven’t spoken to him since our rehearsal dinner and while several years have passed I suddenly find myself cycling through the stages of grief in rapid succession.

Denial: That isn’t really him standing there, it just looks like him.

Anger: That rat bastard! How dare he come back to my town after all this time!

Bargaining: Maybe he’s changed, maybe things are different now.

Depression:
This is going to cause full blown chaos, my life is over.

I don’t quite get to acceptance before he starts to turn around. It seems like slow motion but
I need to act now!

I decide to go hide over
by the escalators where there are more people but in the process of thinking and walking at the same time I trip over someone’s abandoned luggage cart and despite
my efforts to stabilize myself I fall
forward onto the floor, my purse
flies from my hand and skids
across the room, scattering my lipstick, compact, wallet, car keys, and one stray tampon in its wake.

I lay, paralyzed, willing the earth to swallow me whole. A chorus of gasps and giggles erupt at my acrobatic performance
(I think one
dirtbag
even applauded)
and I can’t
even look up for fear of making eye contact with anyone.
It doesn’t matter
that 99.9% of these people are virtual strangers to me and I will more than likely never see them again. The one person who matters…or mattered…is here.

“Charity?”

I know the voice. I know it very well. I squeeze my eyes tightly together, if I can’t see him, he can’t see me
,
right?

“Charity, is that you?”

I open one eye and shift it in his direction. “Hi Brandon,” I mumble into the floor.

In one fluid movement he pulls me up from the floor and stra
ightens my jacket before bending
to gather my things and put them back in my purse. I cannot
bring myself to
say anything or help him.

Or close my mouth for that matter.

He hands me my renegade purse
and half of me wants to bolt but
the other half is
firmly glued to the spot where I am standing,
not trusting my legs to carry me
,
especially at high speeds.