HOME: Chapter One
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Chapter One
Oh my God, his profile picture must be from ten years ago.
In the photos she’d seen of him, he had rich brown hair kept sharply cut and a constant five-o’clock shadow. His skin was flawless, and he knew how to dress. He looked like he smelled of cologne and possibly expensive cigars.
The man standing before Charlotte had unkempt mousey gray hair, and the stubble on his face was patchy and long in odd places. His clothing was wrinkled, seeming as if he had just pulled them from a pile, and he smelled nothing like cologne or expensive cigars.
“Hey, it’s so good to finally see you in person,” she said. She hugged him, keeping her body from fully pressing into his. Her eyes stared into themselves from the reflection in the tinted cafe windows, begging her to leave. She cringed, wondering if this was a good idea.
“Yeah, you look so much prettier than your photos,” he said, face buried in her hair. He deeply inhaled, clutching her tightly.
She stumbled forward as he pulled her in, clumsily bumping into him in a full-bodied hug. She laughed and held her arms out away from him, waiting for him to release her. After seconds of gut-wrenching awkwardness, he finally let go. Both of them sighed, hers being shakier than his.
Jeff opened the door to the cafe, letting her in under his arm and following closely behind.
After ordering, the two sat in a booth nestled in the corner of the room. Loud voices and laughter echoed off the tiled floor and the walls, rattling her already overwhelmed mind. She stared at the floor, certain Jeff's gaze was directly on her.
She pulled her attention from the tile at her feet, a dull throbbing in the back of her head. His dark eyes gave her more anxiety than the cafe’s loud patrons. She attempted to smile, feeling the way her lips tightened around her teeth in a grimace rather than a relaxed smile.
“How’s the painting been?” he asked.
She shrugged. “The muse has not been kind.”
Elbow on the table, he leaned his chin on his hand. “I wish I could be that muse.”
She fended off the heebie-jeebies. “Yeah,” she said, and chuckled.
“You brought the painting I asked for, right?”
She nodded, thinking of the painting in the backseat of her car. “Yeah. I’m surprised you wanted that one.” It was one of her earlier pieces, one she wasn’t impressed with.
“Well, I wouldn’t have noticed the painting if it weren’t for the beautiful woman holding it in the photo.”
The statement stung. Charlotte already knew she was pretty. She didn’t need that reinforced. Painting was her passion. At times, painting was her everything. Her skillset was more important to her than his opinion on her looks.
Their names were called, somehow traveling to their table over the raucous laughter of the table next to theirs. She shot out of the booth, followed by Jeff, who appeared unbothered by the noise.
Grabbing his cup, he asked, “Want to go outside?”
She looked around with strikingly wide eyes and nodded, her headache mounting into sharp, jagged pains. She usually avoided public places at peak hours, opting to stay home in her studio. Her quiet, sunny studio. She’d open a window and let the breeze in. Birds might chirp as she painted.
Landscapes were her specialty. Portraits rarely interested her.
He laughed as they walked through the door. “You really don't like crowds, do you?”
It irked her that he found her discomfort funny. She shrugged off the question, noticing all the outdoor tables were full.
“We can sit on my tailgate,” he said.
She looked up at him, her gaze trailing the crepey skin around his mouth and eyes as he smiled. When he had asked to buy one of her paintings, she’d been honored. When he had asked to meet for coffee to discuss art, she was thrilled. He could’ve been a door to other buyers, or even a gallery feature if he knew the right people. Charlotte learned early on that it’s all about networking if you want to make a living as an artist. Further into their first conversation, when he asked if she was single, her excitement had lessened. This wasn’t a meet and greet. It was a coffee date. Based on his photos, she had expected someone closer in age to her, someone she could potentially find attractive. She was twenty-three, and he had to be at least her father’s age.
At least.
Slurping up the whipped cream off the top of her drink with her straw, she said, “Sure.”
He led her to his small blue pickup, opened the tailgate, and presented it graciously.
She set her drink on it and wiped some dirt from the spot she planned to sit. Using both hands to hop up, she plopped onto it and dangled her legs. The parking lot was full, but everyone appeared to be somewhere inside the small shopping plaza. She glanced back at him, picking up her coffee. Sipping it, she asked, “When did you say you’re moving?”
His smile weakened, and his eyes took on a hardened look. “Soon,” he said just under his breath.
Charlotte's skin crawled as he stood close. She set her hand down on the metal to scoot over just as his hand fell over hers.
His eyes bore deeply into hers, a faint smile on his lips. “Soon, sweetheart.”
A shiver spread across her skin, starting at the base of her neck. She looked down at her coffee, taking another sip without noticing the splash of white powder on top of the whipped cream. Her heart raced under his gaze as she nervously stirred it all together.
“So, you live alone?” he asked, breaking a tense silence.
She snapped a look up to him, shaking her head. “No, no. I live with my parents and younger brother.”
“Oh.” He sipped on his iced tea. “You said you’re in college, right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“What are you studying?” He stepped closer to her.
Feeling his breath beating down on her, she said, “Visual arts.”
“Ah, so you are sticking with painting.” He laughed and winked.
She took a big drink, her nose scrunching as she swallowed a mouthful of caramel syrup. “You’re a pharmacist?”
He jumped. “Who said that?”
“You did, the other night.”
He shook his head, eyes wide. “No, no. I’m a, a uh, farm technician. I work with…horses.” He swallowed the rest of his tea, grimacing. As Charlotte opened her mouth to speak, he spoke first. “So, what do you like to do for fun?”
She shrugged, thinking of the stack of books in the corner of her room. “I read.”
Jeff scoffed. “Well, that’s not very fun.”
She shrugged again. She mostly read books about art history, and when she did read fiction, it was still historical. She could talk about techniques and styles and time periods for hours, but she knew he wouldn’t care. He would nod along or talk over her.
Redundancy at its best.
“I’m sure we can figure out something fun to do.” He gently pushed a strand of golden hair behind her ear, smiling. “Moving is going to be hard, but it’ll be worth it.”
She wanted to say something but couldn’t form the words in her mouth. They sat scrambled in her head as she looked out at the parking lot. Images of books and paintings and the bucket of wet brushes she knew she needed to clean flashed through her mind, much like that rush of thoughts one gets before falling asleep.
Finally, she nodded, slowly, just to acknowledge what he said. She took the last sip of her coffee. It was incredibly bitter, and her stomach hurt. She wondered why she had agreed to this impromptu date.
Empty cup in hand, she gave a weak smile while he droned on about how hard the drive was going to be. If she could just get a word in, she would let him know she was going to be late to her mother’s pap smear or the rapture or anything else, just to leave. She would lie until her pants caught fire if only it meant solitude.
She was tired, like a heavy weight had been set on her. When she blinked, it felt like lifting ten pounds just to open her eyes again. She leaned back, supporting herself with her hand.
His smile grew along with her weariness, and he sat next to her, wrapping an arm about her shoulders.
Her cup slipped from her grasp. She watched it spiral down and smack the asphalt a thousand miles below her feet. The lid popped off the cup, spraying coffee-coated ice across the darkness. Looking up at Jeff made her queasy. His closeness frightened her, but she was too exhausted to move away. The way his smile continually crept wider, squinting his eyes further, terrified her, and on top of it, the wild, disordered gray hair seemed to slip further and further away from his forehead with every slow word.
She closed her eyes, falling limply in his arms...
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