Page 46 of The Charm of You

How many times is it acceptable to compliment a pot roast before it loses its value? I’m on three and counting, because each time the man sitting across from me licks his lips or darts his gaze onto me, I melt into a pile of mush in my seat. I’m sinking so deeply into this chair that I’m seriously concerned I’ll rise and find an imprint of my ass on the cushion like I sat in sand.

How is it possible to be so confused and turned on at the same time? Austin Kyle is a master at making me feel both. He argues with everything I say. No matter what it is, he does or says the opposite.

And I squirm. My heart rattles. The pooling heat from my core seeps into every crevice of my body, and I’m the turned the hell on.

The only time he’s agreed with me was when I said we shouldn’t kiss again. It was easy—too easy, in fact—and I should’ve known better than to believe him.

This morning, he said he didn’t want to play any of my games, but it seems to me that he’s the one playing tricks.

“Another roll?” Suzanne holds up a basket toward me and drags my attention away from her brooding son.

“No, thank you.” I use my napkin to swipe at the corners of my mouth. “I’m actually pretty stuffed.”

“You didn’t even eat!” She gasps and sets the basket down, but not before Austin’s wolfish hand scoops a roll up for himself.

“Caroline’s on the New York diet,” Mama teases. “Nothing but coffee and a few bites on the run for this one.”

“That’s not entirely true. Every Wednesday, I treat myself to an entire bagel and a smoothie—on the run.” I smile, as does everyone else. Of course, Austin releases a noise that sounds like something only a bear waking up from hibernation would make, but I can’t let it stop me from enjoying myself.

Suzanne’s good energy is infectious.

“You must have terribly interesting stories from up North.” She gushes. “Your mama’s shared plenty of her own visits with me, and it sounds downright marvelous.”

Mama sets her fork down and smiles at me. “You should tell them of the strange man who serenaded you and your friend Beverly on the subway.”

“That’s pretty much the whole story.” I laugh with them.

“He made up his own lyrics and everything,” my mother adds, then resumes eating.

“I’ve tried to get Austin to be more adventurous, but he’s content here.” Suzanne nudges him with her elbow, but he doesn’t take the bait and remains silent.

“He could be in worse places,” I muse, which does grab Austin’s attention.

He lifts his eyes, but I can’t read them. What is he holding behind those deep aqua eyes? I desperately want to know.

“Can we get back to talking about how good this pot roast is?” he says sarcastically. It’s a clear jab at me, and it wiggles a soft laugh out of me.

I set my napkin next to my half-eaten plate and excuse myself from the table. Suzanne’s instructions for the bathroom follow me as I disappear down the hall next to the kitchen.

Once I’ve washed up and smoothed the flyaways down around my head, I exit the bathroom, but instead of rejoining the table, a few pictures on the walls catch my eye.

Two dated family photos are framed and hung next to each other. Suzanne and presumably Austin’s father are in both, his arm wrapped around her shoulders in each. His large free hand rests on Austin’s shoulder. In one, Austin looks young, like he’s not even a teenager yet, and the other is of him a little older. He’s actually smiling in both, and it captivates me.

Curiosity rears its head, and instead of rejoining the dinner table, I venture upstairs in search of… I’m not quite sure.

The first door I open leads to another bathroom, so I try another. Instead of a shower and toilet this time, I come face-to-face with a full bed, a desk, and a dresser. The gray walls are bare, except for a poster of a lake above the simple headboard. The comforter on the bed is solid charcoal. The only splashes of color come from a few book spines on a shelf and a 3D diorama of the solar system on top of the dresser.

It’s Austin’s old bedroom.

I drift inside, sweeping my fingertips along the top of the desk, where a framed picture of a young boy and a man in a hat hung low stand with two fishing rods. The boy frowns, but from what I can tell about the man, he appears to be smiling and happy.

Austin and his father. He’s the same man from the pictures downstairs.

The photo makes me smile. Daddy liked to fish on occasion too, and as I trace my fingertip over the top of the frame, I imagine the two fathers on the lake, talking in slow, hushed tones about the weather or how much the biggest fish they ever caught weighed.

I think they would’ve been friends.

On the shelf, Austin’s yearbooks are neatly lined up and look almost brand new. When I took my senior yearbook out a few days ago, the spine and cover were scratched and worn from the countless number of times I’d once opened and closed it.

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