Page 40 of The Roommate Lie

I don’t know how long it takes him to notice me. When he does, he smiles from his workbench, and it feels like sunshine.

I hover in the open doorway as he keeps working. Shaping the raccoon’s ears, he uses tweezers to pull off extra glass in long thin ribbons that stretch like taffy. When he’s finished, he inspects the piece again, making a few more adjustments before transferring his raccoon to a nearby kiln and switching off his flame. As if he’s done for the night.

I hate that I interrupted him, that maybe I’m the reason he stopped. Though when I apologize, he promises he was finished.

“What were you making?”

He shrugs as he takes off his sunglasses, his expression almost bashful. “I was working on a surprise for my mom—a Christmas ornament. She’s got a thing for raccoons. Her new husband runs a wildlife rehab center, and they fell in love while bottle feeding some orphaned kits last year.”

That might be the sweetest raccoon story I’ve ever heard. Completely swoon-worthy.

“What about you?” he asks. “Why are you up so late?”

I don’t want to tell him. My sister’s news is weighing heavy on my heart, but the last thing I need right now is pity. As he glances at me, Charlie’s eyes gleam, his mood playful, and something selfish inside me doesn’t want that to change.

“I couldn’t sleep.” I hold up my phone. “So I called my mom.”

“No writing tonight?”

Writing?

My face falls. Out of all the things I don’t want to talk about, my long-suffering novel is pretty high on my list. Charlie can tell something’s wrong. I shake my head, and he gets ready to ask a follow-up question, so I change the subject before he can.

“When did you learn to make things out of glass?”

“I went to rehab when I was younger,” he admits. “When I got out, I needed a new hobby. Something that wouldn’t get me in trouble.”

Rehab?

That word sounds heavier at night when you’re alone with someone. It’s a confession that sinks in slowly. After he says that, silence stretches between us like molten glass. I don’t think he’s going to let that silence break, but he does.

“My AA sponsor runs the glassblowing collective in town, and one of the members is a flameworker. I got hooked pretty fast.” He taps the metal contraption on the table. The one that reminds me of a modified blowtorch. “There’s no life like torch life.”

If he has more to say, he lets it fade. I should go, so he can clean up his workbench in peace, but I’m not ready to leave that room. Not ready to leave him. There’s something peaceful about that moment alone with Charlie. The mood between us is quieter than usual, as soft as moonlight.

So I don’t leave. I make a mistake instead.

I glance around that tiny shed full of supplies, at his kiln and his torch and his wall of thin glass rods that are organized by color, and I say the wrong thing. “You’re full of surprises, Blythe.”

Charlie almost smiles—almost. Then he glances away.

“You have no idea, Kilpatrick.”

My heart sinks. I’m not sure why I did that to him—or me. I knew he didn’t want to call me Carrots anymore. He’s been avoiding that nickname all day.

Jason used to say I always took things too far. That I never understood when something wasn’t fun or funny anymore. And I guess he was right.

I pause for a moment of silence, bidding farewell to the best nickname I’ve ever had. As I let it go, I promise myself I’m never going to call that poor man Blythe again. Not even if I really want to.

“Are you okay?” Charlie asks, and his hazel eyes search my face.

I nod before glancing away. There’s a little shelf of finished projects by the door, and I examine them while I wait. Everything Charlie makes is so small and intricate, so whimsical. Most of his tiny sculptures are woodland animals—foxes or squirrels or chipmunks, a snail on a mushroom—but they all have something in common. Besides being cute.

Each one has the same ring of glass perched on top somewhere. Perfect for a metal hook or a loop of ribbon.

“You like making Christmas ornaments?”

He shrugs.

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