Page 122 of The Charlie Method

“His story is hard to hear, no doubt, but you can’t take responsibility for his life. It’s not on you. What happened wasn’t something you or he had any control over. You were both kids, and the adults made the decisions.”

“I know, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling this way. Like I got everything, and he got nothing.”

“That’s not true. You didn’t win a lottery. You were both dealt different cards, and now you’re figuring out how to play them. Together, hopefully. If that’s what you want.”

I let her words sink in. “That feels overwhelming.”

“I know. But you’re not alone in this. And neither is Harrison, now that he’s found you.”

“I don’t know what to do next.”

“Just take it one step at a time. You already took the first step by meeting him, listening to him. The rest will come.”

Some of the weight lifts from my shoulders. “You’re right. One step at a time.” From her lap, I smile up at her. “Thank you. I’m obsessed with your friendship.”

She grins. “Anytime. With that said, I’ve got a terrible reality show queued up that’s just begging to be roasted. You down?”

“Always.”

CHAPTER THIRTY

CHARLOTTE

No need to overthink

IWAKE UP THE NEXT MORNING STILL FEELING THE LINGERING TENSIONof everything that happened with Harrison. Faith is right, I can’t change the past, but that doesn’t stop the guilt from gnawing at me.

I arrive earlier than usual at the environmental sciences building because Agatha wants to talk about one of our pledges. She and Ciara are already waiting for me in the lobby, lattes in hand and unwrapped cashmere scarves hanging in front of their open designer coats.

I shrug out of my own coat as I approach the young women. Agatha gives my outfit a once-over, and I resist the urge to squirm self-consciously. My pink, pearl-buttoned cardigan is perfectly coordinated with my gray skirt, and my hair is twisted into a perfect bun without a hair out of place. There’s nothing she can find fault in, yet the way her nose wrinkles makes me feel like I showed up in tattered rags.

“My Little issucha doormat,” our sorority sister Ciara is complaining to Agatha. “I keep trying to encourage her to be more proactive and advocate for herself with her professors, but she’s too scared to make waves. Her psych prof gave her a C on her midterm, and she refuses to appeal the grade.”

I glance at Ciara. “Maybe she thinks she deserved the grade.”

“Who gives a shit? A Delta Pi can’t be bringing home C’s.” Ciara sounds annoyed.

“The more pressing matter is my Little,” Agatha says, reaching for her phone. “Charlotte, have you seen this?”

I’m about to look when a gust of cool air blows through the lobby. My heart thumps when I see Beckett enter the building, making his way toward us, all six-foot-something of him. He’s the epitome of hot jock. Broad shoulders, skin that’s still tanned long after summer, and a lazy, confident stride that makes everyone else seem to disappear.

“Morning, ladies,” he drawls.

He flashes the smile that propelled my pulse to other dimensions the night I went to their place. Part devil, part charmer. I can feel Agatha rolling her eyes before she even does it.

She doesn’t respond, just glances at her phone.

Ciara has the grace to be polite. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” I murmur.

I pretend I don’t know what he looks like naked, because I’m that immature. So what if the memory of his body pressed against mine is branded into my brain? Doesn’t mean I’m going to greet him in public like we’re old friends.

But I simply don’t understand how Agatha and Ciara can look at a guy like Beckett and not start drooling. All these athletes, especially the hockey guys…their bodies are insane. The football guys are a little too bulky for me, because yes, there’s definitely such a thing as too much muscle. The lacrosse and swim guys are too lanky and toned. But a hockey body…it just hits different.

Rather than continue toward our lecture hall, Beckett plants his feet. “So what’s the plan for the weekend? Any big parties I should know about?”

Agatha doesn’t bother hiding her disdain this time. She gives him a look—a perfect mix of boredom and dismissal—and then returns her attention to her phone as if he isn’t even there.

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