Page 222 of The Charlie Method

I wouldn’t risk it, G.

GARRETT GRAHAM:

I will take all your opinions into consideration.

Next order of business. I want to throw a graduation party for Stan and Luke in Tahoe this summer.

DEAN DI LAURENTIS:

Speaking of Tahoe…

JOHN LOGAN:

No.

JOHN TUCKER:

Speaking of Tahoe…

JOHN LOGAN:

No.

CHAPTER FIFTY-FOUR

CHARLOTTE

Crying Day

I’M SITTING ON THE FLOOR OF MY BEDROOM, SURROUNDED BY BOXES, and it hits me all at once.

This is really happening.

I’m leaving.

Faith is next to me, passing me another stack of clothes to fold, but we both know this isn’t just about packing. This is about saying goodbye.

“This is so weird,” I murmur, trying to focus on the task at hand. My voice is tight, my throat already closing up. “I’ve lived in this room for how long now? Four years? And now…Australia.”

Faith laughs, but it’s that kind of laugh that’s masking something else. “Yeah, Miss Adventurer. I still can’t believe you’re actually doing it. I’m proud of you, though. You’re gonna kill it over there.”

I stop folding and just sit there, staring at the mess of half-packed boxes around me. A lot of this stuff is being shipped to my parents’ house, but Beckett’s aunt Suzanne in Sydney agreed to let me ship a few boxes of books to store at her house until we find a place.

Beck, Will, and I are flying out to LA in a few days, then flying to Sydney for a three-week stay. Hopefully by the end of it, we’ll have found an apartment and signed a lease. Then I’m coming back to spend the rest of the summer with my parents before officially going Down Under in mid-August.

It doesn’t feel real yet, even though it’s right in front of me. I’m leaving this room, this house, this life behind.

Faith stops packing too, suddenly heading for the door. “Hey,” she says. “Before you pack away everything, I have something for you. Please stand by.”

She’s gone before I can answer and back before I can even guess why she left. Confusion flickers through me as she hands me a small present wrapped in gift paper covered with frogs.

“What’s this?”

She smiles, but there’s something bittersweet in her eyes. “Just open it.”

I do, unwrapping it carefully. The second I see the stuffed bunny, I lose it. Tears blur my vision as I clutch the stuffed animal, a wave of emotion swelling in my chest. It’s not gray like Tiger was but white, like my favorite cashmere sweater.

“Oh my God, Faith…” I can’t even finish the sentence before I start sobbing.

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