Page 23 of Shadowing Charlotte
"Sorry I'm late, I—" I paused in the doorway, my eyebrows rising. Lex was leaning over the stove, stirring a pot. "I thought you were going to order something," I told him. Hewas dressed in jeans and a black t-shirt, but he had my apron tied around his waist, the sight making me swallow a giggle.
"I was, but when I hadn't heard back from you at five, I figured I'd do something with the extra time," he replied with a wide smile, setting the spoon down on the counter.
"For you, sir." I offered the bottle with an overexaggerated flourish. Lex took it from me, staring down at if for longer than I had anticipated. "What?" I asked, immediately feeling defensive.
"Charlotte… Baby, this is bourbon." He frowned and spun the bottle around to read the label.
"Is that bad?" My brows pulled together as I craned my head to read the label.
"A bottle of Jack would have sufficed. How much did you pay for this?" He glanced up at me.
"I don't know. Two hundred, maybe?" I replied, digging into my pocket for the receipt.
"Are you fucking kidding me? Charlie…" He shook his head, glancing down at the bottle.
"The guy at the liquor store said it was really good," I offered hopefully.
"Of course, he did." Lex rolled his eyes. "He wanted you to spend two hundred dollars, princess."
"He also asked for my phone number..." I added almost spitefully. I didn't like feeling dumb; somehow, Lex had managed to make me feel that way. Like I didn't know anything about the real world.
"Oh, he did? And what did you say?" He gave me a sarcastic grin as he waited for my answer.
"I told him I was married," I replied. Lex threw his head back and laughed. Actually laughed. His eyes lit up and his hair fell away from his face, and I couldn't help but smile at him. For the first time since my mother passed, I began to feel like maybe a house could truly be a home, if I had someone like Lex around.
"Come on. I want you to try some. So, you'll know what you just spent an entire day's pay on…" He poured two glasses and passed one to me before moving back to the stove and pouring pasta into the strainer he'd set in the sink.
"I can't believe you cooked for me." I took a sip of the bourbon and grimaced at the taste. "No, thank you." Sliding the cup the cup toward him, I turned to grab a water bottle from the fridge.
"It's just pasta. Hardly fine dining," he assured me as I hopped up onto the counter.
"My mom used to cook, before she passed," I murmured. "After that, my dad hired someone to come and cook during the week. On the weekends, we would go out and havedinner together or order in." It felt strange, both unsafe and cathartic to tell him about my life.
"My mom never cooked. She was… Complicated." A faraway look formed in his eyes.
"What does that mean?" For whatever reason, his mother seemed like a sore subject. He was stirring cream sauce into the noodles when he finally replied.
"My mother was diagnosed with depressive psychosis when I was little. After having postpartum depression, she got an official diagnosis." He paused, as if considering whether he wanted to reveal more. "My father… he never supported her. He saw her illness as something made up. He used to tell her that everyone had emotions, and she just needed to get over hers. When she had her episodes, he would just leave the house, choosing to fuck other women, instead of helping her. By the time I was in high school, she'd tried to kill herself three times."
"Holy shit…" I whispered staring at him in shock, my stomach churning with unease.
"Instead of "dealing with her," my father signed her into a facility. She's been there for ten years." he finished, downing the rest of his bourbon and reaching for what remained of mine.
"Fuck… I'm so sorry…" The air seemed to freeze in my lungs, my heart breaking for him. "Is there no way for her to be released?"
"A few years ago, they tried. My father signed off and she was sent to an outpatient program. She went off her meds almost immediately; had a breakdown inside a convenient store. The doctors said that she's a danger to herself and others."
I ran my fingers through my hair, contemplating his answer.
"I still go to see her, a few times a month," he added softly.
"That's really sweet." I sipped my water, my mouth still feeling dry. "Can I go with you, the next time? I mean, only if you'd like. I don't want to intrude."
Chapter eighteen
Alexander
Istared across the kitchen at Charlotte, feeling like she'd ripped the air from my lungs. She wanted to meet my mother. My crazy mother.
