Page 31 of The Charm Offensive
“Take your deep breaths,” Dev whispers. Charlie takes three breaths—always exactly three—whenever he needs to calm down, and he takes a shaky one now and holds it in.
“Exhale.” Charlie does, and they’re so close, Charlie’s breath is humid on Dev’s throat. “Again.”
Charlie takes another slow, painful breath, and Dev can see it strain against the buttons on Charlie’s shirt.
“Last one.”
Charlie takes his third breath, deep and clear, and Dev slips his fingers into Charlie’s hair as he waits for the exhale. He teases apart Charlie’s thick blond curls, massaging his scalp. In this moment, it feels like Charlie is wide open for him. A week of puzzle pieces, sci-fi shows, and the smallest hints of a hard childhood, but at two in the morning in the guesthouse kitchen, it almost feels like he’s glimpsing Charlie Winshaw in his entirety—anxious and obsessive and still so fucking beautiful—leaning into Dev like there’s some secret part of Charlie that wants to let other people in but doesn’t know how. “I’m sorry I’m such a… burden.”
That word opens a fissure inside Dev’s chest.Burden. The way he felt as a kid every time his mom got off work early to take him to therapy; the way he felt every time his dad just wanted to spend a fun Saturday together, but he was too restless or too lethargic, too loud or too quiet, spontaneously crying in front of a Rodin sculpture at the North Carolina Museum of Art. The way he felt every time they sat him down and begged him tojust tell them what was wrong, and even though he loved words—loved using words to build stories and escape hatches from the real world—he could never find the right ones to help his parents understand his heart and his mind.
“You’re not a burden, Charlie. Let me take care of you. It’s my job.”
For one more second, he does. Charlie exhales and arches into Dev’s hand. Just as quickly, he pulls away, tripping into the cabinets behind him.
“Are you okay?”
“Uh, yeah.Yes. No, that helped, so… thank you. But I should… bed.”
“What about the shirt?” Dev points to the bowl on the counter, but Charlie’s already out of the kitchen, rushing into his bedroom.
Dev stands there staring at the closed door for a long time after Charlie’s locked himself away behind it.
Charlie
He doesn’t sleep. He twists himself into a thousand anxious knots between starched sheets that aren’t his, in a bed that’s not his, in a room that’s not his. He stares up at a popcorn ceiling in the dark and counts dots into the thousands. He hasn’t had an episode that severe in years.
As a kid, long before he knew what the termcompulsionmeant, he would get stuck in these patterns he couldn’t explain. He wouldsit on the swings at recess, reciting the same storybooks from memory over and over again until he got it just right; he would have to spit up his saliva into tissues because he was terrified if he swallowed he would choke on it; he would have to do every school assignmentperfectly, even if it meant spending hours on a single hand turkey for Thanksgiving. Being perfect was the only way to ensure everything was safe and everything was healthy.
Then he grew up. He had good teachers who took a vested interest in his intelligence. His good teachers found him good therapists, who provided him with good treatment and good meds, and for the most part, his intrusive thoughts and compulsions haven’t controlled his adult life. Not in a long time. Not until he lost his damn mind over two drops of bourbon on a white T-shirt.
He had an episode in front of Dev, and now Dev’s going to act differently. People always do.
Except… Dev tried to understand, which people almost never do.
Let me take care of you.
Charlie punches his pillows, trying to get comfortable, but it’s no use. His brain is a runaway train, and he’s never going to sleep. He does calculus in his head until it’s an acceptable hour to get up. Then he does the most strenuous exercise video he can find on YouTube as punishment for the Bourbon Stain Incident, for the way he can’t seem to keep it all together, even now, when it matters the most.
When exercise doesn’t help, he calls his therapist to schedule an emergency session, takes a Xanax, and throws himself into the shower. He puts off facing Dev for as long as he can, then forces himself to go into the kitchen to deal with the fallout.
He finds his roommate dancing to Leland Barlow in front of the stove. Something is burning. “I’m making brunch,” Dev announces, flinging his spatula like a baton. “And yes, the pancakes are vegan and gluten-free. Do you want blueberries in yours?”
“Um…” Charlie doesn’t know what to make of this scene. Is Dev’s plan to butter him up with baked goods before he stages a mental illness intervention? (It wouldn’t be the first time—Josh once bought him a new micro soldering kit before he told Charlie he couldn’t do interviews on behalf of the company anymore.)
“I’m taking that as a yes,” Dev says, sprinkling blueberries into the batter on the skillet. “Do you need help deciding who you’re going to send home at tonight’s ceremony?”
Dev deposits a plate of dark brown pancakes in front of Charlie. “Uh, what?”
“You’ve got to send home two more contestants tonight, and I think it’s between Shawna, Emily, and Lauren S.”
“Who is Shawna again?”
“Exactly.”
Charlie picks up his fork and knife and begins cutting his pancake into meticulous little squares, waiting for Dev to pull the rug out from under him, waiting for Dev to act less Dev and more like people do whenever he has a breakdown.
“How are the pancakes?”
