Page 23 of Love Me Steadfast
The trail enters a grove of ancient trees. The peppery scent of pine laced with the ponderosa’s vanilla bark is as soothing as the shade and the steady rhythm of my footsteps. I pause to gaze up at the textured trunk of a giant hemlock, its tiny, dry cones crunching under my boots. Ollie races over, thinking I’ve discovered something worth her attention, but darts away with a snort when it’s clear there’s no squirrel or deer poop to investigate. When I break out of the forest, I pause to breathe the cool, fresh air, willing the fullness in my head to ease back, just a little. I should probably slow my pace, but I’ve never been good at that.
I start walking again, but my thoughts stray to Charlotte. Am I stupid to use The Limelight as some kind of inroad? My timing certainly stinks. I was going to tell her after I’d figured some things out, see if I could enticeher to help me.
But now, it’s a mess. Charlotte’s here for Morgan. So unless I can figure out a way to get her to stay, she’ll blow out of town as soon as she can. Back to her life in Seattle. How long do I have? One week? Two?
The hard reality is that Charlotte’s not here because she wants to be. Is that my fault? I made it too painful for her?
At least we have that in common—everything here reminds me of her.
I hike to a lake ringed with larch trees, their needles golden this time of year, and a steep rock wall cut from the mountain. There’s not a soul here, and it’s so peaceful. I strip naked and wade through the sandy shallows, then dive in, the icy cold shocking my skin. I surface feeling rejuvenated, my headache dialed back as if by magic.
By the time I get home, it’s late. Charlotte’s car is parked in front of the detached garage. Theo won’t be home until morning, which is one of the reasons we make such good roommates—we’re rarely home at the same time. After letting Ollie out of the truck bed, I open the gate and she darts into the yard. My headache is tolerable, but the best thing for me is a couple of Tylenol and a dark room.
From the side of the house comes a soft melody that strikes me so sharply in the chest my breath seizes. I recognize the song immediately: “Blackbird” by the Beatles, Charlotte’s steady guitar chords blending with her sultry voice. I had never paid attention to that song before Charlotte and Morgan sang it at my sixteenth birthday cookout with our families, and even now, when I hear the original, it’s not nearly as good as their version.
I fell in love with her for the first time that night.
It’s where we began.
If Charlotte’s playing, that could mean any number of things. This song has an edge of melancholy, so maybe she’s sad tonight. Or maybe she’s simply looking for a way to process what she’s going through with Morgan and being back in Finn River. Music has always been her escape.
I grip the porch stair railing, not wanting to spook her by movingany closer to the house or opening the front door. I simply close my eyes and listen while my heart fills my throat like a balloon.
After that time around the campfire, the next time I heard Charlotte sing was the night Boxcar Doves had their first official gig. Theo and I stood outside The Limelight to listen. She sounded so confident, her rich voice giving me goose bumps.
The next time was the choir concert I got dragged to that spring. My stepsister Linnea sang a Hannah Montana song and she was so nervous her voice warbled. Morgan sang that night too, a show-stopper swing tune that got people clapping. Then Charlotte performed “If I Had A Million Dollars” with Crosby. Her powerful voice made me smile, but the cutesy lyrics and the energy between her and Crosby made it obvious they were more than just duet partners. As he confessed to doing anything to buy her love, their eyes playful, I sat there frozen, barely breathing while it all hit home.
What if she ended up choosing him over me?
Charlotte has stopped playing and I’m standing here halfway up my steps like a moron. I whistle for Ollie, who is sniffing around the yard, and head inside. Ollie beelines for the laundry room, so I follow and dump kibble into her bowl then refill her water from the utility sink. When I step into the kitchen, everything is neat and put away. Did Charlotte eat something? The fridge has plenty of food—I hope she knows she can help herself. I settle for the Tylenol I so desperately need and a piece of toast with peanut butter, eating it standing up at the sink, looking out the window and wishing Charlotte would come out of her room.
The lyrics of the song wash over me, triggering a wave of longing so powerful I have to grip the edge of the counter and close my eyes.
Blackbird, fly.
I rub the aching knot over my heart.
How can Charlotte and I start over if she refuses to try?
Chapter Eight
CHARLOTTE (NOW)
A dull achein my jaw stirs me awake. I rub the back of my cheek, trying to soothe it. Am I grinding my teeth again?
I think about downing some Advil and trying to go back to sleep, but a pale sunbeam is peeking through the blinds, illuminating the shapes of my guitar and violin cases. It reminds me of the favor I need to grovel for.
Last night, I quit playing when William came home, and though I had no right to resent him for it, it made the silence feel oppressive. When he walked past my room, his footsteps paused, and I lay there with my heart pounding and heat rising through me like a storm. I sat up, my thoughts at war—did I want him to come in, would I let him?—but he kept walking.
A moment later the shower turned on. Thinking of him under the hot water shouldn’t have made my skin tense beneath the sheets. When the shuffling and creaks of him getting into bed filtered through the walls, my breaths came easier but sleep eluded me.
I don’t want to be back here. Facing all that I destroyed. But here I am. Doing it anyway.
The front door clicking shut makes me think William’s gone out,but Theo’s voice fills the house. He and Will share a few words, then the stairs creak and a door closes upstairs.
After popping some Advil, I take a shower in the shared bathroom between my room and William’s. I brace myself for signs that he’s got a regular visitor, like maybe a pink toothbrush or specialty shampoo.
Standing there naked while the water heats, I pinch the bridge of my nose and remind myself that William seeing someone would be a good thing. It would mean he’s moved on.
