Page 60 of Charlie and Her Sweet Escape
“There she is,” Bennett murmured, one of his fingers brushing my bottom lip with a feather-light touch as his gaze scanned my face. The trail of his fingers left a tingling sensation in their wake, and I struggled to draw in air. “Haven’t seen this in a while.”
I hadn’t felt like this in a while.
But with Bennett holding me, it was easier to believe I didn’t have to carry the weight of everything that went wrong.
And perhaps all those giddy, heart-racing, dream-inducing, crush-like feelings I’d had as a teenager didn’t completely go away when I became an adult. They just hid out for a while, waiting for the right time to make themselves known.
Was this the right time, though? If my heart beat any harder, it was going to escape my chest and fly straight into the woods.
I studied Bennett’s eyes for any sign that he was reacting the same way to me as I was to him. I let my thumb brush against the soft skin at his bicep where I gripped him.
He blinked a few times, as if clearing his vision, and eased me quickly to my feet. “Alright, champ. Let’s eat and get to work.”
24
CHARLIE
I am in SO MUCH TROUBLE. Rosie and I offered to bring ten gallons of nacho cheese to the back-to-school party for the brand-new seniors. Today, I let Rosie convince me to “borrow” the Johnstons’ backhoe to haul the cheese. The keys were in it—which probably meant they were fine with other people using it—we’d take care of it, and no one would miss it for the few minutes we were borrowing it. (According to Rosie.) Anyway, when the flashing police lights came behind us, we panicked and accidentally pushed a button that dumped the hoe part of the backhoe, along with ten gallons of nacho cheese, all over me and Rosie and Uncle Ken, who had come to find us. Because someone HAD missed the backhoe. And Uncle Ken is thesheriff. I’m going to smell like nacho cheese for the rest of my life. Worst of all??? When Bennett pickedRosie up from the station, he saw me and called me the Nachonator. UGH!
—from the journal of 18-year-old Charlie Savage
Nothing like being called champ to make you feel like a bucket of ice water has been dumped on the pleasantly hot fire burning through your body.
And that answered my question. Bennett wasnotfeeling what I’d been feeling. At least I was in familiar territory. An unrequited crush on my best friend’s older brother? I’d already swum countless laps in that emotional pool.
It was for the best. Imagine. Bennett Forrester falling in love with me.Me. The girl who partnered with his sister to steal all his aluminum foil and turn his east-facing deck into a tanning dreamscape. The girl with the tragic backstory—and the current one wasn’t so hot either. The girl who used to follow him around like an injured animal looking for a home, and maybe never stopped.
I sat and dropped my head onto my knees while I made a mental list of real and fake.
Real: our friendship.
Fake: anything that looked like romantic love.
Real: Bennett catching me before I fell because he wasn’t a jerk.
Fake: Bennett’s fingers on my lips being anything more than fodder for the camera.
Real: Bennett’s touch making my brain lose all thoughts, except how much I wished he’d do it again.
Real: Bennett only thought of me as a friend and would continue to do so.
Case in point?Champ.
I hurriedly dressed after Ben stepped outside to drink his tea, and then I chugged my own lukewarm tea down while we made a plan for the day. I was going to begin with fishing—which included making my own pole, finding bait, and scouting out the perfect fishing location—while Bennett was going to work on making and setting some small-game traps. We wouldn’t last long out here if we didn’t get more food in us than berries.
Then, this afternoon, we’d work on a more permanent shelter to get us through the even colder weather heading our way in a few short weeks.
Keeping busy was the right move for getting my head on straight.
We worked in easy silence as we both searched for the supplies we needed. I found the perfect straight stick and shaved it smooth so my fishing line wouldn’t get caught on the bark.
Bennett bit his tongue in concentration as he bent a stick and tied it with a bit of orange paracord. He set his finger on the base of his trap, and the stick was sprung, slamming down on his finger and leaving a small welt. He flung his hand back with a yelp but grinned.
“How’d you learn to do this?” I asked.
“My dad,” he said as he reset the trap. “He used to take us hunting before he left.”
“Did you ever catch anything?”
