Page 29 of Charlie and Her Sweet Escape
“Oh, yes, of course. I think he’s just finished with a call.”
Rosie gripped my arm while Mrs. Berry called him. I noticed that he answeredherright away—which, yes, she was his receptionist, so it made sense. But he was on a break, yet hadn’t taken the time to call me back, even though he had at least five missed calls from me. I checked my phone again just to make sure. Still no calls. Not even a text.
“Charlotte is here,” she said into the phone. “Can I send her back?” She paused, then answered, her voice even sunnier than before. “You have fifteen minutes until your next call. It’s a good time to sneak in some of that pasta I brought you. I’ll warm it up while you chat with your beautiful fiancée.” She winked at me, and I tried to smile. Greg was always complaining about Mrs. Berry and how overbearing she was. She’d always seemed more nurturing than overbearing, but what did I know?
Maybe more than you give yourself credit for.
“Go on back, honey,” she said to me.
“Want me to come with you?” Rosie asked.
“No. I’ve got this.”
“I know you do.” Rosie’s quick hug infused me with confidence, and I rushed back to Greg’s office before I could change my mind.
I knocked once and pushed his door open, coming face to face with Greg lounging in his office chair, eating one of his protein bars he swore by.
I placed my hands on his desk and leaned forward. “You have to stop?—”
“Charlotte. I thought you were teaching today.”
“I was, but Greg, I just heard that?—”
“Couldn’t resist seeing me one more time before the wedding?” He raised his eyebrows teasingly, and I growled in frustration. If he’d just let me get a full sentence out …
“You can’t let them put Molly down!” I nearly shouted the words in one long stream so he wouldn’t have the chance to interrupt me again.
Greg leaned back in his chair, a contemplative frown on his face. “How did you hear about that?”
“It doesn’t matter how I heard about it. It needs to stop.”
“The dog bit me.” He showed his still-healing arm. “Actions have consequences.” He sounded so cold. So dispassionate. Tears stung my eyes, and I blinked them back furiously. Greg saw any display of emotion as weakness. As proof that I wasn’t able to make big decisions. The crack widened.
I started again. “If you had listened to me?—”
“If you hadn’t been so irresponsible?—”
“Irresponsible!” If he was going to interrupt me, then maybe it was fair game. Maybe I’d lain down too long and let him stomp all over me. Maybe it was finally time to start talking back.
“Yes,” he said, in the same infuriatingly condescending tone of voice. For the first time, I understood the phraseblood boiling. I felt like my skin was going to roil over my veins with how steamed I was getting.
“I saved that dog. I can’t believe you’d threaten the family unless they put her down!” My tears were getting harder to hold back.
“And I can’t believe you’re not more upset that a dog you brought into my parents’ house attacked me.” The coldness in his voice was in such a stark contrast to the heat searing through me, it was hard to believe we were able to exist in the same room together without completely combusting.
“She was acting on instinct. You put an animal in a corner where it feels threatened, and it will fight its way out!”
“And again, there are consequences to actions. Even instinctual ones.”
You know what? Screw it. I allowed the tears fall down my cheeks. They were a mix of anger, fear, frustration, and sadness—and it felt good to let them free.
He exhaled impatiently. “You don’t have to beemotionalabout this.” Like emotional was a bad word. A flaw in the system that kept it from functioning at full capacity. “I know it’s hard now, but you’ll get over it.”
I wouldn’t, though. I absolutelywould notget over Greg being responsible for Molly’s death. Or even, if by some miracle me and Rosie and Bennett and I did save her, that Greg was willing to let her die. Not justlether die. Push for it.
The crack became a full-on shatter. If my heart were on the outside of my body, pieces of it would be all over the room—red and still hot, sticky like melted glass. Completely impossible to put back together. Compositionally changed.
Greg took my silence as agreement. Like yes, I’d get over it. Yes, it was fine if Molly died because ofconsequences. And suddenly my suspicion that our theoretical future daughter would never be celebrated—or even welcomed—by him at his work felt less like a realization and more like a tragedy.
