Page 47 of Unraveling Charlotte

“No, stay,” she says, leaning in to press a wet kiss to my cheek. “See you next week?”

“I have my therapy appointment Friday, so I hope she’ll give me the green light.” When Desmond initially arranged for us to see a therapist, I thought it was an obnoxious decision. Now, with Friday looming closer, doubts cloud my mind. It’s not that therapy is unfamiliar territory for me, but this time, it carries an entirely different weight—a weight we all acknowledge.

“Sara is the gentlest soul but won’t mince words with Desmond. If she thinks you need more time, she’ll make that clear,” Harlow tells me, her nonchalant shrug an attempt to ease my nerves. “Don’t stress.”

“Easy for you to say,” I mutter, my words slipping out under my breath.

“All right, I’m out too.” Autumn stands, collecting her and Harlow’s glasses and heading to the sink. “Lolo, I’ll walk with you.”

“Later, bitches.” Harlow and Autumn share a hushed exchange, leaving me with a feeling of exclusion, a sensation I remember from years past, but now, it’s laced with charged energy, like an electric undercurrent humming through the air as they exit the house.

Was it the conversation about Sal?

Tatum breaks the silence, her voice gentle. “Need me to help clean up?”

“I’ve got it,” I whisper, aware that sleep might elude me again tonight. I can’t tell them why, the secret of last night’s intrusion by a stranger into my home smoldering in my chest.

Throughout the event and its aftermath, the idea of safety consumed me. Now, though, I can’t shake off the eerie sensation of being watched and hunted.

A man infiltrated my sanctuary, and it’s taken almost a whole day for me to process the gravity of it.

Needing to move, I gather the glasses, and then it hits me—I meant to discuss Simon’s actions with Jani. Anxiety swirls in my gut as I contemplate the conversation ahead. I want to protect Simon from any potential consequences, but he can’t just take things that aren’t his.

“Jani.” I clear my throat, shifting my gaze to Tatum, whose raised eyebrow hints at her curiosity. “Simon took one of Milo’s hats, and I thought I should let you know. I’m not sure if Simon needs the hat, and he’s welcome to keep it, but I’d appreciate it if Simon refrains from taking things that aren’t his.”

“Oh my gosh!” Jani exclaims, standing and joining me as we collect the remnants of the charcuterie board we spread out earlier. Only a scattering of crumbs from the cheeses, crackers, and fruits remain.

“Which hat?” she questions, her tone genuinely intrigued.

Tate lets out a barely contained snort, downing her wine in a single gulp as she observes our interaction.

“The crochet one,” I reply, a hint of frustration simmering beneath my words. I can anticipate what’s coming—Jani’s denial of my claim—and it irks me.

“Oh no, my mom made that.” Jani chuckles, following me into the kitchen as I busy myself by cleaning up. Her laughter grates on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. “I can’t believe you’d think my Simon would steal. He’s not like that. He’s a good kid.”

“I never said he wasn’t a good kid.” I shoot a pointed glare at Jani, my frustration growing. When I first met Tatum, Jani was beside her, along with the others. I had anticipated feeling like the odd one out, but Tatum and I instantly clicked, as if we were always meant to be a pair. “What I’m saying is that I’m sure that hat belongs to Milo.”

“But it doesn’t,” Jani counters, dumping the remaining crumbs into the trash and placing the charcuterie board on the counter for me to clean. “Simon would never do something like that.”

“Look, my mom sewed a little tag into all her hats. Could you please just check for it? If I’m wrong, I’ll admit it,” I say through gritted teeth, struggling to stand my ground with my friends. It’s a challenge that bothers me more than I care to admit.

“I’ll look, but I’m telling you, Simon would never—”

“Enough with the denial,” Tatum interrupts, firmly pressing the cork back into the wine bottle and setting it on the counter. Her tone holds a no-nonsense edge. “Both of us know Simon’s capable of it. You tend to coddle him, and he reacts.”

Jani’s face reddens, a retort clearly on the tip of her tongue. She swallows it down and laughs instead. “Okay, I’ll check, but I already know that hat won’t have that tag. What’s it look like?”

“It’s sage green with a little pink heart in the center,” I reply, my voice softening at the memory. My mom delighted in that tag, giggling about it for months after she had them printed.

“I’ll check,” Jani says, her tone more placating. She’s all over the emotional spectrum, swinging between hot and cold. There’s no middle ground with her, and while that might irk others, I find it strangely comforting. At least with Jani, I always know where I stand.

“Thanks,” I whisper, looking for a hand towel to dry the wine glasses. “I’ll be right back.”

Leaving the kitchen behind, I head toward the mudroom, stepping into the dimly lit space.

In that moment, out of their sight, I grip the edge of the dryer and take a deep breath. We both know she’s lying, but she sticks to it with a dogged determination, as if it’s the undeniable truth. A small part of me understands it’s futile to push her further. Jani has a way of pushing back harder when confronted.

Tatum is my person, my confidant, but she came intertwined with Jani. Under different circumstances, I doubt we would have been friends. We tolerate each other out of convenience. She watches over Milo when I need her to, a favor I don’t want to lose. It’s a practical arrangement, but does that make me selfish?

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