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Blake’s right. It’s never going to happen for me.
I’m shaking all over, pain welling up inside me like a tidal wave. It takes a minute to realize the sounds I’m hearing are my own harsh sobs.
I go downstairs to the liquor cabinet to numb my pain the only way I know how.
MARK
It’s mid-afternoon when I wake up. The faint scent of bacon still hangs in the air. Charlie sent me to bed shortly after I strongly encouraged Blake to leave under his own power. She said she’d clean the kitchen – something about needing to burn off her frustrations.
After I wash my face and brush my teeth, it dawns on me that the house is strangely quiet. Normally on weekends, I wake up to the sounds of the washer or vacuum. I don’t hear anything, though, not even the television.
I glance at the bedside table. Charlie’s gun isn’t there. It was there when I fell asleep.
Maybe she had errands to run. God, I hope that’s all it is. I hope she’s not more bothered by the Blake thing than she let on.
I pause with my hand on my bedroom door, suddenly remembering my first night here. “Charlie?” I call as I open the door. I don’t step out, waiting to hear her voice. I’d prefer not to get shot at again.
“In here,” comes a muffled reply. Something about her voice sounds off. I follow it into the living room and survey the scene in front of me. A bottle of rum perches precariously on the edge of the coffee table beside a half-dozen empty pineapple juice cans and her handgun.
This can’t be good.
“Everything okay?” I ask cautiously.
Her head pops over the back of the sofa as she sits up, clutching a mostly empty glass of clear liquid and melting ice cubes. “Oh, yeah. I’m peachy.” Her words slur and her eyes are bleary. Judging by her blotchy face, she’s been crying.
That fucking asshole.
I thought she was doing alright when Blake left this morning, but I guess it’s caught up to her. I ease down beside her, leaning my crutches on the end table. “I see you’ve been in the rum,” I comment casually, noting the nearly-full bottle of rum from last night is almost empty. I point to her glass. “How many of those have you had?”
“One for every juice. And, and then a couple more when I ran out of juice. And maybe another one, but I’m not sure. Or two.” She looks at me, her eyes slightly unfocused. “You look nice.” She reaches over and awkwardly pats my black tee shirt.
She’s had a lot of rum. “Are you okay, Charlie?”
“Whaddaya mean?”
“I thought you were alright when I went to bed, but now you’re drunk. Did something happen?” I smile gently, speaking slowly so she can keep up.
She sighs and flops her head beside my leg, liquid sloshing from her glass. I pull it from her loose fingers and set it on the coffee table, pushing the rum bottle away from the edge while I’m at it. “You have such a nice face,” Charlie says, staring at me upside down.
I chuckle. “I haven’t seen you this drunk since high school.”
She points at me. “You haven’t. But I used to drink a lot. You know, after. But I stopped.”
“What made you start drinking today?”
She swallows hard and looks away. “All I wanted was a normal life. You know, with a husband and kids and dogs and bake sales. But that’s never gonna happen. Not for someone like me.” Tears fill her eyes. “That fucker’s right, even though he’s an asshole.”
I blink, trying to make sense of her tangled ramble. “Blake?” I’m fairly certain he’s the asshole in question.
She nods adamantly. “Fucker,” she repeats.
“Is this still about last night? I thought you settled things this morning.”
She fumbles for a long time on the couch, rooting around, squirming, until finally she unearths her phone from between the cushions.
“Voicemail,” she mutters.
“You want me to play a voicemail?”
