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I slide into bed. There’s a good foot and a half between us and it’s both too much and not enough. She’s wearing the purple robe I made mysteriously appear in her bathroom before the weekend, and I like her in it.
In a wild way, I like the way something I bought her hugs her body the way I wish I could.
She must catch me staring because she runs her fingers along the fabric. “You have to stop buying me pretty things.”
“Why?”
“Because it makes it harder to argue with you.”
I lean in like it’s a secret. “I don’t buy them despite our arguments. I buy them in hopes of it.”
“Well you won’t hear one from me on this one.”
This makes me smile. “Goodnight, Crazy.”
“Goodnight.”
Charlie surprised me this morning. She was already awake, dressed, and ready to drive herself to work.
In her “rental car”.
I'd never slept later than a woman I’d shared a bed with, let alone past dawn. But after falling asleep with Charlie last night, I was out like a log.
But hell, I needed it—given the backlog of work I need to catch up on. This past week, I’ve been starting an hour later than usual and shutting down my laptop at five instead of eight. My evening routine of staying up at night reading contracts and going over cases has been non-existent since Charlie moved in.
We get home, make dinner, banter for the sake of not getting along, and then I spend the rest of the night worrying if I took it too far.
It’s after eight when I finally pull up to the house next to Charlie’s SUV.
A warm feeling washes over me knowing she’s inside.
And that’s not good. I shouldn’t feel this way.
The kitchen is clean—sparkling even. I usually keep the counters clear of clutter, but I haven’t seen the marble shine like this since I moved in.
There’s a folder on the round table—not one of mine. The words “The Children’s Hall” is crossed off with a red sharpie. Curiosity pulls me and I flip open.
I pull on the stack of papers and spread them on the table. It doesn’t take long to figure out what these plans are. And it doesn’t surprise me that they’re Charlie’s.
I look out the window and find her on the back porch, staring at the mountains in the distance. Somehow I knew she’d love it here.
I step out back with my Earl Grey and sit beside her on the bench.
Her green eyes greet me, and she leans over, breathing in my steaming cup.
I hold it out for her. “Two sugars.”
She takes a slow sip and hands it back.
I’m tempted to ask about the sketches I found. About the title crossed off. I’m tempted to find out if this is why she’s been down the past week since going back to work.
It doesn’t take a lawyer to figure out what happened. I saw the meticulously crafted plan to build this, the precise budget, the written proposal for her selfless purpose.
But there’s no way the county will spring fifty grand for a new and improved children’s wing.
As beautiful as her plans are, they don’t belong here. Not the public library. Hell, not even in this town. The town that happily accepts free books for their children from her on the streets, then make fun of her for it behind her back.
They don’t deserve her efforts.
