“Hell no.”
The guys share a knowing glance, then turn back to me, Cheshire grins splitting their faces.
I grab my food and run.
This is a terrible idea. Yet, here I am, about to knock on Charlie’s front door. I should have at least texted her first, to tell her I got let out early. But she dropped by my work to surprise me, so I’m using that as an excuse to drop by her house. I’m not stupid. I’m aware she’s not bringing me by because she doesn’t think her parents will approve. And I get it, but I’m not going to hide from her family like some dirty little secret, either. Since she never actually told me she didn’t want me coming over, I’ve decided to play stupid and drop by. It’s three in the afternoon, so her folks probably aren’t even here, but I tied my hair back and put on a long-sleeved shirt to cover my tats, just in case.
Sweat is rolling down my back and my hands are all clammy. How much of that is from nerves and how much is a result of walking in the atmospheric soup that is Florida in the summertime, is anybody’s guess. I scrub my hands dry on my jeans and knock on the door. I don’t hear anyone coming, but I don’t want to be too obnoxious by knocking again, so I shove my hands into my pockets and work out some of my nervous energy rocking back and forth on the balls of my feet. Finally, I hear footsteps approaching—heavy footsteps—which means this isn’t going to be Charlie answering. Fuck. This was such a bad idea.
The door swings open, and I’m greeted by a balding, middle-aged man who’s dressed like he’s fresh from a round of golf and is scowling at me like I’m the devil incarnate. “Who are you?” he asks, the words clipped. I’m not sure what I expected, but this obvious asshole wasn’t it.
I refuse to let it bother me. His bullshit can just roll off my back with the two tons of sweat I’m currently expelling. Keeping my metaphorical cool, I extend my hand in greeting and introduce myself. “Hi. I’m Ryan,” I say. Whoever said money can’t buy class, must have been talking about this guy. The bastard’s mousy little face scrunches up like he just smelled a fart, and he eyes my hand like it’s festering with bubonic plague.
I stuff my hand back into my pocket. Clearly, this guy is a bigger asshole than I anticipated. Time to cut my losses and move on. “Is Charlie here?”
The old man looks me up and down, with obvious distaste, like I’m some bum who just walked up off the street. “What do you want with my daughter?” he asks.
Jesus, fuck. What’s wrong with this guy? “Uh… D-dinner.”
Great, now I’m stuttering.
“Let me explain something to you, boy,” he says, wagging a finger in my face. “My Charlotte is a nice girl and too good for someone like you. You stay away from this house and stay away from her. Do you understand?”
Who the hell is he to talk to me like I’m some piece of shit, not good enough for his precious daughter? I’m so pissed, I’m shaking. “With all due respect, sir,” I barely get the words out around the angry knot in my throat, but this is Charlie’s dad, and I’m trying to be the bigger fucking man here. “Charlie’s an adult and can make her own decisions as far as who she will and will not see.”
As if someone flipped a switch in him, Charlie’s father’s expression smooths into a cold, sly grin. “Not when I’m paying for her housing and tuition; she doesn’t. And if you honestly think she’s going to give up all of this,” he gestures to the house, “and her college education for you, you’re even dumber than you look.”
Then he steps back inside and slams the door in my face.
Chapter 8
Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire
Charlie
Ryan:Hey. Something came up. I can’t go out tonight.
Me:That sucks. Is everything alright?
Ryan:Yeah. Just family drama.
Me:Okay. Call me later?
Me:Ryan?
Me:Ryan?
Ryan:Yeah. Sure.
He didn’t call. I waited around all night for him to call and he never did. Now, I’m supposed to be having lunch with Stella, but all I can do is obsess over the potential reasons he never called. Am I making too big of a deal out of it? Maybe he did have someserious family issues to deal with and didn’t have time. But that text? It wasn’t right. Not to mention that it’s noon, and he still has not called or texted.
“Charlie?” Stella asks, snapping me out of my inner turmoil.
“Yeah?”
“What do you think?”
I haven’t got a clue what she was talking about, so I go with a generic, “Yeah. Sounds good,” and pray I didn’t bargain away my firstborn or something.
