I had to keep reminding myself that it wouldn’t be forever. Eventually, I’d have to figure out how to budget for it again. But for right now it felt like such a deep, satisfying breath of fresh air.
Should I feel somewhat like an indentured servant? I didn’t know. My feelings were unclear on the ethics of the whole thing. But I did trust the English siblings to let me walk away from the job and the apartment should the time come.
And more than that, I trusted myself to use this time to save, rest, and listen to my instincts.
My doorbell buzzer rang its shrill alert through the cluttered apartment, and I nearly jumped out of my skin. Holy shit, I couldn’t wait to be away from that awful thing.
“Hello?” I asked through the intercom, wondering who it could be.
“I brought tacos.”
“Charlie?” His voice was distorted thanks to the quality of the intercom system, but who else could it be.
“And chips and salsa,” he added.
I buzzed him up. Chips and salsa were my death row meal. It didn’t sound like much, but if I was literally on death row, and I had to pick one final meal, I would order dozens of chips and salsas and gorge myself until I was unrecognizable.
Clearly, Charlie knew how to charm his way into my apartment.
Leaving the door propped open, I went in search of something in my kitchen not packed up. Like plates or glasses or silverware. I ended up finding paper towels and spoons.
“What if I was a serial killer?” he asked instead of saying hello when he walked through the door a couple of minutes later. “You leave the door open for anyone?”
“Only when I’m promised tacos and chips and salsa,” I called from the kitchen.
He kicked the door closed with his heel after toeing the box that had been propping it open out of the way, then met me at the island, arms laden with paper bags from the taco truck down the street and two of our resealable 750 ml glass bottles from the bar.
I quickly made space for him to set everything down. “What’s in those?”
He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Margaritas.”
“Homemade?”
“Fresh squeezed, baby,” he said with a grin.
I bumped him out of the way with my hip so I could dig into the bags. “Charlie, you saved the day.”
“Was the day in danger?” he asked, opening my cabinets in search of glasses.
I let out a deep sigh of happiness when I found the double portion of chips and the three kinds of salsa he’d brought. What had I done to deserve this feast? I immediately dug into the corn salsa before ripping the lid off the hot salsa. It was past eight, and I was just now eating for the day—aside from those few sips of iced coffee. I hadn’t realized how famished I’d gotten because I’d felt nauseous from crying so hard earlier.
“The day wasn’t just in danger,” I told him flippantly. “It had driven itself off a cliff and landed in a fiery crash with zero survivors.”
“Yikes, Ade. That sounds dramatic.” He managed to find two glasses I hadn’t packed yet on the top shelf. He filled them with ice and poured us some drinks. “What happened?”
One thing about Charlie, ever since he started bartending, the man could make a mean margarita. His shots and cocktails were all highly experimental, but he’d figured out the perfect lime juice, triple sec, and tequila ratios down right away.
I took a sip and tried not to moan. Tried and failed. “Why is it so good?”
He grinned. “Grand Marnier.”
“Ooh, fancy. What’s the occasion?”
He shrugged. “No occasion, just thought you might want help. Why did your day suck?”
I took another sip of margarita, then another bite of chip while I mulled over what to tell him. It wasn’t that I was trying to keep my private life a secret. It was just... I wasn’t sure how interested Charlie was in hearing the details of my day.
To be fair, he seemed interested. He was here. And he’d brought provisions. Also, he was asking questions. But... the Charlie I knew from five years ago wasn’t great at absorbing all the nuanced details of my stories. Historically, he hadn’t been emotionally available for heavy heartache. He wouldn’t know what to do if I accidentally started crying and couldn’t stop.
