“You’re saying I’m the girl of his dreams?” I needed to make that very, very clear. I wanted precise language and lots and lots of confirmation.
“Do you know of any other girls Charlie’s actively pursuing?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Well, then, you have your answer.”
I was flabbergasted. Although it might have been the sake. Or the whiskey. Either way, my brain refused to accept input or produce output. The information just stayed there, right in the center of my brain, like someone had framed it and hung it on a wall.
Steve’s words resonated so closely to Charlie’s, and I wasn’t sure what to do with it all.
“And I was fine to put you, or the dream of you, aside while I got my shit together. But I promised myself it wouldn’t be forever. That when I reached this point of emotional and physical health, I could have you back. I could chase you again. Kiss you again. You were the big fucking reward at the end of a hard fucking road.”
Charlie seriously wanted a future with me.
Speak of the devil, he set three drinks down on the table, then slid onto his chair with a grin. “What are you guys talking about?”
I should have stammered to add credibility to our conversation and make it seem like we were talking about normal things and not him. But honestly, I wanted to know Steve’s answer. So I just blurted out, “How did you know Martha was the one?”
He shrugged and took a sip of the drink Charlie had bought him. “Honestly? I looked at my life, my past without her, my present with her, my future. And I made a decision. I would rather have all the days with her I could get—the good, the bad, the ugly, the even uglier—than live one day without her. Her flaws and failures were infinitely more beautiful to me than one day alone ever would be.” He smiled, and it was so full of love and adoration for his wife that I instantly ached with loneliness—even though I was surrounded by people. “I’d rather have the human I love, Ada. Than a perfect life without a human or love.”
Charlie laughed. “Wow, okay. You sure you can handle another one of those?” he asked, pointing at the drink. “I think you might have had enough if you’re getting all philosophical on us, Steve-o.”
“Nah,” Steve argued. “I’m talking to Ada. You leave me alone.”
“You’re going to scare Ada away,” Charlie argued, still laughing.
I shook my head. “No, no, he’s not. I’m good.” I smiled at Charlie. “Nobody’s scaring me away tonight.”
He met my gaze and smiled back. I didn’t know if he’d figured out we were talking about him yet or if he was just happy to be here with us. But I was suddenly delighted to be here with him.
Charlie English officially won first dates. I was ruined for all other first dates, thanks to him.
seventeen
Steve’s band,Sam Svoboda and the Silvers—because they were all retired men in their late sixties and early seventies—finished up around nine. We stayed and talked some more with Steve, who was an excellent time. And he even warmed up to me. And that strangely brought me joy...even though I wasn’t sure why that mattered.
The bar, which was actually called The Red Bird, closed at ten since it was a Monday night. Charlie closed our tab with promises to the bartender to be back soon. I learned that his name was Kyle, and Charlie had helped get him a job here.
We said goodbye to Steve on the street level and wandered back toward my apartment.
I didn’t want the date to be over. Besides, it was still early for us.
“Buy me an ice cream cone?” I asked as we passed a new, trendy parlor with revolving flavors of the day. Today was brown sugar brownie, and it sounded delightful.
“Is that what you want, Ada? Ice cream?” Charlie asked with his eyebrows raised.
“Hmm.” I dragged him into the shop, and we leaned against each other as we picked out what we wanted.
I ordered a single-scoop waffle cone of the flavor of the day, and he got a dish of the butter pecan.
“That’s an old man flavor. You’ve been hanging out with Steve too much,” I told him as he paid.
“This has nothing to do with Steve,” he told me. “It’s always been my favorite.” He beseeched the bored cashier with a pleading look. “Besides, it’s not an old man flavor. Butter pecan is hip, right?”
The cashier shook his head. “She’s right. Only old men get it.”
I tried unsuccessfully not to gloat while Charlie grumbled under his breath and threw ones in the tip jar.
