She'd stared at me, then at the dough, then back at me. "Miles. That looks like a topographical map of Nebraska."
"Is that... bad?"
"Nebraska is a rectangle! A flat, boring rectangle!" She'd burst out laughing, not a polite laugh, not a careful social laugh, but a full, unguarded sound that started as a snort and bubbled into helpless delight. Her head tipped back, green eyes crinkling at the corners, and she wiped a floury hand across her cheek, leaving a white streak she didn't seem to notice or care about.
"You're supposed to be helping me," she'd said, still laughing. "You're making everything worse."
"I'm providing moral support."
"You're providing chaos. My poor kitchen..."
"Chaos can be supportive. Emotionally speaking."
She'd looked at me then, the way she always did, like she was seeing past the surface to something underneath. Everyone else saw Miles Cameron, Judge Cameron's son, the kid with the four-point-oh and the legacy admission to Yale waiting in the wings. Charlotte saw a nervous, overthinking boy who felt like an imposter in his own life.
And she liked him anyway.
"You're ridiculous," she'd said softly, still smiling. "You know that, right?"
"You’re one of the few who says that."
"And I’m correct!" She'd reached over and fixed my grip on the cookie cutter. "Here. You're holding it wrong. It's not a weapon, Miles, you don't have to strangle it."
"I strangle everything. It's a personality trait."
"A deeply concerning personality trait."
"My therapist agrees."
"You don't have a therapist."
"I should. Clearly." I'd tried again, pressing the cutter into the dough with exaggerated gentleness. The resulting shape was slightly less disastrous. "Better?"
"A little. It looks like a mutant starfish instead of a map of the Midwest. Progress."
"I'll take it."
She'd bumped her shoulder against mine, a casual gesture that sent electricity down my entire arm. "You know what I like about you, Miles Cameron?"
"My devastating good looks and razor-sharp wit?"
"Your complete inability to be good at anything that doesn't matter." She'd paused, considering. "The good looks are fine too, I guess."
"You guess?"
"I'm being objective... And scientifically detached."
"You have flour on your face."
"That's part of my scientific process." She'd grinned at me, bright and unguarded, and I'd felt a sweet ache in my chest, like my heart was rearranging itself for her.
Being with Charlotte had felt like breathing after holding my breath for years. She didn't care about my family's name or the expectations everyone else seemed to think I should carry like a sacred burden. She just cared about me, the real me, the versionI kept hidden from everyone else because I wasn't sure he was good enough to show.
With her, I didn't have to be perfect. I just had to be present.
The memory faded, leaving me standing in my mother's kitchen holding a reunion invitation and feeling like I'd been punched in the chest.
I'd heard through the sparse hometown connections I still maintained… my mother's mentions before she died, a former classmate's social media post I'd scrolled past at 2 AM when sleep wouldn't come—that Charlotte had moved back to Riverside. After a divorce. The news had lodged in the back of my head like a cold shard, and I'd carefully avoided examining why it hurt so much to think of her.
