Well, probably. But I’ve been in Boston the past few years, so I thought maybe cold wouldn’t get to me like it used to. Southern cold is different though and always has been. I shiver a little while scooting my chair closer to the fire. The chatter around us continues, so I close my eyes for a second to take a deep breath of smoke and marsh.
“River did the introducing?”
“Yep.”
“River didn’t give you the important details, I’m sure.”
From the corner of my eye, I can see Charles offer a bashful, but pleased, sort of smile. “Give me the important details, then, please.”
I chuckle and nod toward Scott. “That’s our famed high school quarterback who never left home, stayed here to help run his family’s paper mill. He’ll repeat his high school wins to you as often as you let him.” I nod over toward Erica, Scott’s wife and perpetual badass. “That’s Erica, Scott’s high school sweetheart and now wife. They have two kids and always wear a bomb matching costume at Halloween.”
“That’s cute,” Charles says idly, with feeling.
“Very.” I chance a glance over at him while he’s not looking, feeling warm and tired at the same time. I’m so stupid. Tearing my gaze away from Charles again, I nod over toward Gilbert and Wiggly. “The guy standing by the stack of woodwith the buzz cut and overgrown beard is Gilbert. He works at an engineering firm on the mainland, designs roads and shit. Wiggly works at the Piggly Wiggly in town and has since high school, but now he manages it.”
“What’s his real name?”
“David,” I answer, earning a surprised laugh from Charles. The sound moves through me like an earthquake, shattering something I didn’t know needed to be broken. His laugh is warm and inviting, speaking of nights of laughter, not insults. “Then there’s Trish and Opal, the twins who used to get high under the bleachers in high school but now own an online coaching business after getting matching psychology degrees.”
“That’s cool.” When I glance over at Charles, he’s not looking at the twins, but at me, and he flushes and looks away when I notice. It’s endearing and cute, but my heart is still hard and unwilling to accept what that look might mean. “And the sad-looking veterinarian standing alone by the water? Cupcake and I met him for the first time a bit ago.”
“Orson,” I whisper, feeling an odd sort of kinship with the loneliest of us all. “He was attending Pine Falls University when there was that shooting a decade ago. Quiet, plays a lot of video games when he’s not working at the veterinary office on the mainland.”
“Rough,” Charles says gruffly.
I turn and wiggle my eyebrows at him. “Now introduce yourself.”
“Hmm…” Charles trails off thoughtfully, mouth bunched to the side. He raises his own large hands toward the fire, scrunching his fingers a few times as if to spread warmth back into them. “Nebraska kid with homophobic parents, who got his NFL dreams, only to lose them because he didn’t care about the compounding injuries to his knees. Now he’s retired on an island full of misfits and has never felt more at home in his life.”
“That’s a little sad, Charlie.”
Charles slowly turns his head toward me, eyes wide, lips parted. “What?”
“That’s a little sad?” I ask in confusion.
“The name.”
“Oh, Charlie? Do you not like it?”
“No,” Charles replies roughly, and I feel a little sick. Of course, I fucked up. “I love it.”
“Oh cool.”
“Now introduce yourself.”
“You already know me.”
Charles lifts one eyebrow. “So?”
I blow a raspberry and turn back to the fire, holding out my hands to the fire. Hmmm. What’s there to say about me? He already knows my most interesting fact that I toured with Nolan Hastings once. What else is there to tell? Charles doesn’t prod further, doesn’t push me, just sits patiently beside me, clearly waiting me out. He copies me, holding his hands out as well, and I can’t help but notice the rather large difference between us. I’ve always had trademark musician hands—long fingers, thin and great for piano. But his are large, like fucking baseball mitts. The veins on the back of them are prominent, and there’s a few random scars that probably tell a million stories. Our hands are so very different, but I wonder what they’d look like entwined.
“Well,” I say with heavy sarcasm, breaking the comfortable silence that had settled between us. “I was adopted out of foster care when I was five years old. I’ve spent the past fourteen years or so in Boston, then came home when my long-term relationship crashed and burned. Now here I am teaching guitar to kids and a Super Bowl champion.”
“How long was the relationship?” Charles asks, curiosity and concern coloring his voice.
I glance over toward River to make sure he’s not eavesdropping or looking our way. He’s sufficiently distracted by whatever Gilbert said to piss him off. The thing is, everyone in my life thinks that Anthony and I met after college, but that’s a lie. I was eighteen when I met Anthony, and he was thirty-eight at the time. It had been sex at first. We met online. But then he’d showered me with gifts, with words I’d never heard before likeyou’re beautiful, like an angel with those curls, and he’d made me feel alive and wanted. By the time the verbal abuse and gaslighting had started, I’d been mid-twenties and had not known how to get away. By then he’d disparaged every choice I ever made, but I hadn’t known how to get away.
“About fourteen years, with a few off and on periods, and a lot of bad along the way.”
