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The gifted misunderstanding: Advocating for a better awareness of gifted individuals
Chapter Eight
LOVE OF MINE
Oliver
The first thing I notice when my eyes land on Charlee, my Charlee, is the fire in her gaze. Nothing, not even the hours spent reading her every word and learning all her intricacies, could have prepared me for the feisty woman standing in front of me. The way her auburn hair brushes against her shoulders as she cocks her head, her hand still held out for me to shake. But I can’t push my body to move, can’t order my brain to send the signal to my arm to raise and take her hand in mine. Fuck, the mere thought of having her skin touch mine is sending me deeper into my spiral.
She’s beautiful. No, the word doesn’t even come close to doing her justice. How come the English language does not contain a single word to describe her beauty? That rosy tint that colors her cheeks and the tip of her round nose? Or what about a word for those full lips pressed together in a little smirk like she knows she has the upper hand?
How many times have I closed my eyes during classes and tried to picture her face? How many nights did I lie in bed, dreaming of those lips, the silky feel of her hair between my fingers, her head resting on my chest while I’d lull her to sleep? The sound of her voice?
Damn, her voice . . .
I wasn’t prepared for any of it. Hell, I didn’t think I would ever see her. Know the person she is beyond the words she shared with me.
Not after . . .
“Are you gonna shake her hand or . . . ” Donna whispers in my ear, and I startle.
“I’m sorry, I need a minute.”
It takes the strength of a bull for me to move my feet and push past her and through the wide-open conference room door. My strides are long as I rush to the bathroom and slump against the door once inside.
How can she be here?
In a heartbeat, I’m thrown back to the desk in my old room, smiling like an idiot as I write my answer to Charlee’s letter. All of it rushes back to me—the memories and emotions, the indescribable ways in which she felt like the closest person in my life when I hadn’t even met her yet. How she felt like she was mine.
I can’t breathe. I’m falling, and there’s nobody to catch me, nothing to grab on to.
That woman out there knows everything there is to know about me, and I know her better than anybody else. And yet she’s a total stranger who hasn’t figured out who I am, because how can she? I haven’t told her my name. She doesn’t recognize me.
She must think I’m the biggest jerk on the face of the earth, and quite frankly, when she discovers who I am, I’m not sure her opinion will change. Probably quite the opposite.
My body slides down the door. I dig my phone out of my back pocket and dial Lola.
“Ols?”
“She’s here,” I breathe.
“Who’s here? Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Charlee’s here, Lola.” The words don’t even make sense when spoken out loud. I sound like a madman.
There’s a pause on the other end of the line. “Where are you?”
My head thumps against the door, and I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’m in the office. You know, for the training with the other journalist from Toronto?”
“Is she—” Lola’s breath hitches. “Wh-what do you mean ‘Charlee’s here’? The Charlee?”
I nod, although she can’t see my face, so I force the words out. “Yep. The one and only.”
“Do you want me to drive down? I can take the rest of the day off.”
“No, no, please don’t. I’m okay.” The hand gripping my knee trembles. “I think. I will be.”
