When the Night is Over (Blackbird Series Book 1) Page 8

  He stands. “Sure you’re all right?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine. And really Simon, thank you.” When I meet his eyes, I have to look away. He’s studying me, searching for something. “You should get your hand checked out,” I say over my shoulder as I make my way back to the bathroom.

  I imagine him shrugging when he answers, “This is nothing.”

  If there was some kind of Oscar award for good waitressing, I would have been nominated for my performance today. I was on autopilot, handling eight to ten checks at once without hitting a snag. I didn’t even take a break, chancing only one look out the window my entire shift. A cold driving rain came on around mid-morning, but it wasn’t the weather keeping me inside today. I didn’t want to be outside, didn’t want to be near that lot, and I didn’t want to look across the street to see Simon’s curious and worried eyes staring back at me. I wanted to forget the entire episode.

  For the first hour of my shift, Denny, Marley and the other waitresses kept asking how I was. I shook my head, smiling and looking at them like they were being neurotic. “I’m fine,” I answered each time, until finally they stopped and things went back to normal.

  I’m sure they saw through my It’s all good act. Each one gave me a hug with a squeeze when my shift was over, and Marley told me she’d be coming in half an hour earlier from now on. Two of us should be setting up, and no, she wasn’t saying that just because of what happened this morning.

  I bite my lip to keep from bawling as I make my way out into the parking lot. The rain is coming down in icy sheets. Keys, keys. I look through my bag and then shake it to listen for the familiar jingle. The visual comes on suddenly. He’s closing in, reaching for me as I throw the keys across the parking lot. His face, his damp, dirty hands. No, no, no. I lean my head against the car door, tired and defeated.

  “Hey,” he calls to me softly. A moment later a jacket is draped over my shoulders, over my own coat that’s now soaked through.

  “My keys are gone,” I cry. “I threw them so that he, so he…So he couldn’t get me back into my car and—”

  Through the jacket he rubs my arms. “That was smart, Charlotte. That was definitely the right thing to do.”

  “I can’t leave my car here. They’ll ask questions.”

  “Which direction did you throw them...Can you remember?” I gesture to the left, my body suddenly so weak I can barely raise my arm to point. “I’m gonna put you in my truck to warm up. I’ll find them.”

  He ushers me across the street, practically holding me up as if I’m an invalid. I think the shock from this morning is just now settling in. My entire body is shaking, and once I’m seated inside the truck I begin to sob uncontrollably. I don’t care that Simon is witnessing my meltdown. I’m too far gone to care. He sits beside me, fiddling with the heat, looking over at me every few seconds, his discomfort rolling off him in waves. He lets out a breath, giving in to whatever he’s wrestling with, then slides across the seat to pull me in close.

  “He’s never coming back here. He’ll never touch you again, I promise you that.” Words whispered into my hair, hands rubbing up and down my back, strong arms blanketing me with a sense of much needed security. I want to stay like this forever. He pulls back a few inches and tips my chin up to search my eyes. “You sit here and warm up. I’m just grabbing a flashlight from the store and I’ll find your keys.”

  In just a long sleeve shirt that’s completely soaked, Simon roams the parking lot for at least ten minutes before coming back and tapping on the window, smiling as he holds my keys up between his fingers. When he follows my eyes and looks down into my lap, he backs up a step.

  He’s not smiling anymore.

  Simon

  Why the fuck didn’t I leave that thing at home?

  I startle her when I knock on the window, but she isn’t crying or looking like an injured bird anymore. I’m glad for that until I follow her nervous eyes down to what’s unfolded in her lap. That big yellow piece of paper, or my soul laid bare for the whole world to see—same thing.

  I want to scream at her, ask her what the fuck she’s doing. Who does she think she is, snooping around and reading my private things? But one look at her face, fearful and anxious, and I know I need to rein it in.

  I walk around the back of the truck, taking deep breaths, face turned towards Heaven so I can ask for strength as the cold rain pelts my skin. I don’t look at her when I get in. Don’t know what to say as my forehead slumps against the steering wheel.

  Her voice is small, cautious. “I promise, I just went in there to look for some tissues. It had my name on it.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “You almost left this for me last week, didn’t you?”

  “What?”

  “I saw you…I saw you in the parking lot at school. You put something on my windshield.”

  “I never intended for you to read it.”

  “I’m sorry.” She reaches over but stops short of touching me. “Do you want me to go?”

  Do I want her to go? Yes, I do, and no, I never want her to leave me. Still resting against the steering wheel, I roll my forehead from one side to another. That’s as close as I’ll come to telling her to stay.

  I’m tempted to blurt out even more of what I know is true, but I hold back. Moments pass as we sit in choked silence.

  “Say something, Charlotte. I can’t read your mind and you’re killing me right now.”

  “I don’t…I don’t know what to say.” The passenger door opens as Charlotte draws in a shaky breath. “I dream about you too,” she says, hopping out and closing the door behind her.

  I see her tucking the yellow paper into her pocket as she crosses the street.

  What to do? What to do?

  She’s there, standing with her puke in the bushes friend and another girl. Barf girl is doing some ridiculously uncoordinated dance moves while Charlotte and the other girl laugh. The other girl is genuinely laughing, but Charlotte’s smile doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes.

  I want to go to her, want to know how she is, but I won’t approach her now. I wanted to call her last night or go by her house. Fuck the letter—I’m not going to let my embarrassment stop me from doing the right thing. But there are barriers. I won’t be asking anyone for the Mason girl’s phone number and I certainly won’t be stopping by her house.

  It’s just after lunch when I see her sneaking out the side exit heading towards the parking lot. I run to catch up with her. Her body stiffens at the sound of my footsteps. She flinches and sucks in a breath when I reach out to touch her shoulder.

  “It’s just me.” She’s wide-eyed for a moment until her breath evens out. “I’m sorry. That was stupid on my part, shouldn’t have come up on you like that.”

  She squares her shoulders. “No, it’s all right. I’m fine.”

  “You’re obviously not fine,” I say, shaking my head. “Yesterday was messed up. I’m still kind of reeling from the whole thing.”

  “Rudy’s dead,” she whispers, looking down at her shoes.

  “What?”

  “The nurse said it was a blood clot. Blunt force trauma to the head caused it.”

  “Holy shit.” I move a step closer. I want to hold her but her arms are crossed over her chest like a shield. “I’m sorry, Charlotte. I know you cared about him. You were good to him.”

  “Do you know he has family?” I shake my head, silently willing her to go on. “I met his sister at the hospital yesterday.”

  “You went to the hospital?”

  She looks up at me like I’m dense. “Rudy was beaten to death.” She adds, “He died saving me.” She picks at a loose thread on her sweater. “His sister said he was depressed after serving in Iraq, that he was never the same.” She lets out a heavy breath and shakes her head. “He was homeless by choice. He preferred living on the streets. Turned his sister down every time she offered to take him in and get him help.”

  “Everyone has a story.�
� I feel guilty knowing I never gave Rudy Wallace the benefit of the doubt. “I just thought he was another homeless junkie…Never gave much thought as to how or why he hit bottom.”

  “I’m glad I got to tell her.”

  “You told his sister what happened?”

  Charlotte shoots me a warning look. “Not everything.”

  Don’t worry, I want to tell her. I’d never break her confidence. Does she imagine for a minute that I would?

  “I did tell her that Rudy was trying to protect me. I want his family to know he died a hero.”

  “I’m sure they’re grateful for that.”

  “Yeah, I think it gave her some comfort.”

  “Is there a service or something?”

  I have a sudden urge to attend. I want to make sure Rudy’s sister knows there are good, caring people in this town, people like Charlotte Mason. That while me and just about everyone else walked by Rudy as if he was invisible, Charlotte fed him, made sure he had a warm coat, and slipped him a few singles now and then.

  “No service. His sister lives up in Erie and his dad is in a home nearby.” She looks close to tears. “It’s funny, right? There was nothing here for him, but he came back to his hometown anyway.”

  “That just proves he wasn’t right in the head.”

  “I know,” she says absently. “Once I get out of here, I’m gone for good.”

  You’d think I’d be inclined to smile at that, Charlotte being a kindred spirit and all, but the thought of her wanting to leave, to run away, leaves me heavy hearted. She should be happy and she should be safe. Charlotte shouldn’t have to worry about making it into work without some sick fuck assaulting her, and she sure as hell shouldn’t be buying locks to keep someone out of a place they shouldn’t be.

  “Were you heading home when I caught up to you?”

  “Yeah, my head’s all over the place. I don’t think I heard one word my teachers said today.” She gestures back down the hallway. “Fresh start tomorrow.”

  “All right.” Before she makes it out the door, I blurt out what I’m dying to ask. “Is everything all right? I mean, not just about yesterday, but everything else with you?”

  If she understands that I’m referring to the lock, she doesn’t let on. “I’m fine, Simon…I promise you I’m fine.”

  Chapter Nine

  Charlotte

  I quicken my pace, ignoring him as he leans against the squad car parked at the curb.

  “Charlie, wait.”

  “Stop coming around when my brother isn’t home. I have nothing to say to you.”

  “I was right behind you, trailing you the entire way. And Jesus, you were no more than half a mile from home!” When I turn and shoot him a scowl, he backpeddles. “I was wrong, really fucking wrong.”

  “Go. Away.”

  But I’m not quick enough. “I need to talk to you.” He wedges his foot in the doorframe. “Why didn’t you tell me what happened at the diner yesterday morning?”

  “I don’t see how it’s any of your business.”

  “Come on.” His eyes are pleading. “The guy who killed Rudy Wallace is a serial rapist. Do you know how lucky you are?”

  “He was looking to rob Rudy. He only turned on me when I went to stop him.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the police report says. It’s how your statement reads, anyway.” I tilt my head and widen my eyes as if to say: Yeah, and? Wes studies me but I turn away, busy myself with the stack of mail that sits on the kitchen counter. “I also read the other witness statement.” He pauses. “Simon Wade?”

  “He works across the street.”

  “He backs your story up, or you back up his story. The statements are nearly identical.”

  “There aren’t too many versions of the truth.” Looking over my shoulder I add, “Well, maybe not in the world you and my brother live in…I can totally understand your confusion.”

  “Dammit, Charlotte,” he says, taking me by the upper arm. “I’m concerned about you. Stop acting like this!”

  “Concerned? You left me to walk home alone on a dark stretch of highway and I’m supposed to believe you’re concerned about me?”

  He backs away from me and sinks into one of the dining room chairs. “It’s not like that…That night,” he trails off. “You know I care about you.”

  I open the front door to make my intentions clear. “I don’t want you to care.”

  He doesn’t breeze past me in the hallway this week. I get a head nod. He doesn’t take off when he sees me with Sienna and the other girls on the dance team. He acts as if my presence is no big deal. When the redhead from the gym tries to flirt, I catch him looking my way as he physically extricates himself from her hold.

  I’m certainly not being pursued, or heaven forbid wooed in any way, but the simple gestures are meaningful to me.

  I read and reread that letter so frequently, touch the paper he held in his hands so often that I’m afraid I’ll wear the ink away. You are everything I imagine a man could want. You’re everything I want but can’t have. His words warm me up, fill me with something thrilling and blissful.

  My mother used to love to watch the movie version of West Side Story. When she first had the stroke—when my father still cared about her—he used to put headphones on her ears and play the soundtrack. I guess he thought it would jog her memory, bring her back to us. And as sad as the memory of her listening to that music makes me in one respect, I can’t help but sing those songs to myself this week. Because I feel it: Something’s Coming. And yes, the way he looks at me, even though it’s no more than a passing glance, makes me want to belt out the lyrics to I Feel Pretty at the top of my lungs. I sing in my room, I sing in the shower, and when I’m in public I sing in the quiet of my own mind.

  This has been a week of extremes, of highs and lows. I know I’m a little off, I recognize it, see my mood swings for what they are. But in those moments when I can block out Rudy, block out that man, block out everything except Simon and that letter, it’s as if I don’t have a care in the world. I’m downright giddy.

  By the end of the week, Simon has checked on me four times. He cuts into the lunch line like he did that first time and asks if I’m all right. On Tuesday and Wednesday, he simply replied, “Good,” before turning to leave, but today he actually nods and bestows a smile on me when he says, “Good. Let me know if you need anything.”

  I want to tell him that yes, I need. I need because you are all I think about.

  Everyone is hopped up. It’s edging up towards seventy degrees by the time the last period bell rings on Friday so people linger in the parking lot. Jackets have been stuffed into backpacks and sweatshirts have been tied around hips. It’s not even that warm, but the first taste of spring in this typically bitter corner of Pennsylvania makes people act a little loco.

  Daisy and Sarah are wearing tank tops—loonies must have planned it out in advance—and are practically bouncing on their toes when I meet them at my car. “You’re shivering, Sarah.”

  “Am not!” she says, laughing.

  Daisy huddles us in, looking between me and Sarah. “There’s a party down at the river tonight. Skylar just told us and said we should come.”

  My eyes scan the lot, settling on the corner where the seniors congregate. I see him. He’s surrounded by people but his eyes are fixed on me.

  “I’ll drive.”

  Sarah and Daisy share a stunned look. I’m sure they had a whole strategy worked out, figured they’d have to persuade me or wear me down. But no, nothing could stop me from going to that party tonight. I even cave when they insist on putting some makeup on me and curling my long hair into soft waves. But I stick to my guns when they try to dress us up like triplets in miniskirts, short boots and shirts from Sarah’s closet.

  “But they’re different!” Sarah whines.

  “No way! It’s the same shirt in three different colors.” Taking in our trio, I manage to smile and laugh at us in the mirror. “We look ridiculo
us!”

  There’s a lot I don’t say. I don’t tell them that I cannot, under any circumstances, wear this miniskirt that barely skims the middle of my thighs. When I slipped it on, Daisy slapped the back of my leg, making some comment about how life isn’t fair or something. The jokes and laughter fade out to a distant muffle as I fight off a wave of nausea. Nothing happened, I repeat it like a mantra, berating myself. But I feel the rough denim of his jeans wedging my legs apart, feel my cheek scraping against the brick wall, feel his clammy hand circling my throat as he moves in close.

  Stuck-up bitch.

  I’m rubbing my cheek to ease the pain when Daisy calls me back to the present. “Maybe Charlotte’s right, we do look a little ridiculous.”

  “Well, I’m sticking with this because I look hot.”

  I look over to see Sarah modeling a pair of oversized sunglasses that make her look like an insect, along with the wig her mom used last year when she was going through chemo. It’s a fire engine red, chin-length bob. A few tears escape when the three of us simultaneously burst out laughing. Laughing when life sucks lemons. It’s just what I needed.

  Simon

  Always so serious.

  Her friends are giggling, bouncing with nervous energy and sucking down whatever is in their red cups. Charlotte smiles as she looks around, observing. She holds her cup but doesn’t drink.

  I told myself that if she did come here tonight, I’d allow myself to take. I’d forget about all the reasons why I shouldn’t, and for once I’d let myself have what I want.

  She’s here.

  I’m finding it hard to concentrate, to hold conversations or feign interest in what people are saying to me. Cora, a girl I know from honors, is asking me about Northwestern, asking me when I’m flying out for orientation. Flying? At this rate I’ll be selling my truck and hitchhiking my way to Chicago in August. My orientation is two days before classes start in the fall, I tell her. Then she goes on to fill me in on her roommate search and how excited she is as she prepares to leave for Philly in September. I catch maybe fifty percent of what she’s saying. Cora’s a nice person, pretty and smart, but there’s a different girl standing no more than twenty feet away who owns me.