Behind His Lens(82)

“My mother was lying when she said I’m engaged. Well, I was engaged or technically “betrothed” to Hudson when we were in school, but that was just our parents trying to control everything. We never took it seriously, but my mom really thought I’d go through with it. She thought we’d go off to the same college, he would officially propose, and then we’d live happily ever after. I have no clue why she brought that up today. It’s a blatant lie, Jude!”

“Charley, stop!”

My stomach is twisted into a tight knot and I can’t listen to another word she says. Everything she spouts seems to complicate things even more.

“Obviously I know your mom is full of shit, but that’s not what made me leave. It’s the overwhelming secrecy that weighs you down. You won’t let me in. I would’ve known that your mother was lying right away if you had told me anything about her at all.”

I take a deep breath, but I still have so much left to say.

“What happened to your family? Why do you avoid speaking about them?” I pause, glancing up to see if she’ll answer, but when she doesn’t—I keep asking just to prove how much she’s been hiding from me. “How did your father die?”

I grip the side of my black granite counter top. “Is your real name Clarissa? You told me Charley wasn’t a nickname, so is it your middle name? At times I feel like I know nothing about you and it scares the shit out of me. I’ve shown you every demon in my closet, and yet you keep yourself hidden away from the world like a porcelain doll.”


“Jude…” she murmurs, but my name hangs in the air. She still doesn’t answer my questions.

Silence fills my apartment and my heart starts to sink all over again.

“I don’t want to be with someone who can’t be honest with themselves, Charley. I don’t expect you to trust me with everything right away, but I walk on eggshells around you. That’s not what relationships should be like.”

There. I said it.

My hands relax enough for blood to start flowing back into my white knuckles once again, but it takes a few minutes before I can look up at her. When I finally lift my head, her eyes are distant and focused a few feet above me. Her features are relaxed: soft eyes, tan poreless skin, rosy cheeks— but I know there’s a war raging behind that facade.

She doesn’t protest or even offer a rebuttal. She doesn’t have a sudden epiphany and tell me every sad memory from her past. Charley nods her head slowly. Just once. Then she turns and walks out of my apartment and out of my life.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Charley

I couldn’t run fast enough. I knew I was playing with fire, but I couldn’t stop. I should have stayed away from the very beginning, but I didn’t because I’m selfish and depressed and I wanted someone to heal me.

I wanted him to be enough to take away the blackness, but he’s wasn’t, and so for his sake, I walked away.

My mother said it best. “No one wants a depressed girl”. I’m flawed at best and Jude needs someone strong and happy. He’s already had too much sadness in his life.

I have to fix myself, not in hopes of getting Jude back, but in hopes of living a life worthy of his love.

So, it’s time to finally face the past.

Jude

I almost fool myself into thinking that the last few weeks didn’t even take place. After all, it’s not like I have to avoid our favorite restaurant or that one park bench where we’d sip our coffee on Sunday mornings.

Nope. Charley and I never got to find our favorite places; she made clean work of that.

So I go about my life as normal, returning to the routine and pretending that the status quo is good enough. It’s strange how the brain works, though. Charley shouldn’t weave her way into my mind since our lives were never completely intertwined. Yet, I find myself constantly wondering what the answers would be to questions I would have known if we had actually worked out.

What does she look like when she loses herself in a painting?

Does she listen to music while she works?

What recipe would she have made for me at my apartment if we had never been interrupted by her mom?

…

Charley

I scroll through the search results, rereading archived articles again and again. When it happened, I clipped every newspaper and printed out every online publication I could find on the subject. I kept everything in a neat folder with no label and no description of what lay hidden inside. But it’s been four years since I ripped everything up.