I'm Not Charlotte Lucas(71)

At some point, the fairy tale was going to end.





Chapter Twenty-Eight


Mom had gone to bed, Mariah had left for a party at her friend’s house, Beth went home, and I was sitting at the kitchen island, listening to sports fanatics dissect the football game that had ended thirty minutes ago and waiting for Dad to release Liam from the den. I wasn’t judging their desire to discuss the game. I got it. When I finished reading a book or seeing a good movie—or a bad one—the first thing I wanted to do was talk about it with someone. I imagined that was how these men felt about the game.

But all I wanted right now was to take Liam upstairs, snuggle on my old sofa, and vent about the crud that had hit the fan today at work.

I dug another bite of ice cream from the half-gallon in front of me. I really should step into the den and remind the men that I was still here and waiting, or I would end up eating this entire carton.

My phone buzzed, and I pulled it closer.

Liam: I don’t know how to escape.

A laugh tore from my throat, and I put the lid back on the ice cream, tossing my spoon into the sink. Then I went into the den to rescue him.

“Hey, Dad, mind if I steal Liam back?” I said, hovering at the doorway so they wouldn’t think I wanted to hang out in front of a football recap show.

Dad chuckled, glancing between Liam and me. “Sure thing.”

Liam stood, shaking Dad’s hand, and then I took his and led him out of the den. “Good game?” I asked.

He chuckled. “Actually, yeah. It was. But I’m guessing you don’t really want to hear about it.”

“Not really.” I let go of his hand to lead the way upstairs, and he followed me. “Where’s Spike tonight?”

“Staying over at a friend’s house. Apparently there’s a party at his girlfriend’s house, and then the guys are having a Halo tournament afterward.”

“Oh, I wonder if it’s the same party Mariah went to.”

Liam shrugged. He wouldn’t really understand the significance of that anyway. He didn’t know the heartbreak Mariah dealt with at the hands of Spike and Hannah.

“Wait,” I said, pausing when I reached my attic apartment. “He told you about his girlfriend?”

“Yes,” Liam said, grinning. “I asked him about it, and he told me everything. He’s had his eye on her all year, and she finally broke up with her other boyfriend, I guess, so he asked her out.”

“Cute.” Not cute. He could have at least told Mariah before asking Hannah out. But he was a teenager, and they had such a narrow view of the world sometimes. I couldn’t be mad at Liam for his brother’s thoughtlessness. “I’m dying to get out of these work clothes,” I said, realizing I probably should have taken advantage of Liam being occupied by my dad to shed the slacks and button-up shirt.

He shot me a playful smirk, his hands sliding around my waist. “But you look so cute and professional.”

I reached up on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “And I’ll look cute and comfortable in a minute.”

He released me, and I slipped into my closet, closing the door behind me and turning on the light. It only took me a few minutes to change into yoga pants and an oversized Talk Darcy to Me T-shirt, and I went back into my attic apartment, but Liam wasn’t there.

Could Dad have come upstairs and stolen my boyfriend again?

“Liam?”

“Hey, in here,” he called, and my stomach dropped.

I felt like I was pivoting in slow motion, and when my gaze landed on the open studio door, I wanted to sink into the floor. Liam was in there, and he was probably looking at my rendition of Bellmead from above, and my nerves started skittering around my body at a rapid pace.

“Charlie?” he asked, and I closed my eyes. I felt like a five-year-old, thinking that maybe if I just didn’t go in there, if I stayed out here and pretended Liam wasn’t looking at my art, then maybe it would all just go away. I wouldn’t have to address it or claim those paintings or see his face trying to praise my work just to spare my feelings.

“Hey,” he said softly, closely.

I opened my eyes to find him right in front of me, and his hand came up to rub my arm. “You okay?”

“I don’t like showing people my paintings.”

“Why not?”

“That’s a loaded question.”

He squinted at me as if he was trying to read my soul, and I stepped back on impulse, putting more space between us.

“Hey,” he said, his voice still quiet. “If you don’t want me to go in there, I won’t. The door was open, and I saw the canvases, so I wanted to look. But I don’t want to invade your personal space. And I don’t want to pressure you into telling me things you don’t want to tell me.”

“It’s not you—” I stopped myself before saying, It’s me, because that would’ve been just way too cliché. But it was true. I was the crazy one, and I didn’t want to show him that part of me yet.

Or ever, preferably.

“I thought your painting of Bellmead captured the view from the lookout spot perfectly though. I felt like I was standing there, looking out over the town.” He chuckled. “I’d ask to buy it off you if I thought there was a chance you’d sell it.”