Maybe there’s hope here. “Maybe it’s that I’ve been on my own for so long,” I say. “I’m not used to making decisions that include, you know, other people.”
Josh backs his chair away from the table, stopping me. “You know what, Charlie? This is making you upset and defensive. I feel like I’m forcing you to explain who you are. And you shouldn’t have to do that. But I can’t let my life be controlled by your job. The other day, we decided to take it more slowly.”
He stands, waving his hand over the wine, the flowers, the candles. “Maybe we should have taken it even more slowly. Much more. Maybe we should take a break.”
His eyes narrow behind his tortoiseshell glasses. He puts both hands on the back of his chair, supporting himself. A thatch of charcoal-and-silver hair falls onto his forehead. He takes a deep breath. “You go to Atlanta. And then we’ll see.”
We’ll see what? See if we still love each other? See if we still want to be together? Are we supposed to know that yet? I swallow my fear and struggle to keep from asking the questions out loud, even though I’m aching for answers.
Suddenly, the aching flares into anger. Why does he get to make the decisions?
“We’ll see?” I can’t keep the sarcasm from my voice. I’m not this angry, but I’m hurt. And sorry. And trapped. And I know I’m saying the wrong things. “You mean, you’ll see. Whether what, it’s worth it? Whether maybe you’d like to date other people? See if you can find someone who’ll be available every minute?”
Say no, I plead silently. Tell me you love me, and I’m worth it, and we’ll work it out.
Josh looks up at me. “Is that what you’d like to do?”
No. Of course not. But of course that’s not what comes out of my mouth. “Is that what you’d like to do?”
“Daddy?”
Penny, lavender suitcase in one hand and a droopy-eared stuffed rabbit in the other, is peering through the banisters of the front hall stairway. She takes the last two steps down, deliberately, one step at a time, balancing her possessions. At the bottom of the stairs, she stops. Staring at us.
“Daddy?” she says again. And then she turns, drops her bunny and her suitcase, and runs all the way upstairs.
“I’ll-she’s-I wonder how much she heard, or if-” Josh begins. He starts toward the stairs.
“No. Let me. I’ll be right back.” I race after Penny, not waiting for his answer, taking the steps two at a time. This is my fault.
Penny’s sitting, back to the wall, on the window seat on the landing. Her feet are up on the navy-striped cushions, her pink sweatshirt stretched out to cover both knees.
“Penny?”
She’s silent, looking away from me.
I sit down beside her, slip off my heels and pull my feet up the same way. “Remember when Emma and Kristin went to the movies that time? Without you?” I twist my head around to check her expression. She’s staring, determinedly, straight in front of her.
“Their mom said only they could go.” She says to the hallway. “So what?”
“So remember how angry you were? We were in the kitchen and you told me you hated their guts?”
Penny looks at me sideways, just a flicker.
“Yeah. It was unfair. My dad let them both come with me when I went to see Princess Diaries. It was mean.”
I nod. “And you told me they were ‘gross,’ and you never wanted to see them again.”
“Uh-huh.”
“And tonight, where are you going for your slumber party?”
Penny does a full-body sag. “Emma and Kristin’s.”
I pause, letting this sink in.
“So your dad and I…” I take a hesitant step into an emotional minefield. Realizing I’m explaining the situation to myself as much as I am to her. “Just tonight, we’re feeling a little like you did that time about Emma and Kristin. Sometimes people argue. And they have angry feelings. But that doesn’t mean they don’t feel different a little later. And they say they’re sorry. And your dad and I-love each other.”
I check for a reaction to what I hope is not overstepping. Am I going to make this worse?
Penny just nods. “Dad told me that.”
“Okay,” I reply. He did? I’m aching to hear more. When? Where? Why? But this time is for Penny. She’s scared and needs a friend.
Penny lifts the sweatshirt from her knees and turns toward me. Her feet, dangling in clunky thick-soled sneakers, still don’t reach the floor. She plucks at the pockets of her cargo pants. “Mom and Dad told me they loved each other, too,” she says. “I remember perfectly. But they got a divorce.”
I nod. Reality is reality. “Yes,” I say. “It happens.”
We sit quietly for a moment, then Penny thuds one rubber heel, then the other, against the base of the window seat. Punctuating our thoughts.
The thumping sound stops and Penny turns her head up to me. She tucks a lock of brown hair behind one ear, revealing a tiny pearl earring I hadn’t noticed before. Cargo pants, sneakers and pearls. Adorable.
“Charlie Mac?” she says. She locks her eyes with mine. “When is it real? How do you know when a fight is forever?”
I bend down to touch my forehead to hers and tell her the truth. “I wish I knew, kiddo,” I say. “But don’t worry-”
“You have to trust those you love,” Josh says, finishing my sentence.
We both turn to look at him. He’s two steps down on the stairway. Holding the banister. Who knows how long he’s been listening to us.
“Your dad is right,” I say. I’m looking at Penny. But I’m talking to Josh. “Life is complicated, sometimes. You know? But love makes it worthwhile.”
Chapter Thirteen
“Why do we have to get here so early? It’s still yesterday, as far as I’m concerned. Six in the morning? Our plane isn’t till eight,” I say, wheeling my new black canvas suitcase down the sidewalk and through the doors to Terminal B. Grumbling. They still haven’t found my old one. “I wish I didn’t have to let them take another of my suitcases. At least till they give me back the one they swiped. Lost.”
“Charlotte, nix on the complaining,” Franklin replies, following me inside. “I told you to bring a carry-on instead. Besides, the TSA rules say get to the airport early. What if there are lines? What if there’s some security backup? Better to be safe.”
“Coffee,” I say. “That’s the only thing that’ll make this work.”
We drag our luggage through the semideserted airport terminal, stopping briefly at the multiple screens of the destination monitors, confirming our flight to Atlanta is on time. We hand over our bags to the way-too-perky agent at the ticket counter. “Ninety minutes till takeoff,” I say, pocketing my claim check. “Great. Maybe we should catch a movie.”
“Let’s just get ourselves through security,” Franklin says. He gestures as we approach the checkpoint. “See? No lines. No waiting. We’ll get to the gate, then we’ll get lattes. You can read. You can relax. You know you’re cranky because you hate to fly. Why don’t you just take a Valium like everyone else does?”
“You don’t take them,” I retort as we send our stuff through security. “Plus, if the plane crashes, I don’t want to be too doped up to get us out alive.”
Down the long corridor, we see Gate 32 is deserted. Apparently it’s even too early for the agents to be at their desks. A motorized golf cart, piloted by a woman in a navy uniform, beeps its way past us, empty. The waiting area looks more like a hotel. Two college-aged bodies, arms wrapped around each other, sleep head against head in a corner by the window, bulging backpacks as footstools under their feet. Three sleeping soldiers, in full camouflage except for their Red Sox caps, drape themselves stolidly across two seats each.