Winter blanketed Archersburg in a layer of fine white glitter. The landscape was cyclical: pure snow, after several days, turned grey and dingy; a slow melt exposed brown and green earth in patches; not long after, the snow would fall again.
Charlotte’s existence became as repetitious as the winter weather. She had a routine—a comfortable, easy way of maneuvering through the treacherous icy roads of daily life, since hibernation was not an option. Still, most people could shift to accommodate the unexpected, or make time for new endeavors without threatening the entire structure of their existence.
She was not most people. Rigid structure had been her life since her mother died. She was her routine, and she didn’t quite know how to live beyond it. She went to school and did what was expected of her. Little more. She waited tables at the Red Room. She would sit at home on the weekends and watch television, or write, or read. The rest of her time was filled with what could hardly be described as spontaneity, but which she saw as her own brand of excitement: Visits from her aunt, dinners at her grandmother’s, evenings with Lora or the Thorntons. She had ventured outside her box to make some new friends, with whom she occasionally chatted online, or went to the mall. But too much change—at least when she wasn’t the one creating it—unsettled her.
And her senior year had become a fast-paced bumper car ride. At every turn, something blindsided her, whipped her around in a different direction. Just as she would start to regain her bearings—wham! She was off again, spinning into oblivion. She began grasping at anything the least bit stable and familiar. How else could she explain the lapse in judgment that had been her short relationship with John?
She had envisioned this year as a leisurely drive, calm and safe, with the same old scenery as every other year. The only thing different was her destination: graduation. But she was in unfamiliar territory that felt dangerous and uncertain. Not a road she would have willingly chosen for herself. What sense did it make to cut through a back alley on a snowy day when the main streets were salted and immaculately plowed?
She struggled to reorganize herself and rebuild the defensive walls that had been slowly crumbling since Steven the bulldozer had unkindly run amok over them. At first, his presence gave her a sense of safety that made up for that destruction. The longer this wedge of social permissibility held them apart, however, the more her vulnerability crept back. She didn’t like the naked, exposed feeling that came from letting her guard down. She needed her drab routine—the daily trek through the main streets—to help her feel safe. What she hadn’t yet realized was that when everyone takes the main thoroughfare, not only do they end up in bumper-to-bumper traffic, but they miss some pretty amazing scenery along the way.
Charlotte was so entrenched in her routine she rarely had to make any conscious effort for her body to act. If she stopped to think about it, she probably wouldn’t be able to recall precisely how she got home after school most days.
This Friday afternoon was the same as many before it. Upon arriving home, she checked the mailbox, tucking any envelopes under her arm with hardly a glance before climbing the stairs and letting herself in. Today there was a large legal-sized manila envelope that piqued her interest, but she still didn’t look at it until she was inside, coat off, cream soda in hand.
The return address on the top left corner was printed, not hand written, along with a logo. North American Review. North Amer—
The magazine! Realization nearly knocked the soda can out of her hand. This must be the rejection letter she desperately wanted to wave under everyone’s noses—Lora, Deb, and especially Mr. Patria. She had all but forgotten that she’d submitted the short story after Homecoming.
As she opened the envelope, she laughed at the notion that she was probably the only writer in the history of the world ever to be thrilled about a rejection slip.
The letter was printed on stationery bearing the same logo as the envelope, and it was longer than she expected. She read it silently to herself. When she got to the bottom of the page, her eyes flitted back to the top and began scanning it again. She must have read it wrong.
Even after the third time through, she still wasn’t sure that her eyes weren’t playing tricks on her. This wasn’t the letter she’d expected to get. Not by a long shot.
They wanted to publish her story!
She left the letter on the kitchen counter and circled slowly into the living room, around the coffee table, then back into the kitchen again, picking up the paper gingerly by one corner as if it might disintegrate at any moment. A figment of her imagination. Or some cruel joke.
She read it a fourth time. The ink was still there on the paper, arranged into the same letters, forming the same words.
Well. This certainly put a kink in her plans. He was right yet again—how frustrating that was! But what did any of that matter? She was going to be published! The excitement was slow to come, but it was beginning to well up inside her. She had to tell him. And it couldn’t wait until Monday.
She grabbed her cell phone and started to dial his number. Halfway through, she stopped. He might not pick up. She certainly wouldn’t. Besides, this news ought to be delivered in person. She wanted to see the look on his face, even if it was only a smug I told you so grin.
Before she set off, though, she reread the letter one final time to be sure she wasn’t rushing into this meeting for no reason. It hadn’t changed.
Well… here went nothing.
He lived in a high rise building only a block from the University. Concrete balconies jutted out from the north and south faces, backed by glittering glass doors. Charlotte found a parking spot marked for visitors.
Charlotte made her way to the intercom embedded in the wall near the entrance, stepping around a tall blond hurrying down the steps. She used the keypad and punched in his apartment number.
“Ms. Greenbrier?”
Charlotte whirled around at the sound of her name. The tinny voice hadn’t emanated from the intercom. The tall blond was scowling at her.
“Ms. Graymore!” What was her Chemistry teacher doing there? Korinne Graymore posed the same question to her even before Charlotte could finish her thought. The intercom behind her was on the fourth ring. “I was just—I’m visiting a friend.”
Her teacher’s blue eyes were stony and cold. Charlotte stared back, doing her best to appear unaffected. She might have succeeded, too, if it weren’t for the crackling that broke through the speaker at her back.
“Korinne, I don’t know how much clearer I can be. I don’t want to be rude—”
“Mr. Patria!” Charlotte cut him off. She’d grown accustomed to calling him that, thank God, or she would have the added embarrassment of using his first name in front of her Chemistry teacher. Ms. Graymore’s face was bright red, but she didn’t flinch. Charlotte stammered into the intercom. “No, it’s not… I mean, this isn’t…” Damn it. She sighed loudly. “It’s me.”
There was a pause. Then:
“Charlotte?”
Yeah. Charlotte. She wasn’t sure a response escaped her lips. Her gaze was still fixed on Ms. Graymore, who was standing with one hand on her hip. She must’ve been in to see Mr. Patria herself. Still pursuing him, obviously. And he was still rejecting her. Deep down, Charlotte felt a sense of triumph. She fought back a smug smile.
The intercom crackled to life again: “Wait there. I’ll be down.”
She nodded as if he could have heard it from six floors up.
Ms. Graymore smiled. “All you little girls have a thing for him, it’s so obvious. But trust me, he’s not looking.”
Charlotte was still stunned, frozen on the spot.
Ms. Graymore was about to walk away when she stopped and turned her head back toward Charlotte. Her blond tresses whipped over her shoulder.
“Especially not for you, dear. I expect he’d go for your little friend Lora before you. No offense, of course, it’s just that—” She smiled sweetly. “Well, really, you’re just not that memorable.”
Charlotte stared in disbelief as the woman stalked away. Her jaw must have been on the ground at her feet.
The door creaked behind her and two feet crunched onto the salt-strewn steps.
“Charlotte, what’s wrong?”
“She’s…” Charlotte gestured to the sleek black car pulling out of the parking lot.
“A piece of work,” he finished for her.
“Mr. Patria—” She thought she saw him flinch at the sound of his name.
If she really thought about it, she would realize that he reacted that same way every time she said his name. Perhaps, subconsciously, she did know, because she rarely said it.
“She knew I was here to see you. She heard you on the speaker.”
“What did she say?”
Telling him would only inflame his protective side. If he still cared that way, it was probably best if she didn’t know.
“Nothing. What if she says something to Principal Edwards?”
“There’s nothing for her to tell. Don’t worry about her.”
They stood there, looking at each other. Charlotte resisted the pull of his emerald eyes. It would have been too easy to find herself suddenly swimming in pleasant memories. Or his arms.
He jumped and thrust his hands into his pockets, as if realizing only at that moment that it was cold outside.
“Come up?” He motioned to the door.
“No!” She hadn’t meant to be so quick to protest. Or so loud. “Um, no, I can’t stay. I have to work.”
That wasn’t true, but he didn’t have to know.
“I just came to apologize. Or thank you, or… both, I guess.”
“Apologize? What for?”
Charlotte pulled the letter out of her purse and thrust it toward him.
“I was wrong. You were right all along.”
A smile played at the corner of his mouth; he obviously liked hearing that he was right, even though he still had no idea what she was talking about.
“Just read it. I can’t even say the words. You have to read it yourself.”
He took the paper and unfolded it. Immediately, he noticed the letterhead.
“This is from—”
“I know. Just read.”
His eyes darted over the page. “You submitted your story?”
“Just read!” The excitement was finally settling into her stomach and creeping out all the way to her fingers and toes. She felt antsy, tingling all over as much in anticipation of his reaction as out of sheer delight over the letter itself.
“Charlotte, this says—”
“I know.”
His green eyes glinted. “Charlotte—”
“I know!” she squealed. “Can you believe it?” She bounced on her toes, unable to contain her energy.
“Yes, I can. I knew you were capable of this kind of quality. Maybe now you can believe it too?” His smile blazed bright. “This is amazing. Congratulations.”
“It’s all thanks to you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You wrote it. I was just my usual obnoxious self.” He was reading the letter again, the same way she had. It was almost too good to be true. “When did you submit it?”
“After the Jane Austen project. I was so mad and I thought I could prove you wrong.”
He laughed confidently. “Your plan backfired.”
Charlotte nodded, sheepish but still grinning broadly. “You can be so damn annoying! But I guess I have to thank you for that.”
This result was a hundred times better than the intended one. She had never dreamed that she could be published at her age, or that it would feel so amazing. She couldn’t remember the last time she felt so happy, or giggled so much. Oh hell, she just couldn’t contain herself.
“I’m going to be published!” She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely.
He folded his arms around her waist, adding to her elated, light-headed feeling. She held him in the embrace for longer than was probably appropriate. Shit, it hadn’t been appropriate to hug him at all. He let go first, seemingly surprised by her show of affection.
“Well.” Charlotte smoothed the hair away from her face. “I should go. I still have to tell Deb. And Lora. But I had to tell you first.”
He smiled. His hand moved to help her brush a strand of hair away, but stopped halfway there. He squeezed his hand shut and lowered it back to his side.
She hadn’t meant to cross that line with him. It had been a while since they’d tested the strength of their boundaries.
“Again, congrats.”
“Thanks.” She hesitated, like there ought to be something else. Some other expression of gratitude, or some other words. Like there was unfinished business.
He had changed out of his school attire and into a pair of dark-washed jeans, a long-sleeved polo shirt, and well-worn tennis shoes. This was how she knew him—comfortable, easygoing. Rugged.
Well, maybe not rugged. Perhaps earthy was a better term.
And handsome, of course.
Mr. Patria and his neatly pressed slacks (she never pegged him to be the ironing type—maybe he had the dry-cleaner press them) and shiny, square-toed shoes were still strange to her. She was glad he hadn’t turned up to greet her; he wasn’t the one with whom she wanted to share this good news.
The man she came to see was laid-back and casual. He liked camping, and teasing her, and calling her just to say hello and goodnight. He wasn’t Mr. Patria, he was Ste—
“Is there something else?” His tone was at once expectant and aloof, and it stung something deep inside her that she thought she’d gotten rid of a long time ago.
Perhaps she didn’t know who was really standing before her. He’d reinforced that boundary.
“No. Nothing else.” It was stupid, still trying to think of him as two different people. She shouldn’t even think of him as Steven. It made the situation too difficult to bear. Trying to push him out of her mind completely, she hurried across the parking lot to her car. Deb would be the next stop on her list. She was going to be so surprised.
Charlotte glanced in her rearview mirror as she pulled away.
He was there, hands still shoved in his pockets, watching.