What He Doesn't Know(9)

I smirked. "Don't look under the bed."

Charlie's little mouth popped open in an o before she shook her head  again. "You're bad, Reese Walker," she said, voice airy and light. And  then, she hiccuped.

I liked seeing her like that - light and carefree, smiling and laughing.  It reminded me of the goofy, shy bookworm that used to sleep over. She  was the polar opposite of my sister Mallory - hell, she was different  than any of the girls I'd ever met, honestly. She always had a quiet,  mysterious quality about her, like you never could be sure what she was  really thinking. And when she did open up to you, when you got to see  the part of her that no one else did, it was something you'd never  forget.

She stayed with you.

She'd stayed with me for years.

"I miss it sometimes," she said, her eyes on my old house again. There  were only a few lights on, one of them belonging to the room that used  to be Mallory's. "The freedom of being a kid, the innocence. Nothing had  touched us yet, you know? Nothing hurt. Every day was full of  possibilities. We had our whole lives ahead of us."

"It's not like we're dead, Tadpole."

She breathed a laugh. "I almost forgot about that nickname, you know.  Until you said it earlier this week." Charlie took a sip of her coffee  around another set of hiccups, her eyes avoiding mine. "How have you  been, Reese?"

I'd talked about myself all night at the dinner table. I'd caught her  and her parents up on Juilliard, the rigorous curriculum there, the  performances in the city that had been everything I'd always dreamed of.  I told them about my time working on Broadway in the orchestra pit,  about my solo gig at a small, fancy restaurant in the Upper East Side.  I'd even told them how I got started tutoring at Juilliard, where my  desire to teach had outgrown my desire to do anything else on the piano.                       
       
           


///
       

But that's not what Charlie was asking.

She was asking if I was okay since the day I lost my entire family, and I didn't know how to answer her.

"I've been getting by," I answered honestly. "Some days are easier than others."

"How long has it been now?"

I swallowed. "Little over three years."

Charlie hiccuped. If she hadn't already had them before the conversation turned, I'd have thought she was crying.

"It's not fair," she whispered after a moment. "The guy who did that …   that awful thing, he just got to die. He just got to end his own life  and not own up to any of the pain he caused. He was a coward."

That pressure was back in my chest, making it hard to breathe, let alone  answer her. If I closed my eyes, I could still see the piano I played  in their house that day. I was waiting for them to come home, showing up  unannounced for dinner after a night of partying.

I was there to ask for money.

"He was," I agreed when I found my voice again, my hand circling the  amber liquid in my glass. I threw it back all at once, letting it sting  on the way down. "Sometimes it doesn't feel real, you know? It feels  like it happened to someone else, like Mom, Dad, and Mallory are just on  some vacation or something."

I shook my head, staring at my empty glass a little longer before my eyes found the house again.

"The worst part is, the weeks after it happened were such a blur. It was  all these interviews and people wanting to know the stories behind the  victims. That's their favorite part, you know? They'll look for the  heroes in the tragedy, or the lives taken too young. I had both. Dad  covered Mom and Mallory to try to save them, and Mallory was a week away  from graduating with her doctorate degree from NYU. She had a  boyfriend, who had a ring he hadn't given her. The reporters loved that  shit. And I had to be the one to tell them the stories, to give them the  pictures."

"That must have been so hard," Charlie said, and I heard her voice crack at the end.

"In a way. But it also kept my mind off things, at least momentarily. It  was easier to think about it as a mass shooting rather than a personal  attack. If that makes sense." I laughed. "It probably doesn't."

"No, it does," she assured me, and then we were both quiet again.

I tried not to think about it often, the day a crazed gunman stole my  family from me. They were just standing there in the middle of Central  Park, watching a musical performance behind the Met, and the next thing  they knew, there were gun shots. I read every survivor's account of what  happened, listened to their interviews on how the gun shots rang out,  the screams, people running or hiding or pretending like they were  already dead.

But my family had been right there, front row, just enjoying an afternoon in the park. Wrong place, wrong time.

I didn't know how long Charlie and I stood there before she spoke again,  but when she did, the words flew out of her in a fit of anger and pain,  and it was the most emotion she'd given me since I'd stepped foot back  in town.

"I'm sorry," she said first, her voice cracking. "I'm so, so sorry,  Reese. I didn't keep in touch with Mallory after you guys left. I was so  angry, and sad. I didn't understand why you guys had to go. I was still  in high school, you know? I had to stay behind while everyone I cared  about moved on. And when I heard the news, I still didn't reach out to  you. I didn't want to be more of a burden, to be just another person  trying to soothe you when I hadn't been a part of your life for so long.  But I was wrong for that. I should have reached out, I should have been  there for you." She sniffed. "I'm sorry."

"Stop," I said quickly, both to comfort her and to fight against the burning in my throat.

I didn't even have the thought in my head before my hands were reaching  for her, pulling her into me for a hug. I should have hesitated, should  have remembered that she belonged to another man, but it was instinctive  in that moment - the urge to stop her pain.

She was so small in my arms, the faint scent of coffee fresh on her  breath, a few strands of her silky hair falling loose from her bun. I  rested my chin on top of her head, rubbing her back with one hand. "It's  okay. Really, it is. I don't hold anything against you and neither did  Mallory."

"She must have hated me," Charlie whispered.

"She didn't. She loved you, we all did."

I still do.

"It's not fair the way life works out sometimes, but it's okay, and you  didn't do anything wrong. You had your own life to live here, Tadpole,  and we had our own things happening in New York. It's okay," I repeated,  hoping she believed me.                       
       
           


///
       

"You don't hate me?"

She looked up at me then, her dark eyes glossed over with unshed tears, and I just chuckled.

"I could never hate you, Charlie."

She sniffed, a small smile finding her bright pink mouth.

And I knew I should let her go.

I'd said what needed to be said, I'd eased her worry, but still, I held  her. I swallowed, and her eyes fell to my throat before they glanced at  my lips, sending a familiar zing of warning through me. It was the same  warning I'd felt every time she looked at me that way when she was just a  teenager, when the five years between us forbid us from ever being this  close.

But it was a new warning, too. One that said she's married.

My hands at the small of her back tightened, and my eyes watched hers,  both of our smiles fading. I wanted to ask her if she was okay, if she  was happy, if Cameron was what she wanted. But I had no right to ask any  of those things.

Still, I held her.

Charlie watched my lips, like she was willing me to say something. I  opened my mouth to grant her unspoken wish just as her dad's voice  called from the house.

"Charlie! Cam's here!"

She stepped away from me quickly, a bit of her coffee sloshing out of her cup as she hiccuped again. "Sorry."

"Charlie," I tried, but she was already making her way through the yard.

"Thank you for coming tonight," she called behind her. "I know my parents really appreciated it. I did, too."

I caught up to her easily, reaching for her wrist to stop her. She spun, looking up at me with flushed cheeks.

"I have to go."

"I know," I said softly, reaching for the half-empty cup in her hand. "I'll take this inside for you."

She looked at my hand on hers, her grip still tight around the mug.  Slowly, she loosened it, letting me take the porcelain from her grasp.  "Thank you."

I waited until her gaze found mine again. "See you at school."

"See you at school," she echoed quickly, and then her little feet carried her the rest of the way across the yard.