25. Charlie

CHAPTER 25

Charlie

T he early June sun beat down on me, hot and oppressive as I walked to the mailbox at the end of the driveway, checking it for letters. I swore I'd heard a truck go by and I naturally assumed it was the mail. But, as the hot metal box creaked open, I saw it was empty. Whether the truck was real or imaginary, it had not delivered another letter from Phoenix.

"Hey Charlie!" a voice called out.

I looked up to see Patrick getting out of his truck and heading my way. Apparently, it was his truck and the trailer behind it that I'd heard. I'd completely forgotten it was a lawn mowing day.

"Hi Patrick," I replied, meeting him halfway. I could see he was already sweaty and bits of dead grass clung to his oversized biceps. Even from a couple feet away I could smell the mower grease and fresh cut grass on him. "How are things?"

"Pretty good," he smiled, as warmly as ever. "I had a light day, so I figured I'd come out and get started on your lawn a bit early." He glanced up at the sky, shading his eyes with his hand. "Sure could use a few clouds right about now, though."

"Do you want something to drink?" I asked, pointing back toward the house. "I've got fresh lemonade."

"Sure," he grinned. "Tyler thinks it's gross, but I love that instant stuff."

"Hopefully you like the real stuff too."

"You made it?"

I lifted an eyebrow at him. "I know how to squeeze a lemon, Patrick. I might be a mess, but I can do a couple of basic tasks."

"My bad," he laughed. "I'm sure you're very capable."

"Come on in. I'll get you a glass."

It took a moment for his footsteps to follow after me, but I figured he just got distracted by the grass. Leading him inside to the kitchen, I pulled a glass down out of the cupboard, filled it with ice, and pulled out the pitcher from the fridge. Filling his glass, I handed it over.

"Hopefully you like it a little tart. I'm not big on super sweet lemonade."

He took the glass, but instead of taking a drink, he just stared at me.

"What?" I looked at the glass, inspecting it. "Is the glass dirty? Is there a bug in it?"

Patrick shook his head. "You've never invited me inside before. In fact, I'm not sure I've seen you invite anyone inside before."

"Oh."

I stood there for a moment, realizing for the first time that I'd invited him in without a second thought. It just seemed like the normal, natural thing to do. Usually, such a thing would make me anxious. I hated people being in my space. Patrick was a friend of course, but he was still not me . And even though he was standing in my kitchen, my lack of anxiety about having him there, weirdly, made me anxious.

"Would you rather be on the porch?" I offered.

"No, no! This is fine." His face melted into a warm smile. "It just makes me feel like you trust me is all. So, thank you I guess."

"S-Sure." I wasn't really sure what to say, so I busied myself for a moment making a second glass of lemonade.

"This place seems a bit brighter lately," Patrick said nonchalantly, leaning against one of the chairs. " You seem… different."

"Different? What do you mean?"

"I don't know. Maybe happier, I guess."

The old part of me wanted to argue with him, to assure him that everything was the same and I was just as miserable as ever. But the truth was, he wasn't the first person to notice. My shrink had definitely noticed something different about me in our last handful of sessions. In the past few weeks, I'd pulled the blinds open to let the sunlight into the house for the first time in six years. I'd dusted the shelves, packed a few of mom's old knickknacks away to make room for my own, and even started to go out for my daily walks around sunset instead of after dark. And sometimes I caught myself smiling for no reason at all.

It was like I'd become a new person. In reality I knew I'd improved a marginal amount. Maybe five percent or something. But in the world I'd lived in for the past six years, that five percent felt like I'd gotten a second chance at life. Up until now I'd been living like a ninety-year-old hermit. But today I felt twenty-four. And that was a wild sensation .

"I'm… feeling a little better these days," I said at last, deciding not to lie.

"Did something change?"

I thought of all the letters Phoenix had been writing to me about his life, his career, and his dreams. They were the bright bursts of light I'd been searching for. Even though he wasn't down the street anymore, I felt like I had my best friend back. I felt less alone. It was amazing how something so simple could feel so freeing.

"Do you remember Phoenix McKean?" I asked, already knowing the answer.

Patrick immediately blushed. "Y-Yeah." He dropped his gaze down to the floor. "I haven't talked to him since that party before senior year of high school." He glanced up at me, his brows furrowed nervously. "Not my finest moment with you. Or him."

I decided to let the past remain in its place. "Well, I saw him a few weeks back. He was traveling to do book signings for his novel."

"Oh yeah, I heard he might be in town." He laughed, taking another sip of his lemonade. "Tyler wanted me to track him down and get him to sign both our copies of his book."

"You have two copies?"

"Well, Tyler wouldn't let me read his because he was too busy rereading it himself, so I bought another copy. And I'm glad I did. I think we've both read it two or three times now. Each."

For some reason, the thought of Patrick reading for pleasure had never crossed my mind. He was such a jock… I just assumed he was mostly illiterate. In retrospect, that was probably unfair.

"Have you read it?" he asked .

I shook my head, thinking of the untouched copy I still had sitting on my shelf.

"Oh." Patrick looked suddenly nervous and I couldn't figure out why. "Well, anyway, it's a good book." His words were quick and stilted. "So, he visited, is that why you're feeling better?"

Pretending I didn't notice his sudden nervousness, I said, "We've been writing to one another. Just a letter here and there, but it's been really nice to reconnect with him."

"Is he thinking about coming back to Creekside to stay?"

"No. Why would he do that?"

"I couldn't help wondering if… you and him… you know."

"No," I repeated, furrowing my brows. "He's not going to come back here for me."

"Why's that?" The question seemed so innocent. "It's obvious you like each other. Hell, I've known that since that party when you told me off. It was easy to see you loved him."

I suddenly wished I'd never invited Patrick into my house.

"Nix isn't coming back here."

"Does he know?"

"Know what?"

"Don't play stupid, Charlie. Does he know you love him?"

I floundered for a moment, trying to find the right words to say. It was hard to hear someone voice the thoughts I'd been trying to keep silent in my head for years. I never wanted anyone else to know, but it seemed I'd done a piss-poor job of keeping it secret. If Patrick knew, who else had guessed at my secret ?

"I see," Patrick said after I'd taken too long to respond. "Well, you should tell him."

"What good would that do?" I scoffed. "Besides, he's too wild and carefree for me. He'd drive me crazy. And even if he did want to stay, I don't want to tie him down to this nowhere place. He has a life and a career and…"

"But he doesn't have you ." Patrick held up a hand to silence me when I tried to retort. "I remember how angry you were with me when I tried to hide who I was and how I felt. You told me to make the right decision and deal with the consequences instead of being a coward." He lifted his gaze, looking me directly in the eye. "And I offer that same advice back to you. Tell that boy how you feel or you're going to regret it for the rest of your life."

"But he hates it here. I couldn't ask him to stay!"

"He hated it here when he was a kid," Patrick corrected. "And you don't have to ask him to do anything. Just tell him."

I rolled my eyes, looking away from him, my heart pounding in my chest. "He doesn't even like me like that. I'm too broken and traumatized for someone as sweet as him."

Patrick put down his glass and came around the table to my side. He reached out a hand and placed it on my shoulder.

"Charlie," he said softly. "I say this to you as a friend and with all the care in the world." He fixed his gaze on mine. "Stop playing the victim and go get what you want in this life. I know it's been hard for you. Harder than anyone should have to deal with. But you're alive. Phoenix is alive. You two are dying to be near one another. So stop torturing yourself unnecessarily, okay? Haven't you been through enough? You deserve some happiness."

"But how could he want me ?" I asked, my voice cracking and giving away the sadness threatening to overwhelm me. "I don't even want me."

"He does."

"How can you be sure?"

Patrick gave me a soft smile. "Read the book."

With one last pat on the shoulder, he headed for the door, thanking me for the lemonade as he left. I stood there in the kitchen for a long moment, trying to process everything he'd said. Then, as if something grabbed a hold of me from within, I darted across the house, pulling the copy of Opalescent Dreams off my shelf and flipped it open. Inside, was a handwritten sticky note in Nix's familiar hand.

Mom,

I know Charlie doesn't want to talk to me anymore. But if you see him, can you give this book to him? He's the only reason I ever had the confidence to become a writer in the first place and I want him to know that my success is because of his encouragement.

Love,

-Phoenix

His signature was scrawled on the title page under the sticky note. I turned the page and found a familiar dedication in the front of the book in italic script .

To the great fire of love that consumes us all. May we rise from the ashes as one to walk through life hand in hand.

It was the same toast Phoenix had said a million times. Except now, it seemed to have meaning for the first time, striking something deep within me. My heart ached as I turned the page again and began to read, not knowing what I might find of Nix's soul within those pages.