Chapter Twenty-Six

Charlie arrived at his parent's house just as dinner was being served. His grandmother and father were already seated. Charlie's usual place at the table had not been set.

"So, you run out the door last night, but you still come back to eat our food," his mother said, standing at the stove.

He knew the look on her face. She was hurt.

"I'm sorry for last night," Charlie said. "I was upset."

"I don't doubt you were, all banged up like that," his mother replied.

The two at the table remained silent. Gran stared at Charlie. His father stared at the table. Charlie's mother stood with a pot in her hands. "Did you go to the hospital, at least?"

"I was checked over. It's just bruising." It's just a little white lie.

She put down the pot and got him some cutlery, setting it at his place beside Gran. It was only then that he felt he could sit down. Gran patted him on his knee and smiled. His father stared at his plate of pasta.

It wasn't until his mother sat with the family that Charlie's father looked up at him. Charlie could see that he was still angry.

"So," his dad said, "where did you stay last night?"

"With a friend."

"If you want to live under this roof, you're gonna follow my rules, do you understand?"

Charlie chewed his lower lip.

"Do you understand?" he yelled and slammed his fist down on the table.

"What are these rules?" Charlie yelled back. "I don't know what they are. I've never seen them. Is there a handbook I should know about?"

"You want to know what the rules are? Fine. Rule number one—give your mother the respect she deserves. Rule number two—quit that damned job of yours and get one you're trained for. Do you have any idea how much money we spent putting you through university, only to have it thrown away by you deciding to play detective when you have no idea what you're doing?"

"For Christ's sake," Charlie shot back. "It's only a short-term contract, and I'm not sure if you noticed, but no one is beating down the door to hire me in spite of my degree."

His mother said, "I think what your father is worried about is that this job might be too dangerous."

"I'm subbing in for a sixty-eight-year-old. How dangerous do you think the job is?"

There was no response from his parents.

Charlie continued, "But I tell you one thing, in the week I've been there, I've felt more useful and achieved more than at any other job I've had, and, if for some reason I was to be offered the job full time, I would take it in a second."

"That's enough," his father snapped.

"For once we agree on something," Charlie said, pushing his chair back and heading towards the basement.

As he left he could hear Gran say, "Leave him be, Ted. He needs some space."

Charlie went to his bedroom and stuffed as many clothes as he could into his backpack. Then he went to the crawl space under the stairs and hauled out his hockey bag. He opened it and saw that everything was there, but from the odour coming from the bag he knew he'd have to freshen some of it up before practice on Monday.

He lugged the heavy bag, three hockey sticks and his backpack to the front door and threw them out onto the porch before he noticed Gran standing in the hall. She looked so small, and her eyes were teary, but there was a smile on her face. He went to her and gave her a big hug.

"'Your time has come, Charlie."

"What do you mean?"

"It's time to get out there and live your own life. You're a man now and you have to make your own decisions, good or bad."

"What if I'm wrong. What if I totally screw up?"

"Then you'll be just like the rest of us. And don't forget, when you walk out the door, it doesn't mean you won't be back here at some time. They already let you come back once. I know it doesn't seem like it now, but you'll be welcomed back with open arms again. They love you. They just have to get used to the fact that you're your own man now."

Charlie threw his arms around her again and gave her another kiss.

He loaded the gear into the trunk of The Red Beast, then plopped into the driver's seat. What next?

He pulled out his phone and called Carrie. The phone rang four times. Please let her pick up.

On the fifth ring she answered. "Hey, Charlie."

"Where were you last night?" Charlie asked.

"Working late. What's wrong?"

"Do I only call when something's wrong?"

"Lately…yes."

"Can I stay with you for a while?"

"Hmm… Let me think."

"Sorry. You probably have someone with you. Don't worry. I'll—"

She didn't let him finish. "You idiot, even if I did, you take priority. Now, get your ass over here."

Charlie drove over and in fifteen minutes was parked in front of Carrie's house. She greeted Charlie at the door as he waddled up the front steps, unbalanced by the bulky hockey bag and gear.

"Crap. How much stuff do you have?"

"This is it."

Carrie gave Charlie a hand carrying the sports bag up to her second-floor apartment. Once upstairs, she dropped it in the middle of the living room.

"Before you say anything, I'm pouring the wine."

Carrie lit a few candles and turned off the overhead light. The next hour flew by as Charlie filled her in on what had happened over the previous week, and what was going to happen next as they polished off several glasses of wine. Charlie finished by lifting his shirt and showing Carrie the bruises on his chest that were beginning to turn purple.

"Oh my God!" she said. "I know you think Declan's the hottest guy on the planet, but is he worth it? Your folks are right. This job is dangerous."

Charlie frowned. "Your role right now is to support me, not to agree with my parents. That's what a best friend does."

"A best friend tries to stop you from getting killed. Come on. It's late. Let's get you to bed."

As they headed off to Carrie's bedroom Charlie asked, "Can we do some laundry tomorrow?"

"We? Yes, you can. And while you're at it, you can do mine as well."

Once the lights were out, they snuggled in bed.

"I like having you over," Carrie said. "Straight guys just don't snuggle as well as you do." After a few minutes of silence Carrie asked, "So, you and the detective… Nothing yet?"

"He gave me a kiss on the forehead last night when he put me to bed. Oh, and a sloppy wet kiss last week when he was drunk, if that counts."

"Does it count with you?"

"Hell yeah," he said, and the two of them broke into giggles.