11. Charlie

11

CHARLIE

T he woman’s voice soars over the rumble of diners chatting and pierces my very soul.

She sings about loss and heartache, and I feel it right in my bones. She plays a baby grand piano that sits on a raised stage in the corner of the inn’s dining room.

Standing next to the stage with crossed arms is a gruff-looking man whose scowl could rival Quentin’s. He watches the crowd with his beady eyes as if she’s a famous songstress at a stadium concert and not playing to a dinner crowd of thirty in a cozy inn.

The song finishes and I applaud loudly and put my fingers in my mouth and whistle. The woman looks my way and smiles. As she turns I glimpse a scar on her right cheek, the side she kept hidden from the audience. It only ads to her mystic, the beautiful singer in the small inn on the edge of town. It makes me wonder what her story is.

“She’s fantastic.”

Quentin sits next to me at a small round table. Not wanting to have his back to the singer, he shuffled his chair around so that he’s next to me. The occasional brush of our thighs under the table sends a zing of energy up my body.

“She’s all right,” he mutters.

Quentin’s still grumpy about having to share a room and a bed with me. But there’s nothing we can do about it, so why worry?

I find the thought of sleeping next to the man thrilling. Maybe it’s the universe giving us the push we need to get close to each other.

I take a bite of my grilled chicken and watch the woman on stage. She stands up, and two small children run out from a booth in the corner and climb on stage with her.

She crouches down despite her sequenced dress and takes one of them into her arms. The smile she turns on the child is infectious. The other child is scooped up by the rough-looking man, and his expression softens.

There’s a pang in my heart as I watch the family together.

“I’ll be back after this break,” the woman says into the mic.

Vinny gets on stage. He owns the inn with his wife who we met at reception. He’s skinny with shoulder length black hair and wears a black leather jacket.

“Show your appreciation for Dina.” His voice is husky, like a man who’s smoked his entire life.

There’s another round of applause, and the woman, Dina, smiles graciously before leaving the platform with her family. They scoot into a booth, and the woman changes from sexy songstress to doting mother.

Vinny brings them a plate of chips and salad, and the kids dive in eagerly.

“Do you want kids?”

My attention snaps back to Quentin, his question catching me off guard.

I never thought I wanted kids. My childhood wasn’t the happiest, moving from place to place. Dad was away with the military, and when mom left him and took me to Santa Cruz in California, she spent more time getting stoned than being a doting mother. We moved from town to town but kept coming back to Santa Cruz.

“I’m not sure,” I say truthfully. “You?”

Quentin scoffs. “It’s a bit late for me. I’ll be forty in a few years.”

“That’s not old. Plenty of people, especially men, start families at that age.”

He takes a big forkful of steak and chews it slowly.

“You didn’t answer the question. Do you want kids?”

He takes his time with the steak before answering. “I was married to the military for so many years that I never thought I was missing out on anything. But I must be getting sentimental in my old age.” He indicates the family in the booth. The man’s got one of the kids on his lap, and he’s laughing at something the kid’s saying. “But when you see a family together like that…”

He doesn’t need to finish the sentence; I know what he means. I feel it too, like maybe with the right person, under the right circumstances, it could be the best thing in the world.

“Why don’t you want kids?” he asks.

“I never said I didn’t want kids. Just that I’m not sure.”

Quentin is friends with my father, and I don’t want to say anything bad about my dad. He did the best he could under the circumstances. It was Mom who couldn’t handle being a military wife. She admitted herself she was too young when they married, only eighteen. She didn’t have time to experience any freedom or do anything for herself.

“If I was going to have kids . . .” I choose my words carefully, pushing the side salad around the plate with my fork. “I’d want to make sure I was ready. That I was living the life I wanted to live and that the man was all in on that.”

My heart thunders in my chest, because for the first time I’m beginning to think I might have found the right man.

I dare a glance at Quentin, and he’s staring at me intently.

“And are you living the life you want, Charlotte?”

My throat’s suddenly dry, and I take a sip of Coke. How do I tell him that he’s the one I want? That spending time with him makes me feel more like myself than any time in my life. That crossing the country on a bike on my own was damn scary and I’m glad I did it, but I’d rather do it with him by my side. I can’t tell him that. So I make a joke instead.

“Going on crazy road trips with the world’s biggest grump? I’m living the dream, baby.”

Quentin sits back, and the moment’s gone. We finish our meals and the singer, Dina, gets up on stage again.

We listen to her as we eat dessert, and I wonder if I’ll ever find what I’m looking for. If I’ll ever find my place to belong or a person I belong with. Or if I’ll always be an outsider.