#1 - Page 14 (1/2)

She nods again, finally turning her head to make direct eye contact with me. “Goodnight, Silas.”

“Goodnight, Charlie. Call me if you…”

“I’ll be fine,” she says quickly, cutting me off. “See you in the morning.” She exits the car and begins walking toward her house. I want to yell after her, tell her to wait. I want to know if she’s wondering the same thing I’m wondering: What does Never Never mean?

I think if you cheat, it should be with someone worthy of your sin. I’m not sure if this is old Charlie’s thoughts or new Charlie’s thoughts. Or maybe, because I’m observing Charlie Wynwood’s life as an outsider, I’m able to think of her cheating with detachment rather than judgment. All I know is if you’re going to cheat on Silas Nash it had better be with Ryan Gosling.

I turn back to look at him before he drives away and catch a glimpse of his profile, the dim streetlamp behind the car illuminating his face. The bridge of his nose isn’t smooth. At school, the other boys had pretty noses, or noses that were still too big for their faces. Or worse, noses pocked with acne. Silas has a grown-up nose. It makes you take him more seriously.

I turn back to the house. My stomach feels oily. No one is around when I open the door and peer inside. I feel like I’m an intruder breaking into somebody’s house.

“h.e.l.lo?” I say. “Anyone here?” I close the door quietly behind me and tiptoe into the living room.

I jump.

Charlie’s mother is on the couch watching Seinfeld on mute, and eating pinto beans straight from the can. I’m suddenly reminded that all I’ve eaten today is the grilled cheese I split with Silas.

“Are you hungry?” I ask her tentatively. I don’t know if she’s still mad at me or if she’s going to cry again. “Do you want me to make us something to eat?”

She leans forward without looking at me and slides her beans onto the coffee table. I take a step toward her and force out the word, “Mom?”

“She’s not going to answer you.”

I spin around to see Janette stroll into the kitchen, a bag of Doritos in her hand.

“Is that what you ate for dinner?”

She shrugs.

“What are you, like fourteen?”

“What are you, like brain-dead?” she shoots back. And then, “Yes, I’m fourteen.”

I grab the Doritos from her hand and carry them over to where drunken mommy is staring at the TV screen. “Fourteen-year-old girls can’t eat chips for dinner,” I say, dropping the bag on her lap. “Sober up and be a mom.”

No response.

I stalk over to the fridge, but all that’s inside it is a dozen cans of Diet c.o.ke and a jar of pickles. “Get your jacket, Janette,” I say, glaring at the mother. “Let’s get you some dinner.”

Janette looks at me like I’m speaking Mandarin. I figure I need to throw something mean in there just to keep up appearances. “Hurry up, you little t.u.r.d!”