Mesmerized (3 page)

I wake to the familiar screech of my alarm clock the next morning. I grope around the nightstand for a few moments before I find the snooze button. I roll over onto my back and take a deep breath.

I feel like I got hit by a truck. A really, really big one.

After a few more rounds with the snooze button, I leave the safety of my bed and stumble into the bathroom. I flick on the lights and, to my horror, discover that I also
look like
I got hit by a truck. I didn’t bother to take off my makeup last night, and after a good cry into my pillow, it smeared all over my face. My hair has fallen down and little bobby pins stick out at weird angles from the tangled mess that seems glued to the side of my head.

I’d take one hell of a mug shot right now.

A hot shower and a strong cup of coffee can usually cure my morning moodiness, but today it’s just not enough. I debate calling in sick to work and taking the day to wallow in my own misery, but I know that my boss would kill me if I skipped out on a Saturday, our busiest day. Plus, after yesterday’s shopping splurge, I could use the tip money.

My fancy little cocktail dress is lying on the floor in a rumpled pile. I sigh. Should have left the tags on…

I take the next twenty minutes to frantically scrub off last night’s makeup mess, pile my hair under a hat, and spackle on half a stick of deodorant in hopes that no one will notice I didn’t have time to shower.

I walk to work, since it’s only about half a mile away. This morning is dry but windy, and there is a definite chill in the air. I flip up the collar on my peacoat and tuck my chin down. The walk gives me just enough time to replay last night in my head. After we got back to my townhouse, James walked me to the door, but there was no long goodnight kiss or a promise that he would call. The whole thing felt very detached.

Normally, he would have come in and probably would have stayed the night, rather than drive back into the city to his condo, especially since we had just been in the city for dinner. And normally, we would have made plans for the rest of the weekend. We might have gone to see a movie or cooked dinner together after I got off work tonight.

Nothing is normal right now. And reminding myself how things
should be
is only making me feel worse about our argument last night. I know I hurt him, and that’s the last thing I ever wanted to do. I cringe slightly as I remember some of the more painful moments.

I have no idea how to even start to work this out.

Luckily the day is busy enough that I am able to stay out of my own thoughts for the most part. The café I work at is small, but we’re one of the only places in town that is open for breakfast and lunch. There is one other coffee place, but they don’t serve anything other than bagels and muffins, which I have always suspected are store bought. We serve gourmet, fresh pastries that I bake each morning, and we also have a complete breakfast menu with pancakes, French toast, eggs, and bacon.

I have worked at the café for about three years, and I know it inside and out, which is fortunate since I am officially brain-dead today. I quickly get into my normal groove and go about the day like a coffee-pouring, sandwich-serving robot.

Around two o’clock things start to die down and Heidi, the owner of the shop, gives me a few minutes to have something to eat and rest my aching feet. I grab my phone and a sandwich and sit at one of the tables near the counter, in case I need to pop up and make a drink for someone. I check my text messages: there are three from Ashley, but nothing from James. Ashley also called twice and left a voicemail.

She is a persistent little thing.

I read her texts and have a flash of guilt for not calling her last night. I knew she would be dying to know what happened, but I hadn’t been in the mood to talk after James dropped me off.

I start to text her back and let her know I’ll come over to her house after work and give her the rundown. Before I can click send, I get a call from my mom.

“Hello Mother,” I answer.

“Hello dear,” she says. My mom is using her special “phone voice” tone, which means that she needs something. I brace myself for the impending request.

“I’m at work.” I glance over at my boss, trying to gauge her level of irritation. She hates when I make phone calls inside the café. She says it’s tacky. I told her the window paintings featuring cartoon pancakes and eggs wearing hats and bibs are tacky. We agree to disagree.

“I don’t have a lot of time, just finishing my break,” I add.

“Oh all right dear. I just need to see if you can do me a favor.”

Classic.

I roll my eyes. “What is it?”

“Well, you know how I am helping the Weatherby’s plan for Hillary and Joe’s wedding.”

I nod, as if she can see me, willing her to get to the point. “Yes, and…”

“We have a groomsman flying into Sea-Tac tonight, and no one is available to go pick him up.”

I groan. “Mom, you can’t be serious.”

She starts to rattle off all the other people she has already asked but I stop listening. I’ve caught my boss’s attention, and she is motioning for me to wrap it up.

“—Valerie is too pregnant, she really needs her rest. Joe’s grandma is available, but of course they took away her license last spring, so that isn’t an ideal solution. I suppose if you are too busy, she can manage, although I hope there isn’t an accident. That would be a shame…”

“Mom, stop. I’ll do it.”

“Ohhh good!” I have to hold the phone away from my ear as she squeals.

“I really have to go, I’ll call you later to get the flight info.”

“Oh, Charity you are just a lifesaver!”

“Okay, okay. I’ll talk to you later,” I say before hanging up and shoving the phone back into my purse.

Un-fucking-believable.

My mom fancies herself a bit of a wedding coordinator, and somehow manages to wiggle her way into the center of all the local weddings. I’m still not sure how she talks these people into hiring her as a wedding planner. She’s had no previous experience, other than my stalled-out big day and my sister’s wedding. I imagine it plays out like a hostile takeover, camouflaged by warm hugs and well wishes. However it happens, she has done a few now and seems to be on quite the roll. What people don’t realize is how many “favors” she has to call in to pull off each event.

“Valerie is too pregnant.” I roll my eyes again as I repeat that to myself. I stalk to the back room to scarf down the rest of my sandwich and put my apron back on. Valerie is six months pregnant, and the worst thing she has complained about so far is gaining weight and some brief morning sickness. It’s hard to imagine her being so impaired that she couldn’t drive to the airport and pick up the lone groomsman.

***

The rest of the day passes without too much incident. After work, I stop by my parent’s and get the flight information and homemade sign from my mom, and realize I basically have just enough time to go home, change, and get on the road if I have any hope of making it on time. Since it is Saturday, there won’t be as much traffic, but the airport is busy no matter what, or at least it always feels that way to me. Maybe that’s just my small-town girl side talking.

I call Ashley from the car, and put her on speaker as I start my hour-long trek to the airport. I fill her in on the situation and let her know I’m not going to make it over tonight after all.

“I’m sorry, Charity, that really sucks. No offense, but your mom is kinda pushy.”

I laugh. “Believe me, I know. I don’t know what her deal is with this wedding planning stuff.”

“Whose wedding is it again?”

“Hillary Weatherby and Joe Stuart. I think they were a year or two ahead of us in school.”

“Who is the guy you’re picking up? Anyone we know?”

“No, I guess he was Joe’s college roommate or something.” I pause and smile as a mischievous thought pops into my head. “You want me to see if he’s single? Goodness knows you could use a man.”

“Ha ha. Thanks but no thanks,” she answers, without missing a beat.

“You’re no fun.”

“Although…speaking of weddings,” Ashley starts, “I’m assuming there was no proposal last night. I’m pretty sure it’s in the best friend’s code of conduct that you have to notify said friend within a few hours of a marriage proposal.”

I’m quiet for a moment and lean my head back on the headrest. “No proposal, at least not of the marriage variety.”

“What does that mean?”

I give her the play-by-play, stopping for dramatic effect at the more horrific moments.

“And he hasn’t called or texted you all day?” she asks when I finish.

“Nope.”

“Wow, Charity, I’m so sorry. Do you think it’s…over?”

“I have no idea. I don’t know what to do. I don’t even know what I want to have happen next. I don’t want to break up, but I also don’t want to get engaged. If he is on that track and I’m not, I just don’t see how it could work. We would both end up disappointing the other, and that’s not healthy.”

“I think you should call him. Offer the olive branch,” she says. “He’s a little wounded right now, so he probably feels like he can’t initiate a conversation.”

“Yeah, you’re right. I really didn’t mean to hurt him like that.”

“I know that. You just need to let him know you’re still here, and that you do want to work it out. He’s crazy about you, Charity. You guys will find a way to make it work. If that’s what you want,” she adds.

“Okay, okay. I’ll call him when I get home. He usually stays up pretty late on Saturdays. Gives me a little more time to figure out what I want to say. Maybe that way I won’t make such an idiot out of myself!”

“You mean you shouldn’t interrupt people and say the first thing that comes into your mind,” Ashley teases.

“Yeah, yeah.” I laugh with her and it actually feels good, like a pressure valve slowly getting released.

“Well keep me posted! I’ll be up later tonight. I’m working on some new sketches.”

“Okay, I’ll try to text you before I go to bed. We can get lunch tomorrow to get all caught up.”

“It’s a date!”

I smile and hang up. It’s nice to know that when everything is topsy-turvy, I still have Ashley to keep me sane.

***

By nine o’clock I’m standing at the baggage claim for flight 1210 from Detroit, more irritated with my assignment than ever. I still don’t know what to tell James, and the prospect of entertaining a complete stranger for an hour-long car ride, while I’m trying to figure that all out, seems exhausting.

I have a little poster board sign—at least I think there is poster board underneath all the glitter—that reads: “Weatherby Wedding Party,” and I feel a little ridiculous as people mill around waiting for bags to drop onto the conveyor belt. I pop up on my tiptoes to get a better view, but since I don’t know who I’m looking for, it’s not helping. I hold the sign a little higher and continue to look around.

I hear a familiar sounding voice and automatically glance to the left by the customer service desk. There’s a man with his back to me and something about him makes me step closer. When he turns his head slightly, I let out a small shriek and drop the sign.

Brandon Hart is standing twenty feet away from me.

I feel my jaw drop open as my mind flips into full blown panic mode. It feels like a carefully crafted puzzle inside my head has just shattered into a thousand pieces, which are now all bouncing around my brain. I don’t know if I should run, hide, scream, or physically assault him. I haven’t spoken to him since our rehearsal dinner, and while several years have passed, I suddenly find myself cycling through a rollercoaster of emotions.

Delusion: That isn’t really him standing there, it’s just someone that looks exactly like him.

Anger: That rat bastard! How dare he come back to town after all this time! If he thinks I’m just going to welcome him with open arms he has another thing coming!

Despair: I will never hear the end of this. My life is officially over.

I quickly stoop to pick up the sign off the floor and scoot out of his line of sight before he turns around. Everything seems to be happening in slow motion, but I need to act now!

I decide to hide over by the escalators where there are more people, but in the process of thinking and walking at the same time I trip over someone’s abandoned luggage cart, and despite my efforts to stabilize myself, I fall forward onto the floor. Time slows down and all I can do is watch in utter horror as my purse flies from my hand and skids across the room, scattering my lipstick, compact, wallet, car keys, and one stray tampon in its wake.

Classic.

I lay, paralyzed, willing the earth to swallow me whole. A chorus of gasps and giggles erupt at my acrobatic performance—I think one asshole even applauded—and I can’t look up for fear of making eye contact with anyone. It doesn’t matter that 99.9 percent of these people are virtual strangers to me, and I will more than likely never see them again. The one person who matters…or mattered…is here, and had a front row seat to my humiliation.

“Charity?”

I know the voice. I know it so very well. I squeeze my eyes tightly together.

“Charity? Are you all right?” the voice repeats.

I open one eye and shift it in his direction. “Hi Brandon,” I mumble into the floor.

In one fluid movement he pulls me up and straightens my jacket, before bending to gather my things and putting them back in my purse. I cannot bring myself to say anything or help him.

Or close my mouth for that matter.

He hands me my renegade purse, and half of me wants to bolt, but the other half is firmly glued to the spot where I am standing, not trusting my legs to carry me anywhere just yet, especially at high speeds.

He looks better than ever before, better than the pictures in the tabloids and movie trailers. He is 6’3” with deeply tanned skin—like a real tan, not Hollywood orange glow from a bottle—deep green eyes, perfect white teeth, and thick dark hair that falls slightly into his face. He’s always been attractive to me, but this is on another level. I can tell he is trying to make himself look a little more anonymous with his faded looking baseball cap pulled down low to partially hide his face. He is wearing a nondescript hoodie and jeans—nothing that would draw attention to himself—but he is stunning nonetheless.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Nice to see you too,” he says.

I open my mouth to fire off some sort of sarcastic reply—as soon as I think of one—but he holds up a hand to stop me before I get the chance.

“I probably should have called to give you a heads up that I’d be in town. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.”

Called?
Since when does he call?

“Great. Well, I guess now I know. Thanks for this,” I say, holding up my purse. I turn on my heel and stalk off in the other direction. I am getting out of here; groomsman or no groomsman, it’s time for me to go.

Another group of passengers is filling up the room and I have to push my way through the crowd to get to the exit. My head is still spinning, but I figure I will sort it out on the long drive home, now that I will be alone.

I almost make it to the door before I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin around. “I have nothing to say to you, Brandon!”

The hand belongs to a man I have never seen before. He appears to be in his late twenties and he looks really nervous.

“I’m sorry, miss. I saw the sign. I’m Peter.” He lowers his hand to offer me a handshake.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I uh…thought you were someone else.” I take his hand.
““
“
I’m Charity, Debbie McAdams’s daughter. She is helping coordinate the wedding.”

He nods. “Nice to meet you. I really appreciate you coming to give me a lift. I told Joe I’d just get a cab, but they insisted on having someone come get me.”

He offered to take a cab? I fight the urge to scream.

I plaster on a smile. “It’s no trouble. Did you get all of your luggage?” 

“Yeah, I’m all set.”

I turn and start to lead the way back towards the doors but stop short when I see Brandon. He is standing to the left of the doors with his small suitcase. His arms are crossed and his eyes are locked on me.

I take another step forward.

“Charity, can we talk?” he asks.

“Talk? About what?” I let out a hollow laugh at the idea of us being civil enough to share a newspaper right now, let alone carry on an entire conversation.

“I don’t know. Seeing you here caught me off guard. Don’t you think maybe it means something?”

“No, Brandon, I don’t. I’m not sure what Hollywood new age crap you’re into these days, but I don’t believe in signs. Meeting like this is nothing but an awful coincidence. It doesn’t
mean
anything.” I try to take a step forward but he moves to block the doors.

“Please, Cherry, hear me out.”

My heart flutters at the use of my old nickname. He was the only one who ever called me Cherry. I brace myself and try to fight the emotional swirl in my stomach.

“I can’t. I have a long drive back to town, and I would like to get home sometime before midnight.”

“Is there a problem here?” A voice chimes in from somewhere over my left shoulder.

I glance back and see that Peter has taken a step closer to me.

“Who’s this?” Brandon demands, as if he’s just now noticing that I am not alone.

“My name is Peter McNamara. Charity is giving me a ride to town.”

Brandon looks to me, as if to confirm the explanation.

“Peter is one of the groomsmen for a wedding my mom is coordinating. We have a long drive ahead of us. If you really wanted to talk to me, you could have called or emailed or messaged me at any point over the past three years. So excuse me if I don’t have time to do this right here, right now, simply because it’s convenient for you or you find it spooky,” I say, putting air quotes around the word spooky.

He rolls his eyes. “Cherry, please? Don’t be like this.”

“Don’t be like what? Seriously Brandon what do you expect me to do? You want me to let you into my car and pretend to be your best friend, sing along with some songs on the radio, and just forget who you are and what you did to me? To us?” Towards the end of my monologue I hear my voice getting a little hysterical and people are, once again, beginning to stare at me.

Great.

Maybe I should have stayed in my high school drama class. I obviously have a way of captivating an audience. I could be on Broadway by now.

Brandon takes a step closer and grabs a hold of my shoulders, sending a jolt of electricity through my body. His hands are warm and firm in their grip and his green eyes are wide and alarmingly serious.

“I am not asking you to forget, Charity. I just want to talk to you.”

I am mesmerized for a moment by his soothing tone and soft gaze. But a flashback of me sitting in my room crying over an unworn wedding gown is all it takes to snap myself back to reality.

“You are out of your mind,” I say as I pull myself from his grip. I hoist my purse up higher on my shoulder and push past him and out the doors.

***

To his credit, Peter catches up to my frantic pace, his roll-along suitcase bouncing behind him. “Is everything okay? Who was that guy?”

I shake my head. There’s a lump in my throat and I feel tears building up behind my lashes. “It’s not important. I’m fine. Let’s just go.”

He doesn’t say anything further, and follows a few steps behind me.

We wait at the curb until it’s safe to cross. There are men in orange reflector jackets directing traffic and people. As soon as they signal for us to cross, I take off at a brisk pace, thankful I’m still wearing my work shoes and not heels.

Brandon catches up to us a few moments later. “Cherry! Wait up! Please, hear me out. Let this guy take my car. I have a driver who will take him wherever he wants to go.”

“Listen, man, I think she’s made it pretty clear she isn’t interested. I think you should maybe back off,” Peter says. He steps between Brandon and me with a hand raised to keep a distance.

I feel like I’m in shock and nothing is making sense anymore.

“Charity, I’m going to be in town for the next couple of weeks. If you agree to let me ride with you back to town I promise to leave you alone, if that’s what you want.”

Brandon has never been particularly fond of the word “no,” and it seems that his new life as a high-profile celebrity has only made that worse. When he sets his sights on something, he’s not going to stop until he gets it. I used to appreciate his tenacity, but right now it’s just annoying.

“One hour and then you leave me alone?” I repeat.

“I swear,” he says.

“Fine.”

It takes a few minutes to convince Peter that I’m going to be all right and that Brandon is not some sort of crazy axe murderer. I wait until he gets situated in the town car that had originally been sent for Brandon. He gives me his cell phone number just in case I need anything. It is a very sweet gesture, but I assure him that everything will be okay.

At least I think it will be…

Brandon follows me to my car, silent for the first time all night.

Once buckled, I glance at the clock: 9:45. With any luck, by 11:00, I will be home in bed, where I clearly should have stayed this morning.