The morning's light was slow and creaky, touching first the floor and then the foot of the bed, reaching first Charlie's feet, all the way up their entwined legs, until it touched Clare's face and she woke.
Charlie's arm was wrapped around her waist, his face pressed into the nape of her neck, one leg pushed between hers. Trapped as she was, Clare had few options but to lay there and feel his breath tickle the back of her neck. Lying in bed with him (again) was such a lie that it made her throat close and her eyes well up with tears. 'This could have been every day, waking up with the man I love,' she thought. 'And I really thought it would be. How old were we when we met? Twelve?'
Her thoughts were interrupted by a grunt from behind, a snuffle in her hair as he huffed out a breath as he woke up. Feigning sleep, she lay still and quiet as he leaned against one of his elbows and she could feel him examining her. When he finally slipped quietly out of the bed and shuffled off to the shower in the next room, she breathed a silent breath of relief. Now she could dress and make her escape.
Charlie sat in a new bar that night, desperately needing a change of scenery, and moping over his glass with the other patrons buzzing around him. It was just like her, he thought, to be there one day and then gone the next. Except.. It wasn't, not really. Only their last interaction supported that observation, and then last night again. All through their time together in high school, and certainly through college, she had never been fly-by-night, nor was she one to fuck and run. Then again, it had only been him, and perhaps the six years apart had changed that about her. I wonder what other kinds of things are different about her, he wondered. She was so sharp and bright, and like what you see after a firework has gone off when you close your eyes, she remained imprinted on the backs of your eyelids what felt like forever. Clare was the only woman he had ever loved, and still was. However, it seemed to him that she was not still that same woman.
Sighing in defeat, Charlie stood up from the bar, paid for his drinks and shuffled to the doors. The air was cold, so cold in fact that the snow from the previous nights had frozen into an icy shell that crackled and snapped beneath his feet. Luckily he hadn't been in the bar long enough for his truck door to freeze shut, so he got in and drove slowly home on empty back streets, the people content to stay home in their warm houses together. As he pulled into the driveway, he found small tracks leading up from the sidewalk to the front door, but not coming back. Suspicious, he turned the truck off and entered the house quietly, leaving the lights off. He followed damp tracks through the house, up the stairs, and down the hall to his room where the only light in the house was on and he could hear little noises coming from inside.
Charlie edged closer to the door, peering through the crack of light to see Clare bent over the end of his bed, the bedskirt tossed up on the mattress as she searched beneath. She was cursing quietly, and to his observations her vocabulary had grown vastly in the last years.
"Where the hell could it have gone? I swear to god I had it here, and if he's stolen it, he's a mother-"
Charlie stepped in silently and grabbed her hips, pulling them back against him. "Hello lover," he said to her after her scream quieted as he caught her punch.
Clare, after getting over her initial terror and paralysis, felt it slowly melt into anger.
"What the hell were you thinking?! Sneaking up on me like that? What the fuck are you playing at?"
He felt his amusement melt into his own anger. "What the fuck am I playing at? I should be asking you the same damn thing! What are you doing here? Back in my city at the least, and in my house and damn room!"
She pulled away angrily, throwing his arms off of her and putting the span of the bed between them.
"I came back for something I must have left here. Nothing more."
He snorted. "Your sense of pride maybe? Or a sense of dignity perhaps? What happened last night?"
She shook her head and turned away, studying the wall in front of her. Glancing down on his dresser, she spotted the envelope on the top, tucked under a candle. She snatched it up and spun around again.
"I'm sorry about what happened yesterday. And I won't let it happen again, I swear."
He didn't say anything to her for several long moments. He looked down and the bed and then turned away from her to look out the window. As he stared through the frosty glass, he felt his anger melt away as quickly as it had accumulated, and he was left feeling tired to the soul.
"Would you like to have coffee with me," he asked.
Clare blinked for a moment.
"I don't know," she answered. "Are we friends? Can we have coffee?"
Charlie leaned his face against the cool glass and closed his eyes. "It's really up to you. I want to talk. But if we can't, then that's okay too."
