Summary: On the day of James’s wedding, MC (Charlotte) tries to drown her sorrows but finds a surprising savior.
When Charlotte opened her eyes on Saturday morning, she only had a blissful few moments before she remembered the date: June 15th, the day of James and Vanessa’s wedding. She hadn’t heard from James since he called her during his bachelor party the previous weekend, her texts sent out like echoless calls into nothingness. Charlotte stared up at the ceiling, in James’s bed in his cabin, and wondered yet again what she was doing. Maybe James had sobered up after the party and realized calling her was a mistake. His silence spoke volumes and if he wasn’t calling her, it was because he’d made his choice. She imagined him, likely having breakfast with his groomsmen or maybe his parents. Charlotte remembered the dining room at his parents’ house, so huge and beautiful and unwelcoming–although perhaps the latter descriptor had only been for her. James, sensing her discomfort in the ornate surroundings, had surprised her with breakfast in bed the following morning. Poached eggs, slightly burnt bacon, and rye toast with a sliced grapefruit and a tall glass of orange juice. Charlotte had known immediately that James had prepared the meal himself instead of outsourcing to the kitchen staff. He was an excellent cook, but he never seemed to get the timing right on bacon, always slightly overcooking it. The man could poach an egg like a professional, but bacon was his downfall. The tray had been decorated with a small vase containing a single yellow rose, her favorite. The two of them had lounged in bed, feeding each other bites like a nauseating couple in a jewelry commercial.
Stop it Charlotte scolded herself, squeezing her eyes shut against the memories. A tear fell from her eye and she roughly brushed it away. He made his choice. He sent you away to the woods so he could marry her.
He made his choice.
Charlotte opened her eyes again and pulled the blankets up over her head. She felt stupid for thinking this would turn out any differently.
Later that afternoon, Charlotte stared at her laptop. The incessant cursor blinked on the screen as she attempted to lose herself in work, but everything hurt too much.
Ana lay in bed and stared up at the empty, unresponsive ceiling. She hadn’t heard from Jack since he called her during his bachelor party the previous weekend, her texts sent out like echoless calls into nothingness. Ana lay in Jack’s bed in his cabin, and wondered yet again what she was doing. Maybe Jack had sobered up after the party and realized calling her was a mistake. His silence spoke volumes and if he wasn’t calling her, it was because he’d made his choice.
Charlotte closed her laptop with a decisive clack. She couldn’t handle any thoughts of James today, not even the fictionalized version of him in her book. This is a joke. I’m a joke. She sighed and checked the time on her phone. She wanted to get out of the house, but Chris had left for a weekend fishing trip with some of his friends. Wait a minute–why did she need Chris if she wanted to get out of the house? With James’s wedding only hours away, Charlotte was free and clear and single. She didn’t need a male escort if she wanted to get out of the house. What she did need, however, was a drink. Several, in fact.
As Charlotte slugged back the last of her beer, the room shifted slightly beneath her. She righted herself and put a hand on the bar to steady herself. The room returned to normal and Charlotte removed her hand, relieved. The sky had grown dark outside, but Charlotte didn’t care. Somewhere in New York, James was probably dancing with Vanessa. Charlotte wondered briefly what their first dance had been. Probably something classic like Frank Sinatra. Maybe Vanessa had picked something overdone like “At Last.” Charlotte ordered another beer and chastised herself. She shouldn’t pick on Vanessa. It wasn’t her fault her fiance was a philanderer and Charlotte was a homewrecker. Well, attempted homewrecker.
“Hon, you should probably eat something,” the bartender said when she delivered Charlotte’s latest drink. The bartender was a blonde woman in her late fifties with a kind face who slid a small bowl of peanuts towards Charlotte.
“Thanks,” Charlotte mumbled. The bartender gave her a soft smile and moved away to other customers. Charlotte knew she should leave soon; one more beer was likely to make the whole room spin.
This is my last one Charlotte thought as she lifted the cold glass bottle to her lips. The beer flowed over her tongue, tasteless after so many that had come before. She set down the drink, disappointed. Charlotte wondered if she should’ve ordered something else, something that would’ve tasted better. Did it really matter though? It’s not like the taste going in was going to make it taste any better when it came back up later.
Oh god Charlotte thought, the mere idea of vomiting making her a little ill. She hesitated, unsure of whether or not she should make a run for the bathroom. Thankfully though, the nausea subsided. Charlotte eyed the bottle. Should she risk it? No, even she wasn’t that stupid. She slowly climbed to her feet, nearly tripping on the bar stool as she did so.
“Do you want me to call you a cab?” the bartender asked gently, resting her hand on Charlotte’s wrist.
“No,” Charlotte said, a little too loudly. She took a breath. “No, thank you,” she said, her voice lowered to a more appropriate volume. “I can do it.”
“It’s no trouble,” the bartender assured her. Charlotte opened her mouth to protest, but before she could speak, someone else materialized by her elbow.
“Charlotte, hey,” Zig said. He got a good look at her and took a step back. “Oh, I see I’m arriving at the end of the party.”
“Yeah, I’ve been drinking,” Charlotte said, grumpy at what sounded like an accusation from Zig. Who is he to judge me? I’m a single adult, I’m entitled to adult beverages.
“Holy crap,” Zig said, leaning back slightly. “Thank god smoking isn’t allowed in bars anymore or your breath would catch on fire.”
“I don’t need this,” Charlotte slurred. She tried to take a step forward and lurched. She would’ve fallen had Zig not reached out in time and caught her.
“Okay, I’m going to take you home,” Zig said. He glanced over at the bartender who nodded approvingly, looking a little relieved.
“I don’t need you to rescue me!” Charlotte insisted. “I’m not a damsel in distress! I’m an INDEPENDENT WOMAN!” She fumbled in her pocket for her keys which immediately fell to the floor with a clatter. Charlotte dove after them and fell onto the floor, despite Zig’s best efforts. He sighed and picked up her keys, shoving them in the pocket of his leather jacket before he reached down and helped Charlotte to her feet.
“Yes, I can see that, but you’re also very drunk,” Zig said.
“Give me my keys!” she demanded.
“I will, but I’m going to drive you home first,” Zig said. Charlotte opened her mouth to protest but he shook his head. “It’s not up for negotiation.”
“Fine,” Charlotte gumbled. “But don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Shake your head like that,” Charlotte said, trying to keep the room to stay put. “It makes me dizzy.”
“Okay, I’m sorry,” Zig said.
Zig led her outside and patiently waited while Charlotte attempted to remember what kind of car she drove. Finally, he just pulled the keys out of his pocket and clicked the beeper until her car flashed its headlights, waving them over.
“Found it,” Charlotte said, suddenly bursting into giggles. She wasn’t sure why this was so funny, but she couldn’t stop herself. Her toe suddenly caught on a break in the sidewalk but Zig kept her upright, carefully leading her to the car. He helped her into the passenger seat and reached to buckle her in, but she slapped his hand away.
“I can buckle my own seatbelt, I’m not that helpless,” Charlotte insisted. Zig held his hands up in surrender and then shut her door after carefully making sure all of her limbs were in the car. Christ, who made car doors so loud? Charlotte wondered as she yanked on the seat belt. She missed the buckle once, twice, three times. She leaned closer, resting her forehead on the center console which felt deliciously cool.
“Need help?”
Charlotte picked up her head quickly and instantly regretted the decision as the inside of the car swam around her. When had Zig gotten into the driver’s seat?
“Yes,” she admitted. “But not because I can’t do it. I just don’t feel like it.”
“Of course,” Zig agreed as he took the buckle from her. He clicked it successfully the first time and straightened the belt across her shoulder.
“Show off,” Charlotte muttered as Zig started the car.
Before she even opened her eyes, Charlotte was aware that something wasn’t right. Her head ached, her tongue felt heavy and tasted sour, and she was still wearing her clothes from the night before. Except for her shoes. Where were her shoes? She sat up slowly, her stomach protesting wildly. Charlotte couldn’t remember coming home last night, but clearly she had if she was in her bed. She peeked over the edge of the bed and saw a pillow on the carpet. Had she knocked it off onto the floor? Suddenly, the door swung open and someone walked into the room, back lit by the morning sun in the hallway.
“Ow, shit!” Charlotte exclaimed as the headache burst across her forehead at the sudden light. “Shut the door!”
The door was quickly shut and Charlotte blinked, trying to adjust her eyesight back to the gloom of the darkened bedroom.
“Sorry about that.”
It took Charlotte a moment to realize Zig was standing in her bedroom in jeans and a white t-shirt and holding a bowl of something in his hands.
“What … um, what happened?” Charlotte asked, hoping to force her stomach into submission using sheer willpower.
“I ran into you in the bar last night and you were very drunk, so I brought you home,” Zig said. “I was afraid you were going to choke on your own vomit or something so I slept on the floor. I hope that’s okay.”
“Yeah, of course,” Charlotte said, self-consciously reaching up to brush her hair back from her face. “Um, thanks.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Zig said as he set the bowl on the nightstand. “If you’re up for it, I brought you some oatmeal. You’re going to need to start detoxing your system at some point.”
“Oh. Thanks,” Charlotte said slowly, still trying to piece together what happened after she left the bar.
“Well, it’s not purely altruistic,” Zig said, a grin spreading across his face. “I was hoping that by making you some food, I could bribe you into letting me use your shower.”
“Oh, of course, please, go ahead,” Charlotte said, gesturing towards the bathroom.
“Thanks,” Zig said. He turned and headed towards the bathroom when a memory suddenly hit her.
“I didn’t … I didn’t throw up on you, did I?” Charlotte asked. Zig hesitated, his hand on the doorknob to the bathroom.
“No,” he said unconvincingly. Charlotte dropped her face into her head and wished her hangover would just kill her already.
“Sorry,” she said, her voice muffled by her palm.
“Nothing to apologize for,” he said lightly as he let himself into the bathroom and shut the door. Moments later, she heard the shower start. In spite of how terrible she felt, Charlotte realized that at that very moment, Zig was taking off his clothes and would be standing naked in the very next room from where she sat.
“Oh, god, stop it,” she muttered. In addition to a vague notion she’d thrown up on him, she seemed to remember him holding her hair back while she vomited until her gut ached. Whatever attraction he might’ve held for her before was surely gone now. Charlotte reached over for the bowl of oatmeal and brought it to her nose for a tentative sniff. It smelled warm and comforting with a hint of cinnamon, her stomach only mildly protesting. She scooped up an experimental bite, barely big enough to cover the tip of her tongue, and brought it to her lips. Charlotte let it slide over her tongue and swallowed, waiting. So far, so good. She allowed herself another bite, taking her time, and by the time Zig turned off the shower, she’d managed to eat about a third of the bowl.
When the bathroom door opened, Charlotte was unprepared for the sight of Zig standing there in only a towel. Water droplets clung to his muscled chest and abs and Charlotte noticed the owl tattoo sketched across his shoulder. Fuck me.
“I hate to impose, but would you mind if I washed my clothes really quickly?” he asked. “I don’t exactly have a change of clothes with me.”
“No, of course, go ahead,” Charlotte said, trying not to think about why Zig would need to wash his clothes.
“If you want, I’ll throw yours from last night in with mine when you take a shower,” he said pointedly. Charlotte was about to object until she glanced down and saw mysterious stains on her front and sleeves.
“Okay, thanks,” she said, afraid to smell herself. “Um, if you don’t want to just walk around in a towel, I can lend you a pair of pajama pants or something. They might be kind of short on you and I won’t be offended if you don’t want to wear them. Or you could stay in a towel, I don’t mind–” Oh for fuck’s sake, shut up!
“Sure,” Zig said with a grin. “But only if they’re pink.”
“Is purple okay?”
“Even better.”
Charlotte eased herself out of bed and retrieved a clean pair of purple pajama pants from the dresser and held them out to him.
“Thanks,” he said. “I’ll go put these on in the other room, just leave the stuff you want me to wash on the floor in here when you go take a shower.”
Charlotte nodded, very aware that this was the second time in less than two minutes that he’d mentioned she should take a shower. Her face burned and she was glad for the muted bedroom light.
When Charlotte emerged from the bathroom, freshly showered with scrubbed teeth, she headed out into the living room and sucked in a sharp breath at the sight of a shirtless Zig wearing her purple pajama pants which were, indeed too short for him. His tanned ankles tuck out several inches below the hems but it wasn’t his feet she was looking at. Instead, she let her eyes rest on his backside as he studied the bookshelf in the living room. Over the course of her shower during which she’d washed dried vomit out of her hair, Charlotte had given up all hope of anything happening between them, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t look. Zig heard her footsteps on the wood floors and turned back to look at her with a smile.
“Feeling a little more human?” he asked.
“Yes, thanks,” she said. “Look, I’m really sorry about last night. And this morning.”
He waved away her words with a flick of his wrist.
“Don’t worry, I don’t take it personally,” he said. “And thanks for letting me use your washing machine. I don’t have one, so you saved me a trip to the laundromat before my shift this afternoon.”
“Oh yeah, no problem. You’re welcome to the washing machine anytime, it’s the least I can do,” she said. A horrible flashback from the night before hit her and she winced. “Did I … was I singing last night?/”
“Oh yes,” Zig said with a laugh. “You kept insisting you were an independent woman and during the ride here, you launched into a Beyonce medley. I have to say, I rather enjoyed your rendition of ‘Single Ladies.’ You have a pretty good voice.”
“Thanks,” Charlotte said slowly. Apparently my drunk self wants to ensure I’ll never get laid again. “Um, did you eat?”
“Yeah, thanks. I hope you don’t mind I raided your fridge. I promise I’ll pay you back.”
“No, please, I owed you one. We’re even,” Charlotte insisted.
“So …”
“So …”
“Should we sit down?” Zig asked, gesturing to the couch.
“Yes! Sorry, I’m a really shitty host,” Charlotte said. Zig laughed.
“Hey, don’t be sorry, I’m the one taking all the liberties by eating your food and using your washing machine,” Zig said as he sat down on one of the plush leather couches. Charlotte settled into a matching armchair that tilted towards the couch.
“You had to hear my American Idol audition, I think you can do whatever you want,” she said, blushing almost as soon as the words were out of her mouth. Reminder: you vomited on him. That is not sexy.
“So what brings you to Hull anyway?” Zig asked. “I don’t think I’ve asked you yet.”
“I’m borrowing the house so I can work. I’m a writer.”
“Yeah?” Zig asked, interested. “That’s really cool. I’ve always wanted to write, but I don’t have the talent for it so I just read a lot instead.”
“Well, the jury is still out on my talent,” Charlotte joked.
“What’s your latest book about?” Zig asked.
“It’s …” Charlotte hesitated, trying to decide how to frame it. “It’s about a woman who is getting out of a bad relationship and tries to move on with her life.” Zig didn’t say anything so she pressed on. “She gets involved with a married guy and one day, she wakes up and realizes she has no idea how she got there. She tries to extricate herself from the married guy, but things are much more complicated than she expected.”
Zig nodded. “That sounds interesting. I always like books about the relationships between people. Not necessarily romantic ones, but the connections between people fascinate me. There are so many shades of gray in relationships and ending them is rarely black or white–people are connected in so many ways, like the roots of a plant.” He noticed her staring at him and blushed slightly. “Sorry, I don’t know if that made any sense.”
“No, that made perfect sense,” Charlotte said. “I think you need to think about giving writing another try.”
He shrugged. “Maybe I will.”
“I’d love to read it if you do.”
Zig grinned. “Okay, but you have to promise to be nice. We’re not all wildly successful authors.”
Charlotte laughed.
“I’m hardly wildly successful,” she said. “I’m not starving yet, but I attribute that to my editor who puts up with me and makes me sound much better than I actually am.”
“Oh, come on, give yourself some credit,” Zig said. “Your first book was great.”
“My first … oh my god, you’ve read it?” Charlotte asked in astonishment.
“When I met you, I knew your name sounded familiar and I figured out why once I got home and went through my bookshelf,” Zig explained. “Don’t worry, I’m not some crazy Annie Wilkes-type stalker, I promise,” he added quickly. “But I have read your book.”
“Even Annie Wilkes didn’t think she was a stalker,” Charlotte teased him.
“True,” Zig conceded with a laugh. “Okay, I don’t know if I can make myself not sound creepy right now, so I’m just going to go check on the laundry.”
Charlotte watched him go, wishing for what felt like the thousandth time that she hadn’t thrown up on him.
After their clothes were done, Zig changed back into his own pants and returned the purple pajama pants to her.
“Are you sure you don’t want to hang onto these?” Charlotte asked. “Purple is really your color.”
“I’d love to, but the other park rangers at the station would never let me hear the end of it if I showed up in those,” Zig said with a grin. “But I do reserve the right to change my mind later.”
“Deal,” Charlotte said.
When his cab arrived, Zig left with instructions for her to keep hydrating and headed down the stairs in front of the cabin. Charlotte leaned in the doorway, watching him go, and when he got downstairs to the waiting taxi, he looked back up at her and waved. She waved back, feeling deeply disappointed to see him leave. The previous night’s events had most certainly caused irreparable damage to any potential romance, but maybe they could be friends.
Charlotte watched the cab wind its way through the trees down the narrow path towards the road and, for the first time that day, she allowed herself to think about James. Last night, he had married Vanessa. Today the happy couple was probably jetting off to some exotic location for their honeymoon, some five star resort that was only open to people on the social register or celebrities like Oprah. Charlotte looked up at the cabin around her; she knew she’d have to get out of this house sooner rather than later because it was time to move on. James had made his choice, and now it was time for Charlotte to make hers. She could let herself pine for James, or she could close the chapter on him and make a fresh start. All in all, Hull didn’t seem like a bad place to do just that. But for now, all she wanted to do was crawl into bed with a cup of tea and watch something stupid on Netflix. However, she’d have to do it in one of the guest rooms because she hadn’t washed the sheets in the master bedroom yet and if her shirt had been any indicator, they were far from clean.
Charlotte closed the front door and headed into the kitchen, singing quietly under her breath.
“All the single ladies, all the single ladies …”
