Page 172 of Lovers Like Us

Charlie nods, assured. “Count mein.”

* * *

The private jetflies off the tarmac, and Farrow and Oscar seclude themselves in the front of the plane. Giving Charlie and me space. Or maybe forcing us to talk. Something we rarelydo.

Unlike the twelve-person sleeper bus, there’s nowhere to hide. We can’t retreat to a bunk and ignore each other. My beige leather seat even faceshis.

We’re on the same figurative side, fighting for the same purpose. But our past still wedges between us like a crater that we’ve never known how tofill.

Charlie drums his armrest and stares out the airplane window. I fold my paperback of Aristotle’sThe Nicomachean Ethics, barely able to read with the tensesilence.

And as soon as his eyes drift to me, I take a chance and starttalking.

“Do you remember junior year? When we had to do that video together onThe Iliad?” I ask, trying to becasual.

Charlie nodsonce.

“You played Apollo,” I say. “I was Achilles, and it was actually pretty damn good.” I smile at the memory and then grimace. “That is until our dads had to get the lawyersinvolved.”

They were afraid that students or teachers would publicly share the video and then the media would have a field day. Understandable since I was pretending to slay my classmates as Achilles. They thought that kind of negative press would hurtme.

Charlie doesn’t say athing.

So I continue, “You remember how Faye Jones had such a crush on you? She kept insisting that you playParis—”

“You don’t have to do this,” Charlie says, and he messes his already messyhair.

My palms sweat on my paperback. “Dowhat?”

“Bring up high school. The good ol’ times.” Charlie holds my gaze. “I realize there was a time when we werefriends.”

“Yeah?” I tuck my paperback in the seat. “I remember us being close until that summer bash on the yacht. You know Harvard?” I inch towards the question. The one that I’ve never edged near. My tongue feels thick in my mouth. “You never really told me why you didn’t want to go.” I stop myself for asecond.

I’mafraid.

And I don’t know what worries me. The actual answer or the aftermath of knowing it. My heart practically bangs against myribcage.

I find some fucking words. “Whatchanged?”

“Me,” he says without pause or extrathought.

My brows knit together and shock engulfs me. I’d always thought he’d blame me. “What do youmean?”

Charlie winces and sits up a bit more. Not slouching like usual. “You really want to talk about this? We’re on our way to deal with a manipulative motherfucker, who could be a narcissist or a sociopath, and if things don’t end well between you and me, we’ll be walking in with welts and bloodynoses.”

I’d rather take the chance to do more damage than never try to repair what we broke. The hardest part was opening thisdoor.

I’m not shutting itnow.

“I don’t plan on punching you,” I tell him, “so that’s not going tohappen.”

The corner of his mouth rises. “I never plan on hitting you either, but it still happens. You have a punchableface.”

“Thank you,” I saydryly.

His smile lifts more, but then morphs into a bitter cringe. “I wasn’t lying that day on the dock. When I said I couldn’t stand being around you, I meantit.”

A knife slowly sinks into my gut, but I listen. I wait. I don’t lash out. “Yeah?” I lick my lips, trying to form the right words. “So you bailed on Harvard because you didn’t want to be around me. That’sit?”