Page 11 of Threads That Bind Us
Bleeding through the brain freeze is the realization that Gwen’s not annoyed or overwhelmed by my friends, nor does she seem to be affected by their relationship structure and the part I’ve played in it.
I don’t know what makes me do it. This is the wrong place in the conversation to change the subject, but something forces me to reach into my pocket and slide her book back across the bar. She looks down, but doesn’t reach for it. Despite the fact that we’re both looking at ostensibly one of the least safe for work novel covers I’ve ever seen, I can tell by the way she sighs that we both know what I’m about to ask.
“Ready to talk?”
Chapter 5
Gwen
Ishouldn’t want to tell him. He helped make tonight exactly what it was supposed to be. A distraction. Fun. A farewell. I can get a rideshare, set my alarm, fall asleep, and wake up tomorrow ready to accept Ben’s offer, because I had tonight.
But there’s something about the way Charlie gave me space without leaving me alone that makes me feel like I’m not about to drunkenly blubber at the annoyed bartender.
So, I tell him. About Ana’s diagnosis and surgery, about Isabelle’s constant absence, about insurance and cost estimates and financial assistance, about Ben and his wine-stained teeth and his offer. I can’t meet his eyes, so I keep my gaze on the cover of my book, letting everything flow out of me like an exorcism. And it feels kind of nice.
I don’t really have confidants. Not to say that I don’t have friends. Kenzie is the best, and she’s great with Ana, but it never feels fair to burden her with my life when I’ve been her protector ever since we met. My other coworkers are nice. Gray’s mom is sweet and caring. Though Ana is not technically my child, I do sometimes feel like a parent, and parenthood isincredibly isolating. Especially when the people who would usually be your confidants, namely other parents, are constantly throwing us judgemental glances. I hear the whispers.What happened to the mother? Can she really care for her? I bet she was just a young teen mom and doesn’t want us to know.
So instead, Ana is my best friend. And I do everything in my power to make sure she doesn’t get parentified like I did, which means I keep a lot to myself. I’m honest with Ana about as much as I can be, and then I make sure she never sees me sweat.
And that means tonight is probably the first time I’ve cracked in my adult life. I feel like I’m a runaway train on a downhill slope as I spill everything. It pours and pours, and yet somehow I don’t feel lighter. A burden isn’t lifted. I just feel like I’m digging myself further into a grave, and I don’t know if it's mine or Ana’s. How could I feel better? The cancer’s still there. I still will have to suck the dick of a man who probably hasn’t flossed in his adult life. Talking about it won’t change it, so why should it make it easier?
“So tomorrow I’m going to get up, swallow my pride, and call her father and agree to his terms,” I finish, slumping over as I rest my arms on the bar top and drop my chin onto my folded hands. “Every single part of this situation is ass, but there aren’t many other guaranteed options, and I need a guarantee when it comes to Ana.”
The beat of the music around me, the singing and yelling and movement, the cacophony of noise doesn’t obscure Charlie’s voice one bit.
“Gwen, look at me.”
His hand brushes over my arm, and warmth rushes through my body as I glance up, even though I’m a little afraid of what I’m going to see. I’m basically admitting to premeditatedadultery, so outright disgust wouldn’t be unreasonable. But Charlie doesn’t look disgusted, or like he pities me, or even confused. There’s something more resolute in his eyes, almost like pride? Or determination? But I’m pretty terrible at reading people, and also still a little buzzed.
“There are people in this world who say they will do anything to protect the people they love, and there are people who actually will. You are the latter.”
He moves some half empty drinks and soaked coasters so he can raise the bar flap and slide into the stool next to me. The bar is starting to settle, patrons laughing and singing as they spill into the streets, leaving room for us to stretch under the dim lighting. I turn my head so I’m facing him, my cheek pressed to my fingers.
“I know it’s the right decision to make. And I know even if it was the wrong one, I’d make it anyway.” I close my eyes on a sigh. “I just wish there was a less horrifying option.”
We’re both silent for a moment, and I appreciate it. Because Idowish there was a better option. But everything else I’ve thought of—changing my line of work to something more lucrative, stealing a really fancy piece of art, starting a heart-wrenching social media fundraiser, calling my mother—isn’t guaranteed to work. And I will not hope with Ana. I will be certain of her outcome.
“What if I could give you one?”
His voice is quiet but clear, maybe a little hopeful, and at first I’m not certain he’s talking to me. But when I turn, he holds my gaze with this strange, determined light in his eyes.
“What if you could give me onewhat?” I ask, hesitant. A little ball of anxiety and apprehension builds in my stomach.
“A less horrifying option. Or, at least I personally think it would be less horrifying.” He opens my book to the little T-chart in the back, and drifts his fingers overmy words. “You wouldn’t have to commit adultery. Not even close, actually.” His eyes lift to mine and then shift back to the book, ears red again.
“I’m open to anything at this point,” I say, trying to rein in the flicker of hope burning in my chest. He could suggest something I can’t do. Or something somehow worse than Ben, which may seem impossible, but I don’t doubt the limits of men.
“You could marry me.”
Technically, I heard the words he said. But the part of my brain that processes sound into cognitive action has apparently flatlined, because I cannot figure out what he means. Marry him? Like the institution of marriage? Like legal documentation and rings and uncomfortable garter tosses? That can’t be what he’s suggesting. We don’t know each other. Maybe marriage has a definition I’m unaware of. I got aneeds improvementin fourth grade reading comprehension, so that’s probably it.
I’m staring blankly at the side of his face, but he’s still looking at the book. He reaches over the bar, snags a pen from a checkbook, and creates a second T-chart on the page next to mine.
“Pros,” he starts, labeling the columns in neat, thin penmanship that should not be attractive because penmanship is not a thing modern society determines attractiveness on. “First, you wouldn’t need to be a mistress. Or—” he squints at my writing. “—deal with the scent of musty cheese? I didn’t know cheese could be musty.” He adds lines to his list, and I try to mentally catch up to the reality unfolding in front of me. “Of course, most importantly, Ana lives. But in the cons, this wouldn't be temporary. Not sure how much weight that holds for you, but probably a lot? Also, you’d have to deal with being a Costa, and that should probably be weighted pretty significantly. Want to add anything to the chart?”
He looks at me while he holds the pen out, but I’m still a little too stunned to grab it from him, or make a sound, or blink.
“What do you mean, marry you?” I finally choke out, feeling like I’m talking underwater.