Pictures of You releases July 28! Click here for more info and to download the FREE prequel, Impossible Things!
“Hold the elevator!”
The mechanical doors come dangerously close to my outstretched hand but spring apart as a man in black shoulders between them. The scent of leather wafts off his knee-length coat. I glance over, but his raised hood conceals most of his face, save for the swath of onyx hair poking out from beneath.
My insides twist as we take the ride in silence. Having lost control in my session weighs on my shoulders. I don’t enjoy showing the pain that lives inside me. When you’ve been subtly taught that your opinion doesn’t matter, it makes it difficult to give even when it’s asked for. Besides, my feelings aren’t really that important. There are so many people in this world who have had it worse than me. Who am I to complain?
The whispered sound of my name floating from beside me pulls me from my reverie. I turn to look, but the guy in black just stares ahead.
“Do I know you?” I ask.
It takes a beat for him to respond. “Excuse me?”
“You said my name.”
Creases form on his forehead. “No I didn’t.”
I lift a brow, pursing my lips. “Yeah, you did. You said Charlotte… something.”
From beneath his hood, his dark eyes sparkle. “‘Charlotte, Sometimes’.”
I wait for the punchline, but he just grins at me like I’m crazy. I’m not crazy.
He reaches his fingertips into the hood and extracts an ear bud. “I take it you’re not a fan of The Cure,” he says, holding it up. The haunting voice cries from the tiny speaker, my name wafting between us like smoke.
Heat floods my cheeks. “Oh.”
“No worries,” he says, reaching back inside his hood.
My stomach hardens. Trapped in an elevator, flushed with embarrassment, I stuff it all down and switch to an emotion I find more comfortable: anger. “I didn’t apologize,” I snap.
He turns toward me again, those glittering eyes dancing beneath lowered lids. “I’ve seen you before. You go to the therapist across from mine.”
“Great powers of deduction, Sherlock. There are only two offices up there,” I grumble as the elevator comes to a stop.
“Drugs?” he asks.
His absurd question steals my gaze as the doors slide open. “What?”
“It’s just . . . you look like a sorority girl. Maybe you partied a little too hard at the Omega mixer and landed yourself in rehab?”
My eyes widen. The nerve of this guy. “Wow! Thank you for that wildly insulting observation. I’d think a guy who looks like he just woke up in a cave would be a little less judgmental,” I say, stomping off the elevator.
He catches up to me in one step. “I didn’t mean it the way it came out.”
“Whatever.”
“Wait.” He reaches to stop me, but as I feel his hand brush my shoulder, I flinch away as if he burnt my flesh. He raises his palms to show he means no harm. “I’m gonna relive this conversation over and over in my head until I go insane unless I make this right. Can I buy you a cup of coffee or something?”
“I don’t think that’s necessary.”
“Trust me. It’s very necessary. I’m in therapy for a reason.”
A shy grin curls at the corners of his mouth ever so slightly, and my chest burns at the sight. He’s unusually adorable. Someone you’d pass on the street and never register. But front and center, eyeing me with that honest gaze, I can’t seem to look away. There’s no cocky swagger. No arrogant motives. Just a self-effacing smile that draws me in like a moth to a flame. A wholesome sweetness swathed in black.
Looking down at my watch, I weigh my options. Conversations with Dr. Wane slide into my head like DMs. Establishing new relationships doesn’t impede on the one you had with Ryan. You’re allowed to live your life.
On the other hand, my mom is likely waiting by the window for my arrival. She’ll pounce on me the second I enter the door to see if I’m magically cured. I can’t deal with that right now. Not while my heart still feels so fragile from the session.
Coffee with a cute guy, or an afternoon with my mom on my ass? No brainer. “Fine,” I concede.
***
“Coffee, black.”
The waitress smiles with a curt nod, then turns her attention to me, resting her hands on her swollen belly. The hair on the back of my neck stands up straight. Ryan’s face slides across my memory; the curtain of dirty blond hair forever draping over his forehead, his blue eyes crisp and fierce.
“Um . . .,” I start, tucking my hair behind my ear. “A large cap, extra whip, and a shot of cinnamon syrup.”
“You got it,” she says before waddling away.
A deep voice resonates. “Sweet tooth, huh?”
“Whatever,” I say with a sarcastic grin. “You enjoy your hot bean water. I’ll use cream and sugar in my coffee because I love myself.”
A moment of silence passes between us. It’s hard to remember the last time I sat in a coffee shop with another person. The normalcy of it feels alien.
“So how long have you been seeing the good doctor?”
“Dr. Wane? Um . . .” My gaze rolls to the ceiling before coming back down. “A month, maybe? I dunno. I’m not sure I even need it, but my mom insists, so . . .”
He nods. “Parents. I get it. Always trying to fix us.”
A small laugh blows from my nostrils. “They should know, some things just can’t be fixed.”
“Amen to that,” he replies, his dark brows lifting. The black hair previously concealed under his hood stands in all directions, wild and untamed. It’s as if he slept on it wet, then woken with the worst bed head of his life, yet something about it suits him. It’s living chaos in a world that demands order.
The waitress arrives with our drinks and sets them on the table, interrupting our easy flow of conversation. “Do you want to order food?” she asks.
“I’m fine,” I reply, setting a questioning gaze across the table.
“Nothing, thanks.”
“Just flag me down if you change your mind,” she says before turning on her heel.
“So, tell me about you, Charlotte.”
The request hits me in the chest like two tons of dread. I feel like that should be an easy one to answer, yet making friends rarely begins with I just got out of a mental institution because I can’t get over my boyfriend’s death. Then again, the scary truth is, even with all the therapy and soul-searching and quiet contemplation, I still can’t quite decide if it’s his death or his life that bothered me more.
“Well . . .” I pull a deep breath into my lungs and let it dribble out while I form an appropriate response. “There isn’t much to say, I guess. I recently graduated from high school. Guess I’m still thinking about what I want to do with the rest of my life.”
He hooks his finger through the handle on his mug and lifts it from the saucer ever so slightly. “What are you interested in?”
A small smile tugs at my lips. “Nothing.”
“There must be something you like. Have you started looking at colleges yet?”
“I was supposed to start in the fall, but . . .” I shrug, pushing away the memory of the manic look in Ryan’s eyes when I told him I would be attending Sarah Lawrence instead of Michigan State as we had planned.
My new friend takes a small sip of his coffee and presses his lips together as he swallows. “Are you purposely being vague, or am I crossing some sort of imaginary line here?”
I sit like a stone wondering how to answer the bald-faced question, but I’m saved by the bell, or in this case, the phone. I rifle through my purse and pull it out as the screen lights up again, the word Home flashing across it. “Hello?”
My mother’s voice comes through the line. “Oh thank goodness. Did your session run over?”
I side-eye the man across from me as I cower into the corner to respond. “No. I met a friend for coffee.”
After a two-second pause, she finally asks, “What friend?”
Rocks tumble in my gut. It’s no secret that I haven’t spoken to a single person from my former life since I got back. She’s a pain, but she’s not an idiot.
My lips part to give her an answer when I realize too late that I was so busy feeling sorry for myself that I failed to ask for his name. My gaze travels across the table a second time. He mouths the single syllable as if reading my mind.
“Khyle,” I blurt, sucking in a breath of relief.
“Khyle who? Where’s he from? I never met any Khyle.”
My patience dangles by a thread. I roll my eyes. “Mom, he’s just a guy I know from school, okay? We ran into each other and decided to grab a coffee. That’s it. I’m not gonna off myself in the middle of The Grind, okay?”
“I don’t like your tone,” she scolds.
Guilt rises up my throat. I can’t blame her for being on edge. It’s been a strange year for all of us. I just wish she’d let me breathe a little. Softening my voice, I start over. “I’m sorry. I will be home as soon as I’m finished, all right?”
“Come straight home. Don’t stop anywhere else.”
God grant me the serenity . . . “I won’t.”
I disconnect the call and throw the phone back into my purse. “Sorry about that,” I mumble, feeling the blush rise up my cheeks. “My mom worries.”
“You too, huh?”
I cock my head. “Me too, what?”
“Suicidal ideation? A fascination with death.”
The statement catches me off guard. “Who in their right mind would be fascinated with such a morbid topic?”
“It’s not morbid; it’s wild. We spend all these years on Earth trying to live our best lives, then just like that” — he blows on his palm — “dust.”
I swallow hard, the pieces of my exterior beginning to crack under the weight of his deep stare. “For your information, I’m not suicidal. My boyfriend killed himself.”
He sucks a breath through his teeth, his chest rising. “Oh.”
“Yeah . . . so . . .”
Another moment of shared silence beats between us. I brace myself for the classic pity-filled responses, but he just takes another sip of his coffee and sits up straighter. The corners of my mouth turn down. I wrap my hands around my mug, the heat serving as a reminder that I’m still alive.
“We were together for four years. You asked about me, but the truth is, I don’t know who I am. For so long I was just Ryan Shaye’s girlfriend. Eventually, Charlotte Hargrove ceased to exist.”
“Everyone reads the label instead of looking inside the box.” His back curves as he leans on his elbows, his long fingers entwining with the handle on his mug. “It was in the news, ya know. The Shaye case?” he admits, lowering both his voice and his gaze as if talking to his coffee instead of me. “I didn’t realize that was you.”
A chill slithers up my spine. Of course the tragic death of Creek Falls’ golden boy would make big headlines, but the details would have been swept under the carpet to protect the Shaye legacy. Heaven forbid the police chief’s son be dragged through the mud. “I really don’t need the pity of strangers, okay?”
His dark gaze snaps to mine, deep and fierce, sparkling in the overhead light. “I don’t pity you. I envy him.”
My lips part as I stare in wide-eyed shock.
“He had the courage to control his own destiny. What I wouldn’t give to have that kind of strength.”
“You’re a friggin’ psycho.” The words tumble from my mouth as I grab my bag and slide from the booth. Emotion rises up my chest and stings my eyes. My quiet voice lifts loud, echoing through the quiet cafe. “It wasn’t courageous; it was cowardly. Unforgivable.”
Khyle reaches out and takes my hand. “You don’t understand.”
“No, you don’t,” I spit through gritted teeth, wrenching my hand from his grasp. “I understand perfectly. Because I was there. I watched it happen.”