Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max) (16 page)

I
am an absolute mess
. Between Charlie’s statement at the dinner table, Chelsea’s passive-aggressive dad cutting her down every chance he gets, and ever constant worry of that fucking mouse on her doorstep this morning, I can barely maintain my composure. It’s not lost on me that her family barely wished her a happy birthday. There’s no cake. No cards. No presents. Her mom made mention of the fact that she assumed she wouldn’t want a big deal made out of it because, you know, it was her thirtieth.

She whispered the word from behind her hand, a grimace on her dainty face, like she was saying the dirtiest word she could imagine.

Before I showed up at Chelsea’s and watched her discover the mouse, I had already planned on having her stay with me tonight. I have a slew of birthday surprises in store for her because birthday’s are about celebrating the person, not some number. God knows there are more than enough reasons to celebrate Chelsea. But after the mouse? There’s no way she’s going home until I figure out what the hell is going on. My instincts tell me she’s in danger, regardless of the fact that I don’t have enough evidence to open an actual investigation. Thankfully, I don’t have to go through department channels to get the job done. I know how to protect the woman I love and the moment I have enough evidence to bring the law down on the asshole who’s threatening her, I will.

I soothe my swirling thoughts by watching Charlie shovel food into his mouth like some sort of starving dog. He asks for seconds and then thirds and then tries a piece of each pie.

“Apple,” he says to Chelsea, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “I like apple the best.”

She smiles, offers him some more, and looks relieved when he finally turns her down. Her dad offers to set up the Xbox for him in the study and Charlie’s eyes light up. I try to help clear the table and offer to help with the dishes, but Chelsea’s mom shoos us all out to the living room, after dinner drinks in hand. We sit, Chelsea leaning into me, and talk.

I like her sisters. Dakota is her complete opposite. Loud and confident, choosing to walk her own path without remorse. Maya seems sweet, lost between the polarities of her sisters. And I think I really like Dominic. He doesn’t say much, but what he does say makes me laugh. All that being said, Mr. London has one more caustic thing to say to any of his daughters before I feel the need to shut the man up. He’s got three lovely girls, each successful in her own right. It’s time he step back and let them live the lives they’ve built.

I’m not sure how Chelsea would handle me being that forthright, though, so I keep focusing on keeping my cool just in case. We stay a few more hours and I feel her grow heavy on my shoulder, sleep calling her. Hell, it’s calling me, that’s for sure. I’m officially in a food coma. Chelsea was right, her mom can sure cook.

“I should probably be getting Charlie back to his mom,” I say, even though I’m afraid I’ll be returning him to an empty apartment. My statement ignites a flurry of energy as everyone stands, Chelsea’s mom rushing into the kitchen to grab a bag of Tupperware filled with leftovers. We exchange hugs and handshakes and finally,
finally,
I hear someone wish Chelsea a happy birthday. Well, two someones. Maya and Dakota. We find Charlie curled in a ball on the couch in the study, fast asleep. He seems even smaller now, with the wariness in his eyes hidden behind closed lids.

I consider carrying him but wonder if that would be too personal. I wake him instead and lead him out to the car where I’m half certain he’ll fall right back to sleep the moment we pull out onto the street. We spend the ride to his apartment in silence, Chelsea’s hand on my thigh, my hand on top of hers. Despite the high emotions of the day, I’m content. The boy in the back seat and the woman beside me bringing me more peace than I ever thought I’d find in my life.

I meant what I said at her family’s table. I am thankful for the things that made me who I am so that when these two people came looking for me, I was ready. I know I will do everything in my power to protect them. To make them happy. To prove to them that they are worthy of love. I will serve them by keeping them safe. By propping them up. By supporting them and cheering them on. It’s my purpose and knowing it makes me feel complete.

We pull up to Charlie’s apartment and I turn to wake him. “Hey, buddy. We’re here,” I say as I turn off the car. He sits up, groggy and confused, and starts fumbling with his seatbelt. I turn to Chelsea. “I’m going to walk him in, I think. Come with me?” I won’t leave her alone. The chances are slim that the guy who left the mouse on her doorstep is adept enough at being crazy to have followed us, but I’m not taking any chances with her safety.

She nods and reaches for her seatbelt and we walk into Charlie’s building, me between them, one arm around her waist, the other around his shoulders. The building is decrepit. Dirty. Crumbling down around the tenants. I hate leaving Charlie here. I feel his shoulders slump as we draw closer to his front door. At first I think it’s just the weight of coming home, but then I see something taped to the door.

“She ain’t here,” he says, his voice thick.

I pull the note from the door and stare down at a big duffle bag, half full, leaning against the wall. I look at Charlie, my instincts going absolutely crazy. Something is way the fuck wrong. Sensing my tension, Chelsea moves in closer to me as I open the note. I can barely read the chicken scratch on the paper, partly the fault of the near unintelligible handwriting and broken spelling, but mostly because of the rage boiling beneath the surface. Red. Hot. Blinding.

I
turn
the note over and hand it to Chelsea, who reads it with ever-widening eyes. I jiggle the handle. It’s locked, of course, and I know without a doubt that Charlie’s mom is never coming back. I look down at him, his wide eyes trained on me. I slam my fist into the door and both Chelsea and Charlie jump.

“Sorry,” I say, throat raw. What am I supposed to do? Show this boy the note from his mother that says she doesn’t want him? The note she didn’t even write to him? No I love you’s. No apologies. No admission of her decision having anything to do with making his life better. Just three little lines and a disappearance.

“She’s gone, isn’t she?” Charlie nudges the duffle bag with his foot. “Always said she’d do it.” His nostrils flare, but he doesn’t cry.

I swoop up the bag and put my hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “Come on,” I say, turning him away from the door. “Let’s go home.”

T
he car ride
home is quiet. Max turns on the radio to fill the void, but it seems inappropriate somehow. The happy pop songs filling the car while the boy in the backseat just got abandoned by his mother. I am hollowed out. Gutted. I can’t even begin to imagine how Charlie must feel. I’m terrified by all the unanswered questions about what happens next. What’s going to happen to him? Where’s he going to go? How’s he going to come out of this with his sanity intact? I mean, what kind of woman would walk away from her own child?

We pull into Max’s driveway and silently slide out of the car and walk up to his front door. To any passersby, we’d look like a family arriving home, hands laden with leftovers, tired from the day. Instead, Charlie and I are refuges, brought together by Max and his wonderful ability to take care of those in need. I can’t go home and Charlie no longer has a home and thank God for Max Santoro.

He swings open the front door and flips on the lights, revealing a living room decorated for my birthday. Balloons and streamers hang from the ceiling. Glitter and confetti litter just about every surface, and sitting on his dinner table is a whole pile of presents wrapped in pink zebra-striped paper, decorated in bows. There’s a cake. And flowers. And a card, propped against the vase. Reagan comes barreling around the corner, her tail wagging maniacally, tongue lolling out the side of the mouth. She dissolves in front of Max, and then heads straight to Charlie, practically knocking the boy over in her excitement.

Max turns to me sheepishly. “Happy birthday, sweet girl.” He smiles, though it’s sad. Apologetic and worried.

Charlie crouches down to hug the wiggling Reagan. “What’s going to happen to me now?” he asks.

“Right now you’re going to go into the guest room and unpack. There’s a dresser in there for you to put your things in. Consider the room yours. Put things where you want them. After you’re settled, come on downstairs and we’ll wish this woman a happy birthday.”

“But after that?” Charlie’s face is pinched. “What about after that?”

Max drops a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “You’ve got me in your corner, little man. You can trust me to make sure that it’s all going to be okay.”

Charlie takes a long breath, his eyes trained on Max. He nods once, grabs the duffle bag that is way too small to hold much of anything and heads upstairs, following Max’s directions to the guest room.

“Maybe it’s better to skip the whole birthday party thing,” I say. “Sweet as it is. I don’t think I’ve had a celebration this big in my whole life.” I lean into Max, needing to be close to him.

“No way.” Max wraps an arm around me, sensing my need for security. “You deserve celebrating and he needs the distraction. I just need to take a few of those presents off the table so we can open them later. In private.”

He lets me go and grabs three presents off the table and puts them in a cabinet in the kitchen.

“Seriously though,” I say when he comes back. “What are you going to do?”

Max leans on the wall. Arms crossed across his chest. “I’m going to give her the weekend in case she changes her mind.”

“Changes her mind?” I’m appalled. “Is that even possible? And if it is, how can he just go back to someone who’s willing to walk out on him like that?”

“She’s his mom.” Max shrugs. “But you better believe that if she comes back for him, I’ll do everything in my power to handle it. For now, he’ll stay here.”

“And later?”

“I don’t know. He won’t go into the system, that’s for sure. I won’t let that happen to him.”

There’s a ferocity in his voice. Determination. Frustration. Something darker that scares me a little. His face is pinched and I can see the tension thrumming through his body. He hides it as Charlie comes down, bringing out a huge smile and kind eyes.

“So, how’s it look up there?”

“That’s a real big bed.” Charlie almost looks excited and giggles a little as Reagan goes crazy in front of him.

“Yep. And it’s yours for as long as you need it. How about clothes and stuff? You all set?”

Charlie scowls and shakes his head. “Only thing in the bag is my baby blanket, that jacket you bought me, and a couple shirts.”

Max takes a minute to digest that information. “Okay, then. A shopping trip it is.” He waggles his eyebrows at me. “But first. Presents.” He points at an overstuffed armchair in the corner. “Sit, sweet girl. Right there in best seat in the house.”

“We really don’t have to make a big deal about this.” I’m kind of frozen by the attention. I mean, even if it weren’t for all the craziness of today, I wouldn’t know how to handle all this, but combine it with dead mice on my doorstep, a slightly tense family get together, and abandoned children, and all of this is starting to feel a little absurd.

“Nonsense, right Charlie? Did you even know it was her birthday?”

Charlie frowns. “Nope.”

“And shouldn’t everyone feel special on their birthday?”

“Yep.”

“So why don’t you help her get her butt in that chair and pick out a present.”

Somehow, despite the gravity of the day, Max gets us all laughing and smiling. I’m surrounded in wrapping paper and boxes, gifts that prove just how much he pays attention to me. A purse I’ve been eyeing but never would have bought myself, a pair of earrings and matching necklace that are mesmerizingly beautiful, and a massive bag of my favorite jelly beans.

Charlie’s eyes light up. “I love jelly beans.”

“Me too,” I say, tearing into the bag. “Have you ever had this kind?”

“I don’t think so. They good?”

“You have no idea.” I pour out a handful for him and show him the back of the bag. “They’ve got a list of flavors back here. You can eat them one at a time, or you can mix and match to create your own flavors.”

Max lights the candles on my cake and the boys sing me happy birthday. I’m not sure why, but it brings tears to my eyes. Is it the combination of Max’s deep baritone and Charlie’s sweet, off-key exuberance? Is it the fact that I haven’t blown out candles since I was too little to remember? Is it just the tension and emotion of the day coming through in the worst possible way? I make a wish for Charlie. Happiness and health and all the things he needs to grow into the best possible version of himself.

Somehow, despite being full to bursting and slightly sick from an influx of jellybeans, we manage to eat our cake.

“Come on, then,” says Max as we groan over our poor, too-f bellies. “Let’s head out and get this boy set up.” We pile back in car and Max head to Target. This time, the pop music feels more appropriate. Whatever dark cloud that had settled over us has dissipated, obliterated by laughter, good company, and the constant and consistent effort of Max to keep things light and easy.

We descend on Target like locusts, buzzing through department after department, filling our cart overfull with anything and everything Charlie could ever need. Clothes. Shoes. Underwear. Socks. A toothbrush and his very own towel. Books. Some toys. The entire Harry Potter series on Blu-ray. And as if that isn’t enough, Max plops a brand new Xbox One in there, along with a slew of games that seem to interest both boy and men equally.

Charlie is overjoyed. I’d guess he’s never seen a shopping trip quite like this. His exuberance makes me smile. But Max’s exuberance? The fact that he’s got an entire wardrobe’s worth of clothes in the cart rather than just enough to get through the weekend? It worries me. Is he just caught up in the day? Trying to make Charlie feel better? Is this Max’s need to protect and provide coming through, or is this a sign that he’s thinking more long term about Charlie?

Not that that’s a bad thing. Clearly, Max is good for Charlie. But if there’s a chance that the boy’s mother might be coming back into the picture, is it safe for Max to be opening his heart like this? Is he setting himself up for the worst kind of disappointment? And even if she doesn’t come back, can Max really keep Charlie out of the system? I mean, I don’t have the foggiest idea how any of this works, but eventually, Max is going to have to report this to someone. I mean, the boy has to go to school. Maybe he has family out there who will be looking for him. I’m afraid Max is setting himself for one hell of a painful let down.

I don’t say anything though. Not now. Not yet. Not in front of Charlie. Not when there’s so much still up in the air. And who knows? Maybe, it’ll all work out in the end. For now, Charlie is smiling, and that’s something. And I’m falling ever more in love with the man who would take in a boy and spend a fortune on his happiness, if even only for a weekend.

We get back to Max’s and carry bag after bag of stuff into the house. Charlie bounds up the stairs, eager to get all his stuff unpacked and organized, Reagan hot on his heels. I collapse onto the couch and grab my bag of jellybeans, not at all hungry, but in need of something to do with my hands.

“Thanks for being so cool about this,” says Max, that furrowed line between his brows deepening. “This was supposed to be your day and everything.”

I’m a little shocked that he would even think an apology is necessary. “Of course. I mean, this is a pretty big deal. And honestly, I’m pretty impressed with the way you’re handling it. Someone else might have marched Charlie right to the police station and let someone else deal with it. Hell, imagine if you hadn’t walked him into the building.”

Max closes his eyes and shakes his head. “I know. I haven’t been able to get that thought out of my head.”

Charlie’s gone for longer than we expect and after a good half hour, we head upstairs and find him curled up in a tight little ball on the bed. Clothes still on. Bed still made. Baby blanket from his mom clutched in his hands. All the clothes and toys and books are unopened and still in the bags on the floor. His face looks puffy, his eyes red, like maybe he’d been crying up here. Alone. Probably scared out of his mind. Max sighs and gently lifts him up while I pull down the covers. We tuck the boy into bed and he whimpers as we smooth the covers into place, his sweet face tightening with worry.

We turn off the light, but leave the door open just in case he gets scared at night, and head into Max’s room. We dress for bed and curl up into each other. His body pressed against mine is the most welcome thing ever. I haven’t had time to process the mouse at my doorstep. There’s just been too much today for that to matter in the least. But now that the lights are off and sleep is supposed to come and rescue me from the day, it’s all I can think about. Why was it there and what does it mean and how will I ever feel safe in my home again?