The Rom-Commers(99)

Charlie slid down to sit beside the bed.

“I lied to you today,” he went on. “And I’m going to keep lying to you. I’ll never tell you about any of this. I’m going to push you away for your own good while I’m still strong enough to do it. And you know why—and you know I’m right. If I don’t, you’ll take care of me just like you did with your dad—and I refuse to be another thing that stops you. You need somebody in your life who lifts you up—not drags you down. Trust me on this. I’ve been through it all before. It’s shitty, I know. But every option I have is shitty. At least this one sets you free.”

Charlie stopped talking, and put his head in his hand, but the camera kept filming.

When he looked up again, he peered straight into the lens.

“I’m so sorry, Emma,” he said then. “I would write a hundred happy endings for us if I could.”





Thirty-One

I SHOT DOWN to the ballroom so fast after that, I don’t completely remember how I got there. I mostly remember crying. Crying in the elevator—riding eight floors down with two kids who faced backward and stared at me the whole time. Crying while giving my name at the sign-in table. Crying as I slipped through the closed door at the back of the room.

My thoughts somersaulted unintelligibly around in my head—mainly denial-themed, if I recall. Charlie was sick? But he didn’t look sick. I’d seen plenty of sick people. He looked great! He looked healthy! This was unacceptable! He’d just had his five-year-iversary! Hadn’t he been through enough? This couldn’t be right! He was Charlie!

The ballroom was dark and the crowd was on its feet, cheering as Charlie took the stage. The sight of him captured my attention—and the crying trickled to a stop.

He was here. He was alive. He was just across the room.

Charlie, you astonishing dummy. How could you ever think that pushing me away was a good idea?

I wanted to run right over to him so bad—and wrap my arms around him and refuse to let go—but I held myself still and just focused on him in the spotlight. He walked up to a clear podium and squinted out at the audience.

Charlie, in a tux.

Someone had done his hair so it was all spiking up in the same direction. He was as close to picture perfect as I’d ever seen him. Until I noticed his green-and-white pocket square.

It wasn’t in the square shape he usually wore—but a fanlike triangle.

It wasn’t hemmed, but ripped at the edge.

And it wasn’t even a handkerchief, it was—oh, god.

I held my breath.

It was a piece of that green-and-white fabric from the tropical-print dress I’d almost drowned in. As if maybe, instead of throwing it away, Charlie—without even bothering to find scissors—had ripped a piece of it free with his bare hands, folded it, and declared it to be a handkerchief.

But the effect was oddly charming—almost like he had a pocket full of greenery.

Maybe he’d start a trend.

The crowd settled down and took their seats. I looked around for Logan and saw that he had, in fact, saved a seat for me. But T.J. was sitting on his other side.

Was T.J. wearing a backward baseball cap in the ballroom?

I think you can guess the answer to that. But in the interest of journalistic integrity, I’ll just go ahead and say yes. Yes, he was.

I decided to pass on the saved seat and just stand at the back of the room.

Up onstage, Charlie cleared his throat.

Just when we thought he’d start his speech, he pulled his cell phone out of his pants pocket. Then, flipping on the ringer at the side, he leaned into the microphone and his voice filled the room. “I’m expecting an important call,” he said, and the crowd melted into warm laughter.

I thought about Charlie saying, “You can get away with so much when people have already decided to like you.”

Had I already decided to like him?

I had.

“I’m serious,” he said to the crowd, setting the phone smack in the middle of the podium. “I’ve been waiting on this call all day. And if I miss it now, I’ll have to wait until morning. And I’m just not gonna do that.”

More warm laughter.

“It’s not going to ring, of course,” he said. “It hasn’t rung all day, and I’ll be up here—what?—twenty minutes? Thirty if it’s going well?” The crowd watched, still not sure if he was joking. “But if it does ring,” Charlie said, eyeing the audience like he meant business, “I’m answering.” He checked his watch. “They’re open late on Thursdays, so I’ve still got an hour.”

More laughter.

With that, Charlie settled in, repositioned the phone on the podium one last time, bent the mic closer, put his hands in his pants pockets, and then peered into the stage lights.

We all waited for whatever might be next.

He sure knew how to command a room.

“I had a whole different talk planned,” Charlie began at last. “But I lost interest in that talk. Tonight, the only thing I want to talk about is the very maligned, highly ridiculed, generally dismissed concept of love.”

The crowd felt his vibe and waited.

“Eight weeks ago, I was one of those douchey guys who thought love was made up by Hallmark to sell greeting cards. I thought it was an emotional Ponzi scheme. I thought it was a fiction we’d been tricked into believing by the animators at Disney. And I thought our only hope of escape was to unplug from the Love Matrix and see our true dystopic loveless hellscape for exactly what it was.”