Chapter Eighteen - Danny
I haven’t had anyone on my boat in years. Having Charlotte here seems so right, so fitting. She looks beautiful—stunning, really. She’s wrapped in a peacoat and scarf, and the water and moonlight on her face keep taking my breath away. Her hair is falling around her face and then blowing in the wind, and it looks soft like it’s begging me to touch it, like all of her is.
“Are you warm enough?” I ask, glancing over at her. I’m taking the boat out to one of my favorite spots where we can anchor and have an amazing view of the stars and the bridge.
“The air feels great,” Charlotte says, beaming at me. She looks so natural out here on the water, and I can’t stop looking at her.
“It does,” I agree. It’s an ideal night for this: not too cold, not too windy, no rain or snow in the air.
“Thanks for this,” Charlotte says. “I haven’t been out on the bay in a long time, and never on a private boat.”
“Never?” I ask, surprised. It’s not uncommon for people around here to own their own boats. I know Hank never has, but I would have assumed Charlotte had friends who did.
“Mom always said small boats were more likely to sink. I wasn’t allowed to as a kid, and by the time I was a teenager, people had stopped inviting me,” Charlotte says. I frown.
“This town and your mom never were a good fit,” I say, shaking my head as a drop anchor and walk over to sit by Charlotte.
“She’s much happier down south,” Charlotte says. She smiles at me and pulls out the wine we’ve had chilling.
“That’s good,” I say, reaching into my pocket for the corkscrew. It’s a small bottle of wine, enough to split and feel like tonight is an occasion without it being enough to get either of us drunk. I try not to drink heavily at all these days, finding it’s just not worth it.
“Sorry to bring it up. I know you two know never got along,” Charlotte says.
“She was never my biggest fan,” I admit, pouring the wine. I know what Hank’s wife thought of me, and I know there was a time when I completely deserved it. “But I brought a lot of that on myself.”
“It seems like a long time ago now,” Charlotte says, sipping her wine.
“It was,” I agree.
“You’ve really changed so much since then,” Charlotte says, with a rise in her voice almost like it’s a question.
“I’d like to think I have,” I say, thinking of the angry young man I’d been back then, afraid I’m feeling him rise back up inside of me as I do.
“Can I ask you about it?” Charlotte asks, eyes fixed on me.
“About what?” I ask.
“You. About how you changed so much . . . what happened,” Charlotte says. I take a long sip of my wine before I answer, figuring out how to best phrase everything.
“My dad was a drunk,” I tell her. “He used to fight with me all the time. My house was full of shouting every day, all day while I grew up. He’d drink more and more, and shout at me more and more, and as I got older, I started shouting back and I started drinking myself. I figured, at the time, that was all there was. That I’d get some dead-end job and be poor and angry forever. So I dropped out of high school and started working at the pizza shop where I met your dad,” I say. I don’t like to tell this story, but I feel like Charlotte deserves to hear it.
“I’m sorry,” Charlotte says, frowning and grabbing my hand.
“I was in a low place, but for some reason, your dad wanted to be my friend. He stayed my friend even though I was like that for years: fights and drinking and women. Hank helped me, though, kept me from getting fired more than once, and helped me get my GED. Then . . . ” I stop and take another sip, deciding how to best frame what I want to say next, taking Charlotte’s hand as I do.
“So what happened?” Charlotte asks.
“Then my dad died. He wasn’t even fifty yet, and he died. And all I could think was that I didn’t want to be like him. I didn’t want that to be me. So I did what your dad had been saying for years, and I got my life together. Joined the Navy, learned to cook—really cook—and I’ve spent every day trying to be better than that. To be a better man than that,” I say. Charlotte scoots in closer to me.
“Well, you’re doing that, you know. Every day,” she tells me.
“I have to,” I say, “because the thought of not doing it fucking terrifies me.”
“That makes a lot of sense,” Charlotte says, squeezing my hand. “And you are. I remember you from back then, and I think of you now, the man I’ve gotten to know these past few weeks, and it’s amazing to me what you’ve accomplished.”
Her face is inches from mine, and she’s looking at me with so much emotion that I reach out and put a hand on her face.
“That means a lot,” I say, and mean it.
“Thank you for telling me, Danny,” she says, sliding her legs even closer to mine. I feel her skin against mine, see the way the water bounces off her hair, and I lean down to kiss her again, unable to stop myself. She kisses me back, leaning all the way into me, so close I can feel her heart racing. We’re both breathing heavy when we pull back, and her skin is flushed in a way I can’t look away from.
“I’m,” I start, then pause, sliding my hand to her neck to feel her pulse before I go on. “I’m glad you came home.”
“I’m really glad to be here,” she says breathlessly, leaning in and kissing me again, like she wants more. Like she’s feeling this all just as strongly as I am.
“Charlotte—will you come to the Naval Ball with me, as my date?” I ask when we pull back again, unable to keep the question in. I can’t think of anyone I’d rather spend that evening, or any other, with. She smiles at me again, her face still so close I can feel her eyelashes flutter.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, I’d really like that.”
“I’d like it, too,” I say, pulling her in by her neck to kiss her again. I don’t know what changed her mind about just being friends, about me, but I’m glad it happened. I’m falling for her, hard and fast, in a way I never have before, for anyone.
That angry young man I once was falls away the more I kiss Charlotte, like every touch of her lips and brush of her fingertips is pushing him away, so distant it feels like an entirely different life from being here with her tonight.