𝐇𝐎𝐏𝐄𝐋𝐄𝐒𝐒 ✓

NINETEEN

-

"Oh, thank you. Thank you so much. Okay. Yes, I will. Thanks again."

With tears of joy in my eyes, I hang up the phone. My mother is fine, she woke up, and my uncle and cousins are with her. The doctors say in about a week, she should be able to fly home. Relief is the only thing I feel right now, and my vision gets blurry, fading out the word document on my laptop screen.  The entire day up until now, I spent fidgety and restlessly running around the house, trying to put my focus on the article to distract me. 

And, of course, Sebastian avoided me again. The whole day, while I spent my hours balancing myself on the uncomfortable barstool by the kitchen island, he sat on the couch, back slouched and fingers frantically typing. Around noon, he made coffee for himself, and eventually made me a mug, too. I appreciated that, but as he set the cup down by my laptop, he didn't even look at me. He simply put down the mug and left. 

I assume he does this because he is embarrassed about what happened. The comforting, the sleeping in the same bed, the little... issue he had in the morning. I wipe my forehead with the back of my hand and look out the kitchen window. Outside, the sun is beaming down on the lake. The weather is amazing. And I am stuck in here, trying to concentrate on my work. 

At least my mum's fine. I catch myself wondering whether my dad knows about this. And if he does, did he even bother to care? Wouldn't surprise me if he did not. He didn't even call you, Charlie.

"My mother is fine," I end up saying, my face still directed at the glowing screen. Sebastian hums, indicating that he heard me. I turn around. He could at least pretend to be happy for me. He is distant again, I can't see his face. Instead, I see the back of his head peeking over the edge of the sofa's backrest. I inhale deeply and get out of my uncomfortable seat. You comforted me, Stan, and now this? I thought we were over this acting distant thing.

"I'm really relieved," I add into the weird silence. I've reached the couch, put my hands on the backrest, and gaze at his screen. From what I can tell, he's just reached the two-page mark. Good for him.

"I can imagine that," he finally says, but he still doesn't look at me. His fingers are hovering over the keyboard as if he's trying to find words to type. I clench my jaw. His tone was so absent, so cold. I wipe my face to get rid of the remaining tears. 

"That's all you're gonna say to that? After I slept in your arms last night?"

Surprised by my raised voice, he turns to me, cool ocean eyes directly piercing through me. I feel a shiver traveling down my spine by the sheer intensity of this stare. His brows are pinched together, his mouth is a thin line between the slight stubble he's grown over the past days. 

"Charlotte."

It's all he says, and he says it like he is exhausted. Like he is pissed off by me. A steady, emotionless version of my name that has left his mouth. And yet, he said it in a way that gives me goosebumps on my arms. I gulp and finally break the eye contact. I don't do good in confrontations, and just the thought of this situation turning into a fight drives tears into my eyes again. No more tears of joy for you today, Ma'am.

"I don't care if you're embarrassed by what happened this morning or whatever, I just wanted at least some compassion from the one person I have to spend two weeks with."

I spit the words out from behind clenched teeth. My vision is blurry again and I hate myself for being so emotional. But the relief from the news about mum and this entire situation doesn't particularly make a good combination. I sniff and see that he shuts the laptop vigorously, sets it aside, and gets up to face me. Now only the couch is between us like a divider. Like something has to keep us apart.

"Charlotte," he begins again, but he stops, his brow still furrowed, his nostrils flared in rising anger. But in the kick of adrenaline, I don't give him time to answer.

"This is not even about me, it's about my mother. You hate me so much you can't even be happy for my mother?"

He runs one palm over his face and steps aside. Slow steps bring him further away from me while I blink the tears away. Some disappear, some roll down my cheeks in utter despair. This is escalating, Charlie, do something. 

I turn and follow his path. With one determined grab, I catch his wrist and pull him back, keep him from walking away. 

"Don't try to escape this now, you could say something instead," I furiously let out, my breath shaking from how tense my entire body is. He glares down at my hand wrapped around his wrist, and then yanks it away. I sniff again. Then, a realization hits me that I would've never admitted to myself if we hadn't been trapped here for almost a week now. This is going to kill me.

I don't want that man to hate me. I really, really, don't.

"Sebastian, I swear to God, I know you hate me with everything you are, but you can't just stand there silently!" I yell, and he shakes his head in disappointment before taking a deep breath. Is he about to snap?

He is.

"Charlotte," he groans desperately, his voice growing louder with every word he says, "ever since I joined this magazine, I always felt pressured by my dead father to be better than you, the oh-so-great Ms. Emmons everyone adored. I was impressed by your talent, too, but I could've never let myself show that in any way. I had to push through and become better, you get it?"

"Seb, I don't under—" I try to interrupt him, but he doesn't let me. He's furious now. The next sentence is screamed at me so loud that if we had neighbors, they would call the cops on us. 

"Don't you get it, Charlotte? I never hated you, not a single second!"

I flinch a tiny bit at the sudden volume that echoes through the cabin before I process what he's just said. I freeze in my spot. He desperately wipes his face again and looks at me directly, his chest heavily rising and falling.

"Did you ever really hate me though?"

His voice is softer now, quieter, raspy from a dry throat he's gotten from yelling like this. I realize that I've been holding my breath the entirety of his little monologue. I gulp, trying to find words to say. Though I'm still not sure if I actually got what he said correctly. 

He glares at me expectantly. The answer to his question is more complicated to think of than I would've thought. My mind is working hard on evaluating the past year that I've worked alongside him. Golden Boy, the sarcastic, handsome, mean, and cocky guy I had to share my office with. And now this cabin. 

My brain shuts down, tears drop off my chin onto my tee, and I shake my head absent-mindedly. This is too much for me, and I end up doing something I'm not proud of. I rush past him and then lock myself up in the bedroom as the first terrible sob shakes my body.