That night you had slept in your own bed, back at your apartment.
Drunk and exhausted, you had asked Charlie to drive you home once everyone had started parting their own ways after dinner. The look on Charlie's face when you had asked was louder then any words, but again, he remained silent.
It wasn't often that the two of you slept in separate beds these days. It had become a pattern — you'd stay at his home, looking after Henry until he would come home from work, only to eventually carry you to bed after a home cooked dinner and movie.
You hadn't realized how lonely your life had been before you met Charlie. You had lived alone, slept alone, worked alone, ate alone, existed alone.
Yet now, you felt more emotionally alone then ever. You felt one in this feeling, this grey cloud of worries hanging over your shoulders. You couldn't stop beating yourself up over Thanksgiving dinner.
A million thoughts ran through your mind as you tossed and turned in the dark of your room, blankets swallowing you.
Had you made too much of a scene? Were you the one in the wrong here? Why hadn't Charlie been more open with you? Why was he so ashamed to tell his family about his relationship with you?
It was torture.
Love was agony. You found yourself questioning every little thing that had happened that night – every reaction, action, words spoken. You were being torn in two by this agonizing feeling.
You choked back tears as you thrashed in your bed, tossing the blankets off of you. Your bare feet met the ground as you got out of bed, pattering through your dark apartment, turning lights on as you passed rooms.
You stepped into your small bathroom, flicking on the light. The fan hummed to life as light lit the room. You stepped in front of the sink, looking up at your mirrored reflection.
Your heart sank a little when you zeroed in on the large and oversized shirt you had been wearing, the fabric starch white, collar stretched from wear. The hem hung just above your knees, fabric pooling on your small frame. Even the scent on the shirt was all too familiar.
It was Charlie's shirt.
"Fuck." You hissed under your breath, letting your eyes flutter close for mere moments.
You couldn't bottle this feeling anymore. You needed communication, to understand what went wrong earlier that day. The lingering silence only made everything worse.
Wattling out of the bathroom, you make way back to your bedroom, where your phone sat on your night stand, charging. Quickly unplugging it, you open it, dialling Charlie's number.
You weren't even sure if he'd be up at this hour, considering it was well past midnight. You figured you'd still try though. It was likely he was up at this hour as well, mind reeling with a million thoughts, just like yours had been. The two of you were alike in that way.
You bring the small device to your ear, sinking into the mattress of your bed as you sit. You count the rings; once, twice, three times.
"Sweetheart?" Charlie answered the phone finally, voice all groggy and fumbled in his chest.
You nervously bit the inside of your cheek. "Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." You apologize quickly.
Charlie quickly spoke. "No, no, it's okay, I haven't been able to sleep well anyway. Is everything okay? It's very late at night." He asks.
YOU ARE READING
PUT ME IN A MOVIE - Charlie Barber.
Fanfiction" Lights, camera, action....he didn't know he'd have this much fun..." Recovering from his divorce, Charlie had fallen into bad habits - smoking again, drinking again, and not prioritizing his time with his son, Henry. Charlie was desperate for a...
