The Mustang purred loudly down the empty southern road, the afternoon sun casting a warm hue over everything around us — especially Charlie, he kept his hands lightly on the wheel, one elbow casually resting on the door, his sleeve rolled up past his forearm. The way the sun caught the mere edges of his curled hair, messy and carefree, made him look less like the usual priest and more like... well, himself. But how could someone so preachy, so saintly, be this comfortable? This natural?
My hand rested across my lap, fingers tracing the floral fabric of my dress, the hem bunched up a little at my knees: the other idly pushing back stray strands of my caramel brown hair as they tousled in the breeze. Of course I hadn't expected to fulfil my afternoon with — a priest, and a diner lunch that turned into one of those conversations that made you feel like you were seeing life from a much different perspective.
"Not bad for a priest, huh?" Charlie's voice cut through the quiet as he shifted gears. His fingers casually tapped along with the soft rhythm of Fleetwood Mac on the radio, filling the space between us with that familiar, nostalgic warmth.
"You're not exactly what I expected," I hummed, voice playful. "I thought you'd be all sermon talk and divine inspiration.. but you might be the same." My head slightly tilted in Charlie's direction as he grinned back, almost feigning that underlying cockiness.
Charlie's expression flickered, just a bit too smug, like he knew exactly where this sparked up conversation was headed. His gaze rendered over to me for a moment, the glint of certainty in his eyes as he adjusted in his seat, the slacks he wore tightening slightly on his thighs — effortlessly leaning into the flow of the drive.
"Nah," he replied, his voice easy, almost conspiratorial. "Sometimes it's good to feel normal. I'm still the same guy from high school y'know."
He responded almost immediately. But a part of me didn't want to admit that obvious truth, he wasn't the same person he was all those years ago.
"You're not." I spoke back almost immediately with disbelief, because hey, no he fucking wasn't.
"I am Venicia, just with a collar."
ʚɞ
JANUARY 10TH, 2009.
I could remember it rather vividly, when I first met Charles Mayhew. It was in Mr. Martinez's English class, particularly that morning where everything felt too overwhelming, too bright and too new for a girl who just moved from South Hampshire. Everyone all filled into the small classroom; glancing nervously around, trying to find a place to sit before the teacher came in.
The desks were arranged in pairs, but of course, there wasn't a desk left for me. I'd learned early on how to be invisible, how to almost blend into the background where no one could get on my nerves. My head buried in a book I was reading, praying no one would ask me to pair up.
Not like they would anyway.
But then, the teacher called for partners. A sea of desks shuffling, rumbling and then all the perfect pairs were made. Everyone had someone — except me. I remember the awkward silence, the murmurs in the room.
That moment when everyone notices you're alone. I felt it then, that familiar sinking feeling.
"Venicia.." Mr. Martinez said with such certainty, his voice almost apologetic. "Charlie, you can be Ms Monroe's partner." An array of howls and snarks quickly fell from his friends mouths, one boy in particular urgently shoving Charlie in my direction.
Only then did I glance up, eyes narrowing. Of course. I didn't know him. Charlie was the guy who always had that undeniable smirk, the one who somehow made people laugh without even trying. He had that effortless ambition, the type that didn't fit into any one box. A little rebellious, a little too confident, always making the teachers roll their eyes.
Charlie glanced over at me, and for a split second, his expression was a clear mix of surprise and something else—something I couldn't quite place as a young teenager. He had probably assumed I was one of those intense, weird students: the ones who just buried themselves in work and never bothered to look up.
He didn't say anything at first. He just gave a quick, forced half-smile, like he wasn't sure how to deal with the situation either. "Guess we're partners," He said with a subtle shrug. His tone wasn't mocking, but it wasn't exactly warm either. More like the acknowledgment of a mutual inconvenience.
The rest of the class moved on, and we settled into a kind of quiet routine. We worked on that assignment—sharing one textbook between us. It wasn't exactly a conversation, just a long string of awkward silences, the sound of pages turning, and the occasional, uncomfortable glances. The thing was, as much as I tried to keep my distance, something about being with the boy felt real in a sense. He wasn't trying to impress anyone. He didn't offer the usual small talk or forced politeness like the other kids. He didn't care, that I was the girl no one wanted to sit next to. He was just... there.
I remember stealing glances at him throughout the class—how he didn't seem to try, how he still got people's attention, even if it was with just a lazy grin or a quiet joke. It wasn't that he was the most popular guy in the room. He wasn't, not really. But he had a way of making the world seem less serious, even in a place like high school, where everything felt so important. A race to prove who was the best.
By the end of the class, we'd barely exchanged more than a couple of words. I hastily finished the assignment, and when it was time to leave, Charlie stood up and stretched. As he grabbed his books, before glancing at me again, that same cocky grin tugging at his lips — his eyes doing a double take over me.
"You know what," Charlie huffed with a half shrug, slinging his bag over his shoulder.
"Not the worst partner I've had. Maybe I'll see you around." At the end of that sentence, he did this real shitty English accent. Maybe in an attempt to mock and tease me, piss me off? make me smile?
I just nodded, unsure how to respond.
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