Charlie's Angel

37

 "Charlie?" He sobbed on the couch. "When is Uncle Chris coming back?"

I didn't know how to answer him. I hadn't talked to Chris since the day of the funeral, and that was a week and a half ago. He wasn't answering his phone and went to voicemail every time I called. My texts went unanswered, and finally I just gave up. Chris needed time. But his nephew needed him more.

"I don't know, baby boy," I said softly. "Come here." I waved him over, but he wouldn't budge, wouldn't look at me. Just like his uncle. "Isaiah, come here." He still wouldn't move, and he just broke down where he was. He whined when I tried to hold him, but I grabbed him anyway and held him against me. He latched onto me immediately and released his emotions onto my shoulder. "I know, baby. It's okay." I rubbed his back in small circles and rocked him from side to side until he was sleeping—which took some time.

After putting him in his room and closing the door behind myself, I checked on Paris, who was still sleeping.

I grabbed my favorite childhood book, Where the Sidewalk Ends, and got comfy on the couch.

Ten minutes into my reading, a knock sounded at the door. I automatically knew it wasn't Sam because she wouldn't have knocked. Her crazy ass woulda just let herself in—considering it was her house. But she usually came in through the garage where she parked her car. When I swung it open, I gasped. "Chris?"

Wait... didn't he dump me a few days ago? Didn't he say he couldn't stand to look at me and he was done with me? Did he say that or was I imagining things? Of course I was glad to see him, but I thought that he was mad at me.

He wouldn't look at me, kept his eyes on the ground and hands in his pockets. My heart stopped; he looked like actual shit. His eyes were black and lifeless, sad and tired, and dark circles surrounded them. Those cheeks that I had grown to love had become almost hollow, and his cheekbones were more apparent. He wore a wrinkled t-shirt and jeans and some Timberlands on his feet.

"I..." He stopped himself right there. He didn't trust himself to speak for fear that he'd lose it. And he did. His knees gave out on him and he fell to the bricks on the porch, bringing his fist to his mouth to bite onto so he wouldn't yell any curses. I knelt beside him to help him up but his body went limp and felt like dead weight.

After some struggling, he got himself up and I helped him to the couch. He leaned forward and put his heads in his hands and sobbed quietly. "I miss her so much," he whispered.

To say 'it's okay' felt silly and unnecessary, so I just rubbed his back while he cursed himself. I kissed his shoulder, biting back my own emotion, but that wasn't doing enough. And although he smelled like alcohol, I shifted myself to straddle his lap and hug him full on. He took a moment before hugging me back, but when he did I broke down along with him. We pressed our foreheads into each other's necks and cried there. And he wouldn't let me go. He couldn't, like he'd lose me if he did.

"Chris?" I finally said after minutes of deafening silence. I pulled away to make him look at me, which took some time because he refused to look in my direction. "I'm right here." I pecked his forehead and swiped his tears away.

He turned his face upwards to kiss my forehead, traveling down to my nose and finally my lips to kiss me passionately. Hungrily. Forcefully.

Seconds later he picked us up from the couch, wrapped my legs around his back, and carried me down the hall to my bedroom. He set me down on the bed and shuffled to the door to close and lock it.

Clothes were ripped off, moans were muffled by his hand covering my lips, and skin was scratched.

He acted like he was mad at me, like he was punishing me. As if I was the one who killed his sister. He was demanding, rough, but so passionate.