An Opened Door

Chapter 3: Hecking Charles Lee

I hadn't expected my apartment to be so... spacious.

My father always made the biggest deal out of making sure his children "get the best they can in life", and, even though it gets annoying when you happen to be the only non-closeminded person in the family and your father insists that the best in life is a white picket fence, a good Christian wife, and children, it does have its perks.

My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to check my contact.

Speak of the devil.

"Hey, Dad. I just got into my apartment, the landlord seems nice." I say before he can get the chance to ask me. I hear him settle into a chair and imagine him in the cushioned chair he keeps in his office, paperwork splayed out in front of him on his desk.

"Good, son, I'm glad in went by without a hitch. How do you like it?" he asks, already sounding a bit distracted.

"It's great, Dad, but you really didn't have to go all out for this. I could have just stayed on campus again this year." I drop the heavy suitcase that I'd been clutching onto the floor and notice the bedframe with an expensive-looking mattress on top of it. Dad must have gotten one of his colleagues to get me one.

He makes a dissmissive noise.

"No, don't be silly John, I lived off campus my second year of college, so did you grandad. It's a different experience. Anyway, your rent is in a one-year contract. Can't change it now. Did you know that when I was going to college, the apartment that I had..."

I stop paying attention as he launches into a detailed rambling about his apartment's rent contract from when he was in college and how the buyers' market is so much different than when he was my age.

"Yeah, thanks, Dad, but I have to go get some... stuff. I need to unpack." I say, pretty bad at this lie. He abruptly finishes his story, and it sounds like he only just realized he'd been going off onto a tangent.

"Alright, John. Good luck, and if you need any help be sure to call Mr. Middleton. Send me a picture of the apartment when it's all unpacked, I want to see it." He says, and I nod and then realizes that he can't hear me.

"Yes, sir, I will. Thanks again, Dad." I say, rushing to end the conversation for no apparent reason. We say our goodbyes and I hang up, flinging my phone onto the bare mattress and unzipping my suitcase.

When I flip open the top compartment and unpack the sandwich bag that has my toothbrush and aftershave, I realize a slip of paper has fallen out. I pick it up and read it, not remembering packing any sheets of paper.

Hey, John. It's me... You know? You probably recognize my handwriting—but then again who else would I be? I don't want to say my name, just in case your dad goes through this stuff before you leave, but I'm gonna be in New York by the time you read this. Luckily, I got the chance to slip this into your suitcase when I came over to get that sweatshirt I left at your house. I hope, at least. If you're reading this, then I did. If it's Mr. Laurens... hi?

Anyway, my aunt lives up in the city and my dad says that I should spend a year up there to "learn the family business". I'm not gonna write my phone number on here, but can you meet me? The 27th, at the cafe on 7th street? I'll be there from 3-ish to 4. Thanks.

-L

I sit down on my bed, astonished. Of course I know who this is.

We were best friends, for Christ's sake, of course I recognize his handwriting.

The 27th is today, I realize, with only a small amount of suprise.

Before I can convince myself to do otherwise, I pick up my phone and keys from the bed and walk out of the door, my feet moving ahead of my brain.

How'd he know that I, for sure, would be here on the 27th? I never told him the exact date that I'd be in the city. How do I know it's him, for sure? The writing sounded enough like him and it was definitely his handwriting, but those could have been faked. The note is still in my palm, crumpled by the force that I'm applying to it by curling my hand into a fist.

I don't pay attention to the walk there, my mind is mainly focused on whether or not he'd actually be there. The watch on my wrist says it's 3:30, so, I mean, he should still be there.

I'm staring down a cafe's chalkboard.

It's right in front of me, which means I'm at the cafe, meaning that he'll be here. I immediately regret doing this, and turn to leave.

"John," I hear a too-familiar voice say. Slightly higher than my voice and perky with a bit of a British accent that he's embraced since he came to America, I could recognize it anywhere. It comes from directly to my left. I turn slowly to him, staring down his dark brown eyes.

"Charles," I say, both of my hands now in fists, "What are you doing here?"

He gestures for me to sit down, and, for some reason, I do.

"I needed to talk to you." He says. Both of his hands are spread on the table, palms down. I avoid looking him in the eyes.

"There's nothing to talk about." I say through gritted teeth, for some reason afraid that someone would hear me.

"John, your dad's not here. He's states away. We can be together now. You know you want to—we both have for a while now." He reaches out to take my hand, but I yank it away quickly.

"No. Don't tell me what I do or do not want, okay? You don't know me. We haven't talk in nearly three months." With the hand that is under the table, I begin to rip apart the note. The shredded pieces fall to the floor. "This is why I don't talk to you. My dad's right: you don't know anything about me. This—" I gesture to him and then back to me, "Is not me. It may be you, but I'm not like that. I never have been, never will. So please, for the love of God, leave me alone and stop dragging me into this reality of yours where I fit this perfect mold, because it's. Not. Me." I half-whisper the last part, and his mouth is open like he was about to say something when he realizes what I just said. He quickly lifts his hands from the table, hurt flashing over his face.

"You know what, John? I don't care if you won't say it, or if you want to forget it happened, but you can't deny that there was something between us—something more than just a good friendship, so go ahead and deny it and be as sheltered as you want by what your dad thinks is perfect. Why should I give a shit?" Charles yells with blatant disregard for anyone on the nearby street or patio. His accent slips through more by the second, even on words he'd said he prefers the American pronunciation on. He gets up out of his chair with a flourish, always taking up space like it was always his in the first place, and storms off, walking along the street in the opposite direction from which I'd come.