Ordinary Lives

three.

My mom watches me as I finish getting dressed for dinner at the Chalamets. "You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine." I layer on a thin coat of lipstick onto my mouth and silently beg my mother to refrain from digging any further. "Is Hugh ready?"

"He's putting on his coat." She doesn't ditch the shifty glances in my direction, even when she steps away to touch up her own makeup. "You're absolutely positive you're alright?"

She's anticipating a break down of some degree, I'm sure. I'm a graduate of performing arts high school after all- dramatics are not a stranger to me. Much to her chagrin, I refuse to talk about this with her, or anyone for that matter. It will only increase the horribly pathetic feeling that washes over me whenever I think about him and I'm not in the mood for a devastating bout of crippling self-loathing.

"I'm really okay mom. This'll be over in like an hour. Let's go."

"Maybe I'll call Nic and tell her we have to reschedule. Hughie got sick or something," Mom says.

"Don't call him Hughie," I say, ignoring the rest. "He's 14 now. He's gonna get mad at you."

"Charlie," she presses.

I huff. "I'm okay mom!"

"You don't look okay."

"Seriously mom? I'm smiling. Look."

She presses her lips together. I know she feels bad about making me go.

"Mom," I sigh. "We're going, okay? Don't worry too much. I'm sure Timmy won't even be there. We're gonna go in, eat, have some small talk, and then leave. I can do that, okay?"

This isn't enough to convince her of my well-being. But it's enough to get her to grab her purse and go.

Dressed in our best, the Gray family makes the short walk over to the house next door and wait for the Chalamets to invite us in for dinner. I haven't been to their house for over a year but I'm sure I can still navigate it, probably even with my eyes closed. Every corner of that house is seared into my mind, probably for the rest of my life, much to my dismay. The room where Timmy stored all of the manuscripts and anthologies of different playwrights he'd acquired over the years. Mr. Chalamet's office, where photos of him with the United Nations sat right alongside touristy photos of Timmy 'holding up' the Eiffel tower. The kitchen, where he'd first made me his 'famous' recipe of red velvet cake, which was actually just a soggy excuse for dessert that he'd concocted simply because he wanted to try his hand at baking because he'd started watching Cake Boss. And his bedroom. With it's piles of books and towering shelves of what seemed to be an amalgam of anything and everything. From CD's to art to figurines, and my favorite, a snow-globe with a glowing Eiffel Tower inside, gifted to him by his sister Pauline. His bedroom. With it's masses of blankets and crackling fireplace that always seemed to be lit, even in the summer. His bedroom. With a soft touch on my hips. A pressing of my waist into his mattress. The air leaving my body as he cradled my face in his hands. The feeling of a supernova bursting in my soul. All of it is unforgettable.

I blink myself awake.

Mrs. Chalamet is smiling at us. The door has swung open. She is inviting us in.

"Charlie," she says warmly. "You're looking beautiful as ever."

I'm wearing a dress from a spell of interning at an art gallery in SoHo and my most grown up heels. Subconsciously, I have dressed up for Timmy.

"Thanks," I reply, hoping my voice doesn't betray my discomfort.

She turns her attention to Hugh. "Hugh! Don't you look sharp!"