What He Left Behind

Seven

By 7:30am, I give up all hope of a decent night's sleep, convinced I probably would have been better sleeping in Charlie's van. I'm sure it would be a damn lot comfier than this piece of shit bed. I get out of bed quietly, trying not to wake Charlie who is fast asleep. He is lying on his stomach with the blanket covering only his lower body. His hair is even messier than usual, but it's not a bad look. Charlie's one of those people that suits looking all scruffy and dishevelled.

With every breath, his body rises and falls slightly. He looks so innocent and harmless when he's sleeping that you'd forget all he does is cause chaos.

Tearing my eyes from him, I pick up my bag from the chair and go into the bathroom to get changed. I change into some black skinny jeans, a white blouse and some black studded boots. Then I untie my dark hair and brush it out, allowing it to fall in its natural waves. I place my sunglasses on my head and apply my make-up before going back into the bedroom.

Charlie is still lying exactly how I left him. My gaze lingers on his sleeping figure.

"Stop staring at me creeper," Charlie mumbles, his eyes opening only slightly. I feel myself blush and look down at the ground. He sits up and checks the time, moaning when he sees how early it is.

"How did you sleep?" I ask him.

"Brilliantly, how could I not with you fidgeting all night?"

"It's not my fault we were sleeping on a fucking blancmange," I complain and he yawns and stretches his arms and laughs bluntly.

---

After Charlie has got himself ready and we've both eaten breakfast, we drive to Hollywood and go to see the Hollywood sign and then the Walk of Fame, doing all the touristy shit that you can't go to LA without doing.

I decide the six hour journey home is the perfect opportunity for me to find out all the things I've been craving to know about him. We chat solidly about pretty much everything under the sun. I finally get a chance to ask him about the compass tattoo on his wrist. It's to 'point him in the right direction' he tells me – to keep him on the right path, or at least try to. He tells me about how he and Stan met and I tell him about what it's like in Detroit. He tells me about how the band formed and I tell him about Amber and Harlee and Tristan and Keegan. We cover every topic from our pet hates to our religious beliefs to our families (only briefly) to our opinions on life issues. I'm so intrigued by him that I have a mental list of questions longer than my arm to ask him, so we never run out of things to talk about. For a braindead jerk, he's a surprisingly good conversationalist.

The best thing is that he listens to me. He's as inquisitive and curious as I am so we find out a whole bunch of random stuff about each other, and it turns out we have a lot in common. He hangs on my every word, pensively digesting each detail I offer him. It's the nicest feeling in the world and when we pull up outside my house late Sunday night, I'm more than a little bit reluctant to leave Charlie.

"Has this weekend made you feel better?" Charlie asks.

"Yes," I answer honestly, almost forgetting about how badly it started off.

"I'm glad. What are you doing for the rest of today?"

"It's gone 11pm Charlie and we have school tomorrow. I'm doing homework and then going to sleep. What are you doing?"

"I'll probably go to Tay's." His words cut me like a knife. Am I jealous?

"Okay," I say awkwardly, shaking the thought of them together from my head. Charlie smiles before leaning over and giving me a kiss on the cheek. Frustratingly, I feel butterflies in my tummy. What in the world is happening to me? Am I genetically programmed to self-sabotage my entire life or something?