What He Left Behind

Thirteen

When I wake up the next morning, something is different. I can't explain exactly but something's changed. I feel lighter and like I can breathe easier. I'm motivated and relaxed and at ease. I'm not at war with the world.

I sit up. Charlie's phone is lying on the cabinet, so I pick it up to check the time. It's 8am, and given that it's a Saturday morning, I do not suppose Charlie will be waking up anytime soon. Quietly, I slip into my leggings from yesterday and one of Charlie's hoodies before going downstairs.

My throat is dry so I search the kitchen cupboards for a glass, becoming aware of the complete lack of food in the house while I'm doing so. In my bag I have a small amount of money, so I decide to run to the shop on the corner to buy something for breakfast.

When I get back, Brandon is sat at the table drinking a coffee. He looks tired and hungover, but in a significantly better condition than he was last night. He is freshly showered, although his hair is still scruffy, and I can't help but notice he looks older than his years; I'm not sure if it's his gruff but confident demeanour, or the effect of drugs and alcohol on his body, or a combination.

"Hi," I say awkwardly, not sure if he'd remember me, or anything, from his drunken evening.

"Hey," he replies, pressing his lips together in confusion, evidently too fuzzy to know why an apparent stranger is letting themselves in to his house.

"There was a spare key on the side. I hope you don't mind. I went out to get breakfast," I explain, unloading the carrier bag onto the counter. He nods and eases up a little, looking immediately more awake.

"Be my guest. Just don't ask Charlie to make it for you. He can't cook for shit."

"And you can then I suppose?" I challenge.

"As a matter of fact, I can."

"I'm impressed," I grin, pleasantly surprised at how approachable Brandon is when he's not intoxicated.

"Don't take my word for it. Let me help you," he decides, getting up and walking over to where I'm standing. He gets to work, tearing open the packet of bacon and searching the cupboards for pots and pans.

"I'm Brandon by the way."

I smile, figuring he doesn't remember meeting me last night then. Or maybe he does, but knows it wasn't the most promising of introductions. "Noelle," I reply.

"Yeah I know who you are," he chuckles, smirking the same way Charlie does.

I don't get a chance to ask what he means by that because there are footsteps on the stairs and then Charlie appears. He's wearing skinny jeans and no shirt, his hair still wet from having just gotten out of the shower. My breath hitches in my throat and I feel myself getting flustered. Brandon scoffs and rolls his eyes and I embarrassedly look away; I didn't know I was being so obvious.

Thankfully, Charlie's too puzzled at the sight of me and his brother cooking breakfast together to notice.

"Do you want breakfast?" I ask Charlie.

"What are you making?"

"Bacon and egg sandwiches."

"You should stay here more often," he decides, sliding into a seat at the table.

Charlie's father, who I didn't even realise was in the house, comes downstairs just as Brandon and I are serving up breakfast. He sits down at the table and introduces himself and the four of us eat together. We all make easy conversation, and I quickly notice so many of Charlie's idiosyncrasies in his family aswell. They all speak with the same bold self-confident tone that some would find intimidating, and Charlie shares his brother's tendency to limit his show of emotion. It's as though their feelings are muted, certainly the feelings they display externally anyway. The pair must have inherited that from their mother, as their father, on the other hand, is very expressive, in a way I've only seen Charlie behave in on stage. Throughout the meal, the light is shining from Charlie's eyes and I get the feeling this means a lot to him. Much like in mine, I don't think family meals happen a lot in this house.