At 10:15, I wonder why he hasn’t been in yet. I almost start to worry about him; he’s been coming in at the exact same time since the second week that I’ve worked here. I remind myself how irrational my worrying is. Considering he hasn’t even directly told me his name, how could I possibly be certain of his schedule?
It’s quite ironic: I always ask customers their names so that I can call out their orders. But the first time that I saw him, I just forgot. He kept coming in and I never asked. He always ordered the same thing – his oatmeal – so it wasn’t like I risked getting his order confused. He stood just by the counter and waited, too. He would watch me. There was never a need to call for him.
For some reason, I didn’t want him to introduce himself to me while I was taking his order – it felt wrong, despite the fact that I’d heard Mr. Miller call him by name. I wondered, too, if he ever noticed the nametag on my uniform.
Allie’s shift starts and ends before mine, so at eleven, she’s leaving. I wave goodbye to her from my the barstool where I sit, sighing at the realization that it's an hour past ten. I so desperately want to ask Mr. Miller if he knows why the boy hasn’t been in. Likely, he wouldn't know, but maybe he'd spoken to him yesterday about his plans. I’d never worked on a Monday, so I wasn’t sure if the boy even came for breakfast on Mondays. Of course, I do not bring myself to ask any question of him.
The rest of my day goes on per usual, and Wednesday follows suit.
By Thursday, I feel desperate to see him again. It sounds pathetic: missing someone whom I don’t really even know.
I arrive to Lighthouse and so does ten o’clock and at eleven, Allie leaves. Yet again, he’s not been in.
Mr. Miller has been quiet for a while, strangely, but I am so relieved when he says, “I haven’t seen Charlie in a few days. How odd.”
I too quickly ask, “Has he not been in at all since Sunday?”
Mr. Miller is wiping the counter when he answers, “Oh he only really ever comes in on Sundays, Tuesdays, and Thursdays,” and he stops to wink at me.
I pretend not to notice his gesture. If it's true that he only comes in when I'm working, I am sure it’s only a coincidence. Still, I have to bite my bottom lip and look away towards the front window to keep myself from smiling.
Then, I started to worry. He’s been coming in every day that I worked until we actually spoke about something other than oatmeal. That can't be a good sign. Mr. Miller thankfully interrupts my thoughts.
“By the way, Stella, I know it’s short notice, but would you like to be fill-in for Andrew during the evening shift tomorrow?”
“Sure, of course,” I say, happily.
“Okay, great. There are usually two of us working with Jimmy, but I won’t be here either. My wife and I are having friends over for dinner and she insists that I be home extra early to help out around the house. Think you’ll be able to handle it?”
“Yeah, I think so,” I say.
“I know you’ll be great,” he says, giving me a warm smile.
I leave Lighthouse at two in the afternoon and attend my Thursday classes.
I still feel a hint of disappointment on Friday evening when I think of how long it's been since I've seen him. I make the drive back to the café, fairly certain that he won’t be dropping by this evening.
The shift is surprisingly quiet. By closing time, I notice that Jimmy is rushing. I’m not sure what his hurry is for, he is so quiet and I don’t know much about his personal life, or his weekend schedule. I assume though, that he must have plans, so I tell him to go ahead, and that I will finish his tasks.
He looks at me with wide, brown eyes, “Oh, are you sure, Stella? It could take you a while and I don’t want to be a burden to you. I’m sure you have plans.”
“I don’t have plans, go on! I’m happy to do it,” I say, and I mean it.
“Thank you so much. That’s a huge help, really it is,” He says, gathering his jacket, wallet and keys. He wishes me a good night and leaves in a clumsy rush.
I never realized how much Jimmy did every night before leaving. By the time I lock the doors, it’s past eleven and completely dark. I double check the lock on the front door before starting to my car. As I do, I notice a dark silhouette turn from the furthest side of the building and begin walking behind me.
I remember the promise that I made to myself after last night's shower, and I stay surprisingly calm. Someone starting in the same direction, at the same time as me – it's only a coincidence, I'm sure. No need to become bothered by coincidence.
I am proud of myself, until I hear the person’s pace quickening behind me. I hadn’t turned around yet, but I decide I should. It could be someone noticeably harmless, and that would keep me from feeling anxious. I keep walking but turn my head around.
I find a man smiling at me with a dirty, crooked grin. His skin is a sickly looking pale. He has long, thin, greying hair that hangs out from his knitted hat, and rough facial hair. He is dressed sloppily, and is certainly not as harmless looking as I’d hoped he would be.
I am trying to convince myself that my judgment is cruel when he speaks, “Hey baby, care to give me a ride?” And the guilt ceases.
I also don’t recoil; I hold my quick, but controlled pace. I am happy that I don’t start to cry or shake, either.
“Stay away, sir,” I say, facing forward again, “Someone is picking me up just down the street.”
“Is that so, pretty girl? I think I see your car just there.” He says, and I know then that he’s watched me before. How could I have missed him? I am always so careful. I realize that I’ve stopped in the street and I turn my head back around. I am in the exact middle between my car and where he stands, but I don’t have much time because he is still walking towards me. I turn and run, digging in the small satchel that hangs at my side for my keys. I hear him laugh. There is no one else on the street, but there are houses nearby and businesses behind me, all around the café. Surely someone will hear my scream.
I try to yell, but my throat is tight and my voice, weak. I no longer hear his footsteps, but when my hand touches the silver door of my car, I know that he’s just behind me. I feel his cold, sticky hand wrap tightly around my arm. He spins me around and slams my back against the car.
His long, dirty face is only inches from mine as he closes his eyes and nuzzles his bony nose against my cheek. I am gasping for air so loudly that I can’t hear anything else and I close my eyes. I am too shocked to even cry.
“You smell like strawberries, pretty girl.”
I swallow hard, feeling as though I'm suffocating in stale air. Then, I'm somehow able to block my senses and fear. I calculate how quickly I can move my knee and try to gage my target. In that moment, I am only in my mind. I no longer see his face, or hear what he is whispering. I close my eyes, and with one steady movement, I pound my knee into him and he jerks violently away from me, losing his grip on my arm. Did I really kick him that hard? I hear him scream, and when I open my eyes, I realize that I am no longer alone in my fight.
He is standing tall above the old man, who is now on his knees. Both are facing me the at first, but the boy lifts the man up by his shoulders, turning his entire, frail looking body around to face the boy's own scowling, midnight eyes. He says nothing that I can hear, but throws the man back onto the ground before him.
The old man starts crying and begging the boxer to leave him alone, insisting that he wasn't going to hurt me. I see the boy start to lean down, grabbing the man with one arm and raising his other fist, but something tells me to stop him.
"I'm okay," I tell him.
The boy looks at me apologetically, and I almost feel that he’s frightened himself by nearly hurting this man in the street. I shake my head slightly, urging him not to do the man any harm. "It's okay now."
His body untenses, and his eyes lose their blaze, but not their determination. He holds the man still in a tight-fisted grasp, keeping him on the ground, but in a way of protection, and not angst.
You're not made to hurt anyone, I think, but I don't say. In fact, I've never seen anyone who seemed less fit to harm than this boy does; and I'm thankful that he's protecting me, and now I feel safe, and this tired man won't hurt because of me or because of him. I like that more than revenge.
I hear sirens immediately after I speak and I’m relieved. The officer pulls near us and before he can get out of the car, the boy leans his head down and whispers sternly to the man, “Go with him, or you’ll see me again.”
The man actually nods.
The officer steps out of his vehicle and when he asks what’s happened, it is I who tell the story. He examines the mark on my arm, left by the man’s grip and he believes what I say. The officer doesn’t even ask the curly haired boy how he found us, but he calls him by name and shakes his hand before handcuffing the man, and securing him in the cop car.
We haven’t spoken yet. Our bodies face each other, but our heads are both turned toward the cop car. I hear him take a couple of steps closer to me, away from the center of the road, but I know that his eyes have not left the officer yet.
Once the policeman starts the car's engine and pulls away, I allow myself to look at him. He looks towards the ground. I see that he is wearing an all black athletic outfit – shorts and a fitted, long sleeved t-shirt. His hands are low on his hips, at the band of his shorts. Even the loose grip causes his arm muscles to flex ever so slightly and fill out his sleeves even more.
“Thank you so much,” I say, quite solemnly.
“Are you okay?” he asks, slowly bringing his head up and allowing his dark eyes to meet mine.
His brow is creased and he looks concerned and a bit stressed. Even with the man in custody and being driven to jail, he still hasn’t let himself relax. I, however, am calmed completely by his presence.
“Yes,” I answer him, “I’m just fine,” and I decide to finally ask, “What is your name?”
“Charlie.”
“Charlie,” I repeat, “I think you saved me, Charlie,” I speak softly, and give him a smile appropriate for having nearly just been… who knows what.
“You certainly helped,” he said, I suppose referring to my kick, “Definitely made my job easier.” He bites his bottom lip, but I can tell by his cheeks that he is smiling. I smile, too.
“What is your name, if you don’t mind?”
“Stella,” I say.
I hardly feel the need to ask how he found me, but I don’t want him to go yet, “Were you walking? Let me give you a ride.”
“Oh, I live just blocks from here, you don’t have to do that.”
I can tell he appreciates my offer, so I just turn around and start to get in my car.
“I think I owe you at least a ride,” I say, smiling in his direction. He walks slowly to the passenger side and climbs in.
As I start my car, I sneak a glance in his direction. His hands are resting on his legs, and he’s looking forward out of my front window. He isn’t smiling necessarily, but I can tell by the way that he’s holding his lips, and the way that his eyes seem to rest, that he has relaxed significantly, and is content.
“Where to?” I ask.
“We’ll go back down this street for a mile or so, turn right, and my house is the first one on the right.”
“You were going to walk nearly a mile by yourself after that fiasco?” I laugh and begin driving in Charlie’s direction.
He laughs with me at first, but then he too asks, “You’re going to make an illegal U-turn after already having had a run in with the police tonight?”
He refers to my slight discretion when pulling my car out of its parking spot onto the street side and proceeding in the opposite direction.
“I think what I did was perfectly legal. Pulling out of a parking spot is not technically a U-turn,” but I couldn’t really support that claim. “Didn’t your mother ever tell you? No one likes a passenger seat driver.”
I laugh a little, but notice that he looks down at his hands, sort of faking a smile. I ruined it.
“So have you been training tonight?” I ask, quickly adding, “I haven’t seen you in the café all week. I mean – has your schedule changed?”
He turns his head to look at me and I do my best to keep my eyes on the road.
“I was training other people, actually – some high schoolers who are wanting to get ahead in football. I often run or walk to and from the gym, especially in the evenings or late at night. I find it relaxing. That is, when I'm not having to correct the behavior of an attacker."
I laugh, turning for a second from the road to him. He laughs too, but then becomes serious. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't joke about that."
I look to him again, "No – Really, Charlie, it's fine. Humor is rarely poorly placed with me."
He changes the subject, attempting to answer one of my earlier questions. "I haven’t been to the café because – well, I just haven’t.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I watch him while he speaks and I notice that he frowns a bit and looks away as he finishes. Not a threatening frown, just an uncertain one. I instinctively think that the reason he just hasn’t been back to the café since Sunday is because of my attitude towards him when he came looking for his phone.
I don’t want him to think that I’m uneasy around him anymore, so I try to joke with him, “Is this the most you’ve ever spoken in one setting?”
He looks quickly towards me again, his frown not yet gone. His eyes almost look hurt and I instantly feel terrible again. I am a too-scared little girl, and he is a gorgeously strong boxer; how is it that I manage to keep making him feel bad?
“I’m sorry, I was only joking. I’m quiet too – you already know that. When I do speak, I usually can’t say what I actually mean – you’ll learn that. I’m quite hopeless.”
He finally laughs and it’s such a brilliantly honest sound, I can’t help but smile and giggle a bit, too.
“It might have been the longest that I’ve spoken at once in a while, yes. You just caught me off guard a bit because you had always been so quiet. I think I understand you though, and you’re definitely not hopeless.”
I’m now approaching a street that I know must be his and he gestures towards it, confirming my direction. I hadn’t even noticed that my music had been down too low the entire time and I reach to turn it up a little. As my arm extends towards the volume dial, he notices the handprint left on my arm and he reaches up to touch it.
His hands are surprisingly soft, and his touch is feather-light. His eyes are fixed on the mark, and his frown returns.
“He would’ve done worse if you hadn’t helped me,” I try to ease his apparent guilt. There isn't a good reason for him to feel badly; I am not his responsibility. “It’s okay," I continue, "I’m okay.”
“Stella, you should'nt be alone so late at night,” he states, cutting me off. His words are hardly gentle, much more like a pleading demand. I almost can’t speak because I’ve just heard him say my name for the first time.
“I’ll do my best to avoid it from now on,” I manage to say.
He takes his hand off of my arm but he is still staring. “Don’t worry, Charlie," I say, now glancing at the mark myself, "it won’t be difficult to cover this one.”
I freeze for a second, but I don’t have long because I am coming up to the first driveway on the right and I know it’s Charlie’s house. I start to pull in.
“What do you mean, 'this one?'” His voice sounds raspier, and it’s so quiet.
I’m glad when it’s immediately appropriate for me to put my car in park, because I can look down and decide what to say, “I just— I meant that I often have bruises because I’m a klutz. I talk better than I walk, and you know that’s not saying much.”
I look up at him, confident that I've covered myself well, but his eyes are narrow.
“Stella,” his voice is strained, “just try not to walk alone anymore, please?”
It’s all he can say. We barely know each other, no matter what he fears for me, he can’t really protect me.
“I will. Thank you again,” I look forward, feeling a bit sad that I'm dropping him off, and my lips fall open a bit when I see his home.
Before me is the cutest, coziest looking little white house. It’s only one story, and even though it’s dark, I can see that the shudders and metal roof are a deep red. The covered front porch is well lit, and there is white railing around the edge. The yard seems to be well kept and nicely landscaped, and there are two full flowerpots on either side of the stairway leading to the front door.
“Do you live here with your parents?” I ask instinctively. It is precious, but definitely not how I picture a bachelor pad. Does he have a girlfriend who lives here with him? I don’t even know if he’s single. I suppose asking who he lives with is quite personal, given the circumstances.
Before he can answer, I correct myself, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked that. You don’t have to answer.”
He chuckles and shakes his head, his curls moving a bit, too, despite his attempt to keep them fixed with his headband, “It’s not too personal,” he says. “But I live alone, actually. Well, I have a dog. He keeps me company.” When he looks at me, his smile reaches his eyes and they sparkle – stars lighting the night sky.
“I only ask because it’s so cute,” I say, unintentionally insulting him again.
He removes his headband and some of his curls fall toward his face.
“Are you surprised that I have decent taste?” He shakes the front of his hair a bit before pushing it back and repositioning the thin, black band.
“No,” I laugh, “I’m sorry. I’m being rather brash with you, aren’t I? I promise I’m not rude all of the time. I guess I’m just comfortable around you already.”
I hope that the last part makes up for any accidental insults. The way that he smiles at me makes me think that it did.
“I think you deserve to be brash considering tonight’s circumstances. But I expect you to be a little nicer next time I see you.”
Even though he smiles, I hope that he really means the part about me seeing him again.
“You like Elvis?” he asks, gesturing towards my stereo. I hadn’t even been paying attention to what was playing.
“Yes,” I say, leaning my head against the back of my seat and looking at Charlie, “He’s my favorite.”
I am starting to feel sleepy and I yawn a little bit.
Charlie laughs a little under his breath and looks back towards the stereo, “That’s cute.”
When he looks to me again, his face is rather serious, “Will you be safe on your way home? Do you have to walk far?”
I realize when he asks that he doesn’t have any idea where I live.
“No, I’ll be alright. I live on campus at Clemson, but I am able to park close to my dorm.”
“Okay,” he says quietly, “Well, I’d better go. Thank you for the ride, Stella. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon, Charlie.” I repeat, and it feels so nice to say.