old soul | matthew gray gubler

21. at the drop of a hat

Charlotte drove the long three hours home a week after that Godforsaken interview. Traffic was awful that Saturday evening, the end of June bleeding with summer travelers hoping to catch waves in the City of Angels. It was dark outside, nearly pitch black if it hadn't been for the mass amounts of light pollution leaving a dim glow that blocked out the stars. Charlotte could see the moon though, never inching closer though she drove straight towards it.

It continued it's hover above her when she pulled into her driveway. Prune had been sleeping since an hour and a half ago, curled up in his dog bed on the passenger seat. Charlotte was sure he missed Matthew, maybe more than she did. Dogs had favorites, and though Charlotte was his mom, Matthew was his best friend.

Charlotte sat back in her seat, arms dropping from her steering wheel to her lap lazily. She was exhausted, glasses slipping down her nose from her tilted head. Her eyes were bleary with sleep and she pushed the glasses away to rub at the sockets. Finally, after regaining some sort of energy, Charlotte opened her car door.

She hoisted her duffel bag over her shoulder, cradling Prune in one arm as she rolled her suitcase behind her. Charlotte made her way inside and set Prune on the floor to run amuck inside his missed home. Charlotte was already in comfortable enough clothing for sleeping, so she herded Prune to the backyard for one last potty trip. Then, she and her dog settled into bed.

She had texted Matthew of her arrival when it happened, and he simply sent her a warm goodnight with a million hearts. She couldn't wait to see him tomorrow. Charlotte imagined running into his arms, two months being far too long for anyone to be from their lover. Wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders, squealing as he lifted her into the air. Kissing his face as much as possible, smearing whatever lipstick she had on across his skin.

She was falling asleep from the to-be-memories when her phone rung loudly. Charlotte jolted from the edge of sleep and sat up. Groggily, with heavy arms, she put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?" She cleared her throat before she spoke so she wouldn't sound like a monster.

"Charlotte, it's John."

Charlotte's eyes widened, the burn of sleep ignored by utter surprise and confusion. "Uncle John? Why are you calling me at 3 AM?"

"It's Joan," her uncle, nearly 30 hours away from her, sniffled. "She died a few hours ago. I'm calling everyone to tell them."

Charlotte's head spun. She swallowed thickly, tears brimming on the edge of her eyesight. She quickly shoved on her glasses and flicked on the light. Prune ignored her movements, simply snoozing away.

Charlotte choked back a sob, attempting to be strong, and said, "Oh, my God, John. I'm so sorry. What happened?"

"Cancer caught up to her. She'd been getting bad for a while, but this week hit her hard," John replied.

Charlotte felt a little angry, now discovering her aunt had been dying for the past week and no one cared to inform her. She didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. "What?"

"Im sorry, Char. I know we should've called, but we didn't know if, maybe, you two still weren't speaking..."

"It doesn't matter. She was in her deathbed, Uncle John, I- sorry. That doesn't matter. I understand," she lied. "I'll catch the first flight out. When will the funeral be?"