Asystole ✷ Mark Sloan

𝟬𝟮𝟴 charlie

𝙓𝙓𝙑𝙄𝙄𝙄.
CHARLIE (PERKINS)

──────

IT WAS REALLY ironic for me to date a therapist.

All therapists (aside from me, apparently) were calm and gentle creatures. Charlie was a perfect fit for that narrative. Everything about him was soft, his eyes, his touch and the smile he gave me as I approached him outside of my apartment complex.

He'd been waiting for me, stooped against the Seattle night as a heavy, wet wind picked up through the streets.

"Hey, stranger."

Voice smooth as honey and that same easiness about him that I supposed I'd fallen in love with at one time.

One arm held a duffle bag, the other a white plastic bag that looked suspiciously like food. Even the hug he gave me was delicate as if I was a precious ornament that he couldn't bear to break.

I smiled into his shoulder, breathing in his cologne. It was warm, settled comfortably at the back of my throat and almost made tears rush to my eyes— these were the sort of memories that were welcome.

Flashes of me and Charlie sharing an apartment in Boston, domestic healthy moments that made my chest feel less tight. When we pulled apart my skin screamed at the lack of warmth.

But Charlie lingered, he pressed his lips into the crown of my head, erupting goosebumps across my body. I felt every syllable against my scalp. "It's been a while, B."

It has, I wanted to say, but my lips felt too cold to talk.

The weather in Seattle tonight was abysmal. Gales tousled the two of us together and Charlie had to slam his hand onto the top of his head, stopping his baseball cap from catching on the wind— he always wore the stupid hat in the rain, black with blue and red for the New England Patriots. I chuckled and hastened open the apartment door- holding it open for Charlie to enter.

He looked around, his lips upturning at the corners. The light in the foyer lit his face; god, I'd forgotten how pretty he was. He was the sort of man you'd see on the front of a brochure. His smile was stunning, the product of an adolescent plagued with braces, he'd once told me. He was the sort of guy my mother would've loved me to bring home.

I faltered at the thought- wow, how to kill the mood, Beth.

We had a light conversation as we took the stairs to my apartment. Charlie told me about his mother, telling me that he'd surprised her back in Boston with the help of his older brother.

He asked me about Archer and I spoke indifferently, saying that he was doing well- "Thanks for the hotel room, by the way, I'm going to have to repay you somewhere along the line-" Charlie had almost been offended, rolling his eyes as we entered into the apartment, "Don't be stupid, Beth. It was the least I could do."

Luckily, he didn't notice as I kicked a few messy things that I'd forgotten about this morning— an unwashed coffee mug into the sink, a dirty pair of underwear underneath the couch, a used tissue lobbed in the direction of the bin. In fact, when I turned around. To face him, he was completely distracted.

He actually faltered on the threshold, noticing the interior of my apartment. A look of recognition fell across his face. His smile grew.

"It looks like Boston in here." I hadn't noticed it before. I shot a glance around as I set my belongings down on the counter-top. I supposed that he was right.

The apartment I'd shared with him had been full of exposed brick, the sort of aesthetic that would make hipsters have an out-of-body experience.

But we'd tried to furnish it as nicely as we could, picking up bits and bobs from thrift stores across Boston (it'd been Charlie's twilight years where every wealthy rich man rebelled against his money and had tried to refuse the money his parents had given him, me, on the other hand... I hadn't had any other choice.)