Breathless (30 page)

Wesley continued to look at her even after she had stopped talking, as if waiting for her to say more. When she didn't, he prodded, "Is that all? That's all you're going to say about him?"

Charlotte shrugged in bewilderment, her eyes widening in confusion. "I'm not sure what you mean..." she started but Wesley cut her off.

"You don't have to pretend, Charlotte," he told her. "I've known for quite some time that I wasn't the one who you loved. And at first, I didn't really care. I thought that over time maybe you would start to love me. And I'm sure that in the end you would have, in one way or another. But none of that really mattered when I knew that he was the one who you really loved."

Charlotte opened her mouth in surprise, but nothing came out.

"It's alright," Wes assured her. "You don't have to say anything. I don't blame you. These things happen and you can't control it."

"There's nothing to control!" Charlotte protested. "I've...I hated Jack for most of the time I was here! He is rude and disrespectful and I can barely spend five minutes with him without wanting to strangle him..."

"Charlotte, would you just let me finish?" He took a moment to breathe. "I never told you about this girl I met when I was at university. Her name was Lucy. She was a student at a girl's school nearby. She studied art, which I found completely romantic. In fact, I found everything about her to be romantic. I fell in love with her so quickly, faster than I had ever thought possible. I don't even know why," he laughed at himself. "She was stubborn and terrible and found it amusing to get me riled up. But still, she was kind-hearted and cultured, and so in love with me."

Charlotte looked down at her palms. "So...what happened?"

Wesley shrugged and looked off. "I loved the theatre more. I got the chance to come back, and Helen wanted me to, and I wanted to. But Lucy didn't want me to. So we decided that we might not be the best for each other. We went our separate ways. And that was that."

Charlotte shook her head in confusion. "I'm not quite understanding you, Wes. You tell me that I should be with Jack because I love him, but you and Lucy loved each other and you ended things with her. So why is this any different?"

"Because not a day goes by when I don't wonder about Lucy," Wes told her. "Where she is, how she is, whether she still thinks about me every day. And not a day goes by when I don't wish that I had tried harder to make things work between us. Because in the end, love is what you'll appreciate most in life.

"Listen, Charlotte," Wesley told her seriously, holding her hand. "I love you. I've grown to love you so much during the short time that I've known you. But more than loving you, I want you to be happy. And I know you'd be far happier with Jack than you would ever be with me. Because even though you two are terrible to each other sometimes," Wes said with a grin, "I see you with him on the good days, and you smile so bright that I can see stars in your eyes."

Charlotte laughed through her tears. "Oh, Wes," she smiled. "You should have been a poet." She shook her head. "But I can't. Everything with Jack is always so terrible. And everything with you is so easy and pleasant and wonderful-"

"And nothing like how love is supposed to feel like," Wes interjected. "Believe me, Charlotte. This might feel painful now, throwing our relationship away in lieu of a risky, tumultuous one. But I really think that in the end, you'll be happier for it." He smiled at her, his sweet comforting smile as tears fell down Charlotte's cheeks.

She finally nodded. "Alright," she agreed. "Alright." She leaned over and kissed Wes on the forehead, as she had done only days ago, and bid him a goodbye. And stepping out into the hallway, she felt everything begin to collapse inside of her. She had lost him. She had lost Wes, the one person who had always been the sweetest to her. And unlike he had assured her, she didn't feel like she had gained anything. All she felt was loss.

"How was he?" Jack asked her as she returned home later, throwing off her jacket and taking off up the stairs. "Are you alright?" he asked concernedly, but Charlotte couldn't reply. She couldn't stop her sobbing long enough to tell him that no, she was not alright. Nothing was alright. She ran to her room and shut herself inside, locking the door, and leaning against it as she cried, gasping for breath as she frantically glanced around her room that Helen had so lovingly decorated for her. The wicker bed, the lovely paintings, the stack of books along the wall. Charlotte couldn't take it anymore.

She ran over to the pile of books, her beloved books, and threw them to the floor, watching as they collapsed upon each other, some opening to random pages and others tearing at the edges. She didn't care. None of it mattered anymore. Spotting the copy of Importance of Being Earnest, she grabbed it and ripped out the pages, her tears marking the smooth paper as they fell to the floor. Then she took up A Doll's House and did the same. And after that Romeo and Juliet, because it was nothing like real love. And then A Midsummer Night's Dream, because it was the play in which her mother had met Helen while performing. If her mother had never met Helen, none of this would have happened. She would have been back in France with Luc, dreadfully miserable, but oblivious to the pain of loving someone so much and then losing them.

Charlotte screamed and threw the barren cover of the book aside. She ran to her vanity and yanked all of the pictures from the mirror: the ones of her and Helen on the opening night of the show. She didn't want to look at them, seeing Helen so happy and vibrant. She couldn't. She threw the photos into a vanity drawer and locked them inside, slamming the drawer loudly, before throwing herself on her bed and sobbing, feeling all of her strength finally giving out.

"How is she today?" came what seemed to be a familiar voice from the open doorway. But everything seemed so foreign, as if everyone were speaking a different language, or as if she were in a different country altogether. She didn't care. She kept her eyes trained on the spot on the wall, laying stone-still in bed as she had done for days, or perhaps even weeks. It all felt the same.

"She's the same as she is every day," came another voice, a quieter one. More solemn, as if everything weren't already solemn enough. "She doesn't talk. She doesn't move. All she does is stare. And when she sleeps, there are nightmares."

"She won't talk to anyone? Not even you, Lewis?" asked the first.

"Not to me, not to Topher..."

"Has she even eaten?"

"Once in a while she'll permit Mrs. Gates to bring in a tray with something to eat and she'll pick at it. But it's never much."

Charlotte blinked but continued her stare. Why did they have to talk so loud?

"Will she be alright?"

"The doctor said it's merely a state of depression, of shock. He said she'll come to her senses in time. He said we shouldn't overburden her."

"Will you tell her I came?"

"She knows you came, Wes. And I'm sure she's grateful. I'll see you tomorrow."

Finally. The footsteps died away but a new set drew near. Another visitor? Charlotte nearly cringed at the sound of it.

"How is she?" asked a new voice, but this time Charlotte knew it well. Her heart fluttered at its sound.

"She's the same as when you left."

"Oh, I should never have gone," he said frustratedly. "I should have been here with her."

"You needed to go set everything in order at the university for next term. It was only for a few days, Jack. Everything was fine."

"Everything is
not
fine if she's like this!" he cried. "I have to go in and see her, Lewis. I need to see her."

There was a definite pause, but then, "Alright. Go to her. But mind your words. Don't make it worse than it already is." He walked away. Charlotte could hear his quiet footsteps on the carpet. But the other came into her room. She could smell his familiar scent before she even saw him. He knelt down right beside her bed, his face right before hers, so close that she could hear his soft breathing, see her own reflection in his eyes, notice every freckle across his nose and spot every wrinkle running across his creased, worried forehead.

"Charlotte," he said gently, smoothing her dark hair away from her face tenderly. "Charlotte, it's me. It's Jack. I'm sorry I was away. I had to go to the university for a few days and by the time I got word that you were like this, I had already arrived. But now I'm back. And everything's going to be alright. Please just say something. Say anything. Please, Charlotte. Try."

She closed her eyes at his words. She didn't want to listen to what he was saying, but at the same time she couldn't help herself. She had always just been a victim to him.

"I..." she began, although her voice was weak and unused. "I hate you," she finally croaked.

For a moment, Jack's eyes widened in surprise. But then his face broke out into a smile and he laughed, cradling Charlotte's face in his hands. "I shouldn't be at all surprised that those were the first words out of your mouth," he laughed. "I shouldn't have expected anything different."

Charlotte pushed his hand away fiercely. "No," she told him. "I hate you. I hate Lewis. I hate everyone. I hate everything."

"No you don't," Jack protested.

"Yes," Charlotte told him definitely. "Because everything dies. And if I hate it all, then I won't care as much."

"Not everything dies, Charlotte..."

"People die. Animals die. Plants die. Everything dies. What else is left?"

Jack sighed and looked out the window, and Charlotte knew he didn't know what to say. But then he leaned close to her, so close that the lapel of his jacket was against her cheek. "Do you smell it? Do you smell the cologne?" he asked her. She nodded. "What does that smell make you think of?"

Charlotte paused for a second. "Taking pictures together," she finally said, quietly. "At the party. The night of my first show. When Helen made us pose together for what felt like hours."

"Right!" Jack said. He leaned back. "And listen! Listen to the noise outside your window. What do you hear?"

Charlotte listened to the roar of the street below, something she had grown so used to during the past few months. "Cars," she replied.

"And what does the sound of cars remind you of?" asked Jack.

"Your car. The Aston Martin. And the night you got it, at your birthday dinner. And how I was the first person to get a chance to ride in it. And how I felt so special."

"Right!" Jack exclaimed again, looking closely at Charlotte. "See? These are the things that can't die away. Sure, the car may break down or the cologne may wear off. But the memories, the ones you've stowed in the most precious corners of your mind, those can't die away. Those will stay with you forever." He looked into her dull eyes and reached for her hand, clinging onto her tightly. "Charlotte, I need you. I need your stability in my life. Because without it...I don't know what to do."

Charlotte frowned. "How can I be the stability in your life when I don't have any in my own?"

"But you do!" Jack told her. He hesitated for a moment, but then decided. "I'm taking you somewhere. You need to come with me somewhere."

Charlotte thought about protesting, about telling him that she wasn't about to go anywhere, but then allowed him to help her stand to her wobbly feet and pull a new, fresh dress over her head. And when she wasn't steady enough, he took her in his arms and carried her down the stairs, settling her into the plush, warm seats of his car.

"I don't want you to open your eyes," he told her. "Not until we get there. Promise."

"I promise," she told him.

The car ride seemed as if it lasted forever. But Charlotte didn't mind. She enjoyed the twisting, the turning, the bumps and the smooth hills, feeling invincible as they drove, putting all of her trust in Jack while she kept her eyes closed. They could crash, they could die, and she would never have seen it coming. But she didn't care.

Jack led her through a door, and then on a longer walk inside a building. Charlotte could feel the hard wood under her feet and felt the air become stuffier as the outdoors fell away. Finally, he brought her to a place with a lot of light. She could see it even through her eyelids. It was warm. It was comfortable. It felt like home.

"You can open them now," he told her, his hands falling away from her arms.

And then everything became alive again. The stage lights shone down on her with such intensity that her bare skin tingled at its touch. The immensity of the bare stage bore in around her as she felt a rush from looking out at the empty audience with its rows and rows of red velvet seats. It wasn't the same as the theatre she had first performed in, the one she had fallen in love with which now lay in ruins. But all the same, it felt like home, the most wonderful place she had ever known.

"You see, Charlotte," Jack told her, walking to her side. "This is where you belong. This is something that will never die. This is your stability. Everytime you step onto the stage, you just light up. And everyone can see it." A grin spread across his face. "You just absolutely glow when you're onstage. It's so glorious. It's irresistable. And that's why I could never skip one of your performances."

Charlotte frowned. "But I haven't seen you at any of my shows in such a long time..."