Page 30 of If My Wishes Came True
I’m so relieved, I let out a little laugh through my tears.
Then, like a true prince, he kisses my hand and wishes me goodnight.
When I walk into my apartment, I can still feel the warmth of Charlie’s lips on the skin right above my knuckles. I ignore my plans to catch up on the hundreds of email inquiries sitting unread in my inbox—something that’s been hanging over my head since I went viral. I’ll never be able to focus on work after that incredible second date with Charlie. There’s only one thing in the entire world I want to do right now. And that’s paint.
I run into my guest room, now a makeshift art studio, and throw on a smock. My fingers are trembling with excitement as I mix colors on my palette. As soon as I’m finished, I start painting. My hand flies across the canvas with a mind of its own, vibrating from the spark of Charlie’s kiss. Before I know it, an image begins to take shape. Rosy cheeks, tanned skin. Chestnut-colored hair, with a bit of lighter hazelnut mixed in. Dark brown eyes, framed by gorgeous long lashes.
Charlie.
When I step back to look at the finished product, hours after the sun has set, my heart flutters. It’s like I’m back in the hallway with him again. He knew exactly what to say to put a smile on my face: “This can be anything you need it to be.”
If it were any other guy saying those words, I’d feel relieved. I could keep things uncommitted and uncomplicated. But the problem is, for the first time in years, I don’t want a casual relationship.
I want this to be what my gut tells me it is. The love story I’ve waited for my entire life. The one I drew in my high school journal. The one I gave up on because I didn’t think I deserved it anymore.
Because I felt guilty. I still do.
I think back to the day I left Christy and Kyle’s Manhattan apartment, after recuperating from something I’m sure Kyle has since deemed a “depressive episode.” Finally, after six long months under their watchful eyes, I felt well enough to go through with the plan I’d made before I graduated from my architecture program. I was going to move to Pittsburgh and start flipping houses there. But I could tell from Christy’s frown when I said goodbye that she was still worried about me.
“Jenna, I’m so glad you’re doing better, but…” She paused to clear her throat. “I’m afraid what happened with Hunter will keep coming back to haunt you, if you don’t go to therapy. I mean, it’s been three years, and look how it’s affecting you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Christy, I spent the last three years earning a master’s degree—which I imagine is still pretty damn hard, even when you don’t have dyslexia. Of course I fell apart aftergraduation! I couldn’t afford to break down before, without worrying about falling behind in my classes. And this wasn’t only about Hunter. It was about Alex, too. If a guy you were dating sent a picture of you naked in bed to all his friends, wouldn’t you be upset?”
My sister nodded, her forehead still creased.
“Yes, I was a mess, but I got it out of my system,” I told her. “That’s what counts. And I guarantee you, I am fine now.”
But I wasn’t fine. I was convinced I’d ruined Hunter’s life. Every morning, when I woke up, the first thing on my mind was that look of utter disappointment in his ocean-blue eyes. I believedIwas the bad guy. I couldn’t tell Christy that, though.
Maybe she was right about me needing therapy. It’s been five years since we had that conversation, and I can’t say I’m any better off.
Especially now that I’ve met Charlie. As much as I want to believe we’re meant for each other, I’ve seen enough romantic comedies and read enough fairytales to know that the bad guy doesn’t get a happily-ever-after.
By the time I clean my paintbrushes and lay them flat to dry, it’s nearly 10:00 p.m. I’m ravenous, so I whip up a late-night dinner of blueberry pancakes, using my favorite boxed mix from Sutton’s. I crack a smile, thinking that it’s almost like Charlie made them for me himself. Then I frown, wondering if I even deserve that.
My ambivalence is killing me. But at least the pancakes are delicious. I’m finishing the last fluffy bites, dipped in Sutton’s golden maple syrup, when I hear a rustling sound coming fromthe foyer. Sometimes the building’s maintenance staff slips notes under residents’ doors to advise us of water shut-offs or repairs that need to be made, so I don’t think much of it. I rinse my plate, put it in the dishwasher along with my utensils, then head to the front door.
But there’s no note from maintenance on white letter paper. Instead, I see what looks like a postcard. I bend down to pick it up, and my heart skips a beat. It’s a photograph of the abstract painting that Charlie and I spent nearly thirty minutes trying to interpret this afternoon. A painting titled simply,Abstract No. 3—but which I will forever think of asBrown-Eyed Charlie and Green-Eyed Jenna.
A huge grin blooms on my face. As I examine the photograph more closely, I notice the handful of museum-goers standing in front of the painting. An elderly gentleman with a cane. A woman carrying a sleeping toddler. A couple holding hands.
And me.
Charlie must have snapped this before I joined him over at the next wall. All that’s visible is my profile, but I’m smiling so wide in the picture, you’d think I was seeing my own painting on display at the Museum of Contemporary Art.
I flip over the photo and see a note from Charlie on the back:
Jenna,
I took this picture so I’ll always remember laughing with you over this painting. It was a great moment, and I feel lucky to have shared it with you. I got evenluckier when I captured this expression of sheer joy on your face. Your passion for art inspires me.
I was going to text this to you, then realized we haven’t exchanged numbers. So here’s mine, for the next time you want to hang out—or if you ever get locked out of your apartment, and need me to return the favor.
He signed itCharliein beautiful cursive, followed by his phone number underneath.
I turn the photo over again to examine my happy face. I may not have realized it then, but I know now that it wasn’t only the art that made me so ecstatic. It was Charlie’s sweet interpretation of the painting—and the fact that, of all our interactions, he chose to reference the one time I helped him, instead of the other way around.
I was starting to feel like a damsel in distress, the way Charlie wiped my tears with his sleeve when we first met and picked up my scattered art supplies after I’d dropped them. Not to mention, the time he got on his hands and knees to find my diamond earring on the Lakefront Trail.
