Page 67 of The Charm Offensive
Dev tries to slide around the end of the stall, but Charlie doesn’t move. “Do you ship items to the United States?”
“Yes, although it usually takes three to four weeks.”
“That’s perfect. We’ll take the bowl and the serving platter.”
“Charlie, no. I can’t.…” Dev leans in so the artist won’t overhear. “I can’t afford them.”
“But I can. What’s your parents’ address?”
“You don’t have to do this for me.”
“I know I don’t have to,” he says plainly. “I want to.”
Their shoulders press together for a second, but only a second, before Charlie pulls out his wallet to pay. Dev watches Charlie hand over his credit card and doesn’t let himself fixate on Charlie’s profound kindness, either.
By the time they get back outside, the clouds have melted away into a warm afternoon, and Charlie produces a pair of Fendi sunglasses from some unknown pocket and pulls off his sweater. He begins tying it around his waist.
“No.Absolutely not.”
“What?” Charlie gestures to the double-knotted sleeves snug on his hips. “It’s fucking hot, and I’m not going to carry it all day.”
Dev shakes his head in feigned disgust. It’s so quintessentiallyCharlie: looking like a cologne model from the shoulders up with his five-hundred-dollar sunglasses, and like a soccer mom from the waist down, with his sweater tied around him and his sensible shoes.
Dev has the sudden urge to take a picture of him, to document this day and this exact version of Charlie, so six months from now, when Dev is sitting on his couch at his El Monte apartment, with his three Craigslist roommates, watching Charlie’s televised wedding to Daphne Reynolds, he’ll have proof there is some version of Charlie Winshaw who buys otherpeople’s parents extravagant anniversary presents, who lets Dev eat off his plate, who saysfuck. A version of Charlie Winshaw who belongs only to him, even if it’s only for a minute, even if it’s only for one practice date.
The urge is too great to ignore. He grabs Charlie by the elbow and drags him down to the pier where there’s a pretty tableau of Table Mountain. “Take a selfie with me, Charlie.”
Charlie doesn’t resist. He puts an arm around Dev’s shoulder, and he leans in close, the indent of his temple locking against the hard line of Dev’s jaw, and all Dev can think about for hours afterward is how perfectly Charlie fits there, tucked beneath his chin.
Charlie
Charlie really wants to kiss Dev right now.
“Where to next?” Dev asks as their limbs come apart slowly like bits of Velcro. Charlie points vaguely toward Table Mountain, unable to concentrate on anything but Dev’s mouth.
“Thesky? Are we going for a helicopter ride? How veryEver Afterof you.”
Charlie really, really wants to kiss him. With his head tucked under Dev’s chin, he could have reached up and kissed him here, on the pier of the V&A Waterfront, with hundreds of tourists going about their own sightseeing as witnesses.
Which is, of course, why he couldn’t kiss him.
“No, we’re going to Table Mountain.”
Dev narrows his eyes. “How do we get up there? By helicopter?”
“There’s a cable car.”
Dev nervously pushes his glasses up his nose. “A cable car?”
“Yes.”
“That, like, goes up the side of the mountain?”
“Yes, logistically, that’s how it will work.”
Dev swallows.
“Are you afraid of heights?”
