Page 33 of Made for Wilde
I meet her eyes, and something passes between us. An acknowledgment of shared loneliness, maybe. Or just the simple comfort of being understood.
"Yeah," I say. "I did."
The timer dings, breaking the moment. I drain the pasta, grateful for something to do with my hands.
"So," Charlotte says brightly, clearly sensing my need to change the subject. "Tell me about training Ben."
I latch onto the new topic gratefully, and we slip into easier conversation. The tension eases from my shoulders as we talk about the gym, about Dana's plans for expansion, about the fighters I'm working with.
By the time I plate the pasta and carry our bowls to the small table by the window, the heaviness from my revelation has lifted. Charlotte asks about my training philosophy, and I find myself talking more than I usually do, drawn out by her genuine interest.
We eat watching lightning illuminate the mountains in brief, electric flashes. The conversation flows naturally now—safer topics that don't require me to excavate old wounds. But something has shifted between us. The air feels clearer somehow, like the storm outside has swept away more than just the day's heat.
When we finish eating and I take our bowls to the sink. The silence stretches between us, but it's not uncomfortable. It's charged with something I can't name and don't want to examine too closely.
She starts toward the hallway but pauses, tilting her head toward the window.
"Listen to that," she says. "That doesn't sound like rain anymore."
I cross to the window and peer out into the darkness. The porch railing is already coated in a thin sheet of ice, glittering in the outdoor light like crystal. The temperature must have dropped fast.
"It's turning to sleet," I say, watching ice pellets bounce off the glass. "Temperature's dropping."
Charlotte moves to stand beside me, close enough that I can smell the shampoo in her damp hair.
"Is that bad?"
"For the roads? Yeah." I can feel the heat radiating from her body, and I have to step back before I do something stupid. "Ice storms can shut down the mountain for days."
Her face falls.
"Days? Really? I was hoping to get back to town first thing in the morning." She wraps her arms around herself, worry creasing her forehead. "I have this big assignment due Monday. I was supposed to practice all weekend."
"What kind of assignment?"
She sighs, running a hand through her tangled hair.
"It's this major practical exam. We have to demonstrate three different cutting and styling techniques. I'm already behind everyone else in my class, and now..." She gestures helplessly toward the window. "Now I'm missing crucial practice time."
There's frustration in her voice, but also determination.
I recognize it. The same drive I see in fighters who aren't the most talented but work twice as hard to make up for it.
"What do you need to practice?" I ask. "The cutting part?"
She nods.
"That, and the styling. The problem is I need someone to practice on. We usually pair up in class, work on each other'shair. But I'm stuck here, and even if the roads clear this afternoon, Sarah's still in Denver until tomorrow."
I watch her fidget with the dish towel she's picked up, her slim fingers twisting the fabric. The disappointment is written all over her face. It bothers me more than it should, seeing her frustrated like this. Makes me want to fix it, to take that worry away.
"What about a mannequin head? Don't you guys use those?"
Charlotte shrugs.
"We do, but it's not the same. Real hair behaves differently. And I left mine at school anyway." She attempts a smile. "It's fine. I'll figure something out. Maybe I can convince one of my neighbors to let me give them a trim when I get back."
I find myself reaching up to touch my own hair, the overgrown strands falling past my shoulders. It's gotten long again, longer than it's been since I was a teenager. Dana's been on my case about it for weeks, telling me I look like a "mountain hermit" instead of a professional trainer.
