Page 41 of Painted Scars
Charlie’s thumb pushes the moisturizer into my cuticles for our manicures, which are coming up next.
“For once, I drank coffee without imagining hurling it at him, and didn’t brace every time the elevator dinged,” I tell her.
She giggles. “Small mercies. The universe gave you a day off.”
“It was heaven.” I sigh and squeeze her hand, showing her my appreciation.
“That’s progress.” Charlie gives my back a final brush and lets me go. “It lets your body catch up to safety.”
Raised under the tyranny of a narcissistic mother she could never please, Charlie knows a thing or two about surviving physical and emotional abuse. These days, she’s fluent in therapy, meditation, and a functional nervous system. That’s one reason we do our girl dates every week to decompress.
Charlie lifts the wine bottle, asking if I want a top-up. I nod, and she refills me, my nose registering the berry and cinnamon flavors. She graciously waits until I’m fed, buzzed from the pampering, and emotionally intact before she gets the fangirl recap. Harper, on the other hand, demands answers under threat of knifepoint if I don’t spill my guts right away.
“Okay, swinging back to the biker boyfriend.” Charlie drags me onto the floor and claims one hand to push my cuticles back and trim them.
My stomach flips like I’ve been dared to reveal a secret crush at a sleepover. Part dread, part giddy thrill. How do I explain a man who makes me feel both hunted and safe?
Charlie collects a nail file and buffs my nails. “Is this going to be an emergency-level emotional mess or regular girl talk? Prepare me.” She likes to know beforehand to summon her chi.
“Somewhere betweenburn it all downandI saw his ass in sexy riding getup and forgot all my morals,” I reply.
Charlie hoots and taps my arm with the file. “Okay. I’m ready. Hit me.”
I start with, “I may have sexted my stalker and masturbated with him.”
She blinks once and takes a sip of pinot. “You’ve been hanging around Harper too long.”
“Exactly why I came here.” I take one too. “I need Charlie-therapy perspective and not an RSVP to a blood vow wedding.”
Charlie giggles. “Noted, boo. Start at the top. I want tone, inflection, and emoji count.”
This is why I love her. She digs in deep.
Before I get into it, I scan Charlie’s lineup of nail polish colors as if I’m choosing a battle weapon. Sparkly, pastel, or femme fatale red? Each one communicates a different message. I just don’t know what I want to say tonight. What color will my grumpy stalker like? Dark to match his shadows? A shade to match his “Glitter Bomb” nickname? Bubble gum-pink or metallic purple? Tough decision when it should coordinate with stains from stabbing my boss with a letter opener. I go with the swirly violet. Not because I’m a shrinking violet. I’m feeling unpredictable and craving danger with my glitter, like theheroine on page 237 of my latest dark romance read, where she makes the best kind of bad decisions.
I run my bestie through the whole story, highlighting Harry’s poop shrine—which is still present, by the way—the weirdly comforting tea and gift card deliveries, the second meet cute with my grumpy stalker, culminating in the sexting, green lace, confusion and doubt about my life choices.
She listens without judgment, smiling at grumpy stalker banter, painting my fingernails like we’re discussing a crush instead of a criminal.
When I finally pause to breathe, she sets the polish down. “First of all, jealous much and congratulations.” She shimmies since we can’t hug with my wet nails. “Secondly, do you think it was really about sex or something deeper?”
“I don’t know.” I admire the violet burnish. “It started out flirty and dangerous, but it turned into comfort. I felt safe and in control for once. Able to breathe.” I twist my wine glass. “He made me feel wanted and seen, not just watched.”
Charlie takes a break, hands me a lukewarm slice of pizza, and gets one for herself. “That part matters, boo.”
I stare at the melted cheese like it has answers. “Harper’s ready to custom-order lingerie for our honeymoon and add him to the family group chat.” Charlie snorts at this and sips her wine. “But I want to know if what I’m feeling is real or just trauma wearing a trench coat.”
A soft smile lifts her mouth, and she sets aside her wine. “You came to the right place. Let’s sort out fact from fantasy.”
This is why I came to Charlie with this conundrum. Harper’s idea of advice is “Bang your stalker, then interrogate him.” All well and good in dark romance. In real life, I need to find my in-between. Charlie’s method involves sipping pinot, nail art, and unpacking my childhood. Both satisfy my unhinged support spectrum in different ways.
I curl my legs under me, taking care not to accidentally brush my manicure. “Do you think it’s messed up that I romanticize someone wanting me that badly that he stalks me and watches me, even in private? That I want what the heroines have in the dark romances. Obsession, danger, and devotion.”
Charlie’s nail file pauses mid-buff. “Wanting someone to choose you that hard and possessive doesn’t make you broken. It means you’re human. That’s nothing to be ashamed about, boo.”
I swallow hard. “It’s not about the danger so much. I want to choose who sees me and touches me. I want to rewrite what was taken from me.” My voice shakes. “I want to feel powerful and in control again, not broken.”
She shifts and comes to sit beside me, winding an arm around my back. “Trauma does weird things to the way we want love, and that doesn’t make what you crave wrong.”
