The Best Next Thing

He didn’t want to hear about them, but at the same time he wanted to know. Needed her to share these war stories with him. Even though he didn’t want them in his mind or memories.

He found himself occupying a conflicting emotional space, and he wasn’t sure how to deal with it.

He sighed deeply as he scrolled through Blaine Davenport’s pictures.

He had been a tall, handsome, sandy haired man, with a blindingly perfect smile. Miles could see how this golden pretty boy could charm those around him. Beguile them. Deceive them into thinking he was an actual human being instead of a total fucking monster.

Miles paid particular attention to Charity in the pictures and he couldn’t understand how no one had seen how unhappy she had been. She always had a smile pasted on her face. One that never reached her eyes. Nothing at all like the wedding picture. Her smiles after her wedding had been fake, forced…and so sad, it just about broke Miles’s heart to see them.

How had her family, her friends…people who had known her for years, not seen this transformation? When it was as clear as day to him?

The long sleeves, the high-necked blouses, the neckerchiefs. All perfectly respectable for a pastor’s wife, but Miles knew what they were hiding.

He made a distressed sound, and Stormy’s head lifted from where it had been planted on his thigh. He stroked her ears, needing the contact and comfort.

He went through Blaine’s “friend” list and found a name that rang a bell.

Faith Culpepper. The accompanying picture of a smiling woman hugging a familiar looking little girl confirmed that it was Charity’s sister.

Miles stared at the profile picture for a long time, telling himself it was none of his business. He should stay out of it. Just enjoy his time with Charity and eventually move on.

He opened up a direct message and stared at the blank page for a while. They weren’t friends, odds were she probably wouldn’t even see the message. And if she didn’t reply then that was fine. He wouldn’t pursue this any further.

Fuck.

His fingers restlessly tapped the glass-topped coffee table as he continued to stare at the page. Charity could well hate him for this.

Eventually, as if by their own volition his hands lifted and his fingertips splayed on the keyboard.

Good morning. My name is Miles Hollingsworth…

The house was quiet when Charity arrived back after five that evening. She was so late. It was just supposed to be lunch, and Miles would have expected her back hours ago.

Her stomach was in knots as she cautiously made her way to the kitchen. She didn’t know why she was so nervous…so afraid.

This was Miles.

Miles wouldn’t hurt her. He didn’t want to control her. Or own her. And just because they were now lovers didn’t mean she owed him any explanations as to her whereabouts.

She told herself all of that, and still her dread would not dissipate. And every hesitant step farther into the quiet house, deepened her anxiety.

“Miles?” No response.

Well, no human response…she heard the scrabble of claws on the wooden floors as Stormy dashed from the direction of the living room into the kitchen. The dog danced and twirled happily, huffing and whining in excitement as she greeted Charity.

“Hey girl, did you miss me?” she asked, bending at the waist to pat the pup’s head.

“She did.” Miles’s voice startled her, and she looked up to find him standing in the kitchen doorway. “We both did.”

“Uh…I’m sorry I’m late.” Charity could have kicked herself. It hadn’t been her intention to apologize. It was an unfortunate instinctive response she had to work on getting rid of.

His eyes reflected confusion.

“I wasn’t aware that there was a time limit on your afternoon out,” he said, and then smiled. His eyes took on an appreciative glint as he assessed her appearance. “But it’s evident you’ve been quite busy.”

One of her hands self-consciously went up to her newly shorn hair, and she straightened slowly. Lia had offered to accompany her to a salon after Charity had tentatively mentioned wanting a haircut. The drastic new style had been an impulse. She had stared blankly at herself in the mirror, while the stylist had enthused about the length and texture of her hair. Barely recognizing the woman hidden beneath all of that hair and the words had been out before she could stop them.

Cut it all off.

She had just about broken the stylist’s heart. But once she had spoken the words, Charity had been determined to follow through. She had happily donated her two-foot-long fall of hair to CANSA.

Her hair hadn’t seen a pair of scissors in three years, and before that, it had been kept in a strictly jaw-length bob…as per Blaine’s preference. The change now was drastic. And defiant. Her nearly waist-length hair had been shorn into a soft, pixie cut. Charity had never had her hair this short before but she liked how light and airy it felt.