The Best Next Thing

They balanced each other perfectly.

Charity had never seen two people more in love. And Faith appeared to have found a similar relationship with Stuart. Charity had dreamed of having the same with Blaine…perhaps that’s why it had been so hard to accept or admit what was happening at first. Because this was her template, and she had tried to force the abomination of a marriage she’d had with Blaine into this same mold.

Only it would never fit…the jagged edges of that relationship had been too ugly and too sharp and had ripped her fragile mold apart.

Her father enfolded her mother in an affectionate embrace and kissed the top of her head.

“Come on, kids,” their father invited, leading the way. “To the dadmobile.”

“Oh my God, Daddy. Do you have to be so lame in front of a guest?” Faith complained as they all filed out after the older couple. Charity laughed, enjoying the moment. Knowing that all too soon, there would be only confusion and pain.

Her hand drifted into Miles’s…as she silently sought the unwavering support that she knew was right there for the taking. His palm kissed hers, and their fingers meshed.

For now, this would do.

The evening was filled with small talk, reminiscences, laughter, and sentimentality. Miles enjoyed watching the lighthearted byplay between the older Coles and their daughters. This interaction between father and kids was not something he’d had plenty of opportunity to observe firsthand, and he found himself envious of that affectionate bond. He had lost his dad at an age when he had needed him most.

His mother had tried her best, bless her. His first shave had been with a pink woman’s razor and floral scented shaving gel. The horrifically vague “birds and bees” talk after his first wet dream. The awkward condom discussion had involved a cucumber and a lot of accidentally torn condoms. If nothing else, he had learned that condoms were most certainly not infallible.

They were all cringe-y, but fond memories…but he occasionally wondered how life would have been with an adult male influence in his life.

As the evening progressed, Charity grew more and more distant. The others were starting to pick up on it, and Miles noticed Rita and Erik exchange a few concerned glances.

“I’ve decided that I’m moving back to the Cape after Miles returns to London.” Charity blurted out over dessert and coffee. Her words effectively silenced all the slightly desperate banter that had been darting back and forth between Faith and the older Coles.

“That’s wonderful, darling. We’ve all missed you so much.” Rita squeezed Charity’s arm, seemingly oblivious to her tension. Miles wasn’t sure if they were just ignoring it and trying to pretend that everything was fine. Or if they genuinely could not tell how stressed Charity was.

“But?” The soft word came from Faith. Miles was relieved that someone could see that there was more to be said here.

Charity shot her sister a grateful look before gulping down a mouthful of red wine and then grimacing.

“But…I’d prefer never to see Sandra and Paul again.”

“Charity,” Rita’s voice was gently chastising. “I know it’s diffi—”

“Pleased don’t say it’s difficult,” Charity interrupted her sharply. She cast a self-conscious glance around the room, but the other patrons hadn’t noticed the slight rise in her tone. “The only thing that was difficult for me was having to watch you all cry for him. Miss him. Mourn him. And to pretend that I felt the same way.”

Rita’s mouth opened and then closed. Clearly lost for words. Erik was frowning, but Faith…Faith had paled. With her drawn face and distraught eyes, she looked like someone who had just witnessed a fatal accident.

“What did he do to you?” she asked, her voice pitched low, and Erik made a soft, distressed sound in the back of his throat. Rita still looked confused and horrified. Not as quick as her husband and older daughter…probably too sweet and insulated to even imagine such a thing happening to one of her precious children.

Charity laughed. There was no humor in the awful sound. Only bleakness and despair and anguish.

“Oh God,” she murmured, scrubbing her palms over her face. “What didn’t he do? It was like he followed an abusers’ manual or something, because he did it all.”

Rita made a choked sound, and her hand shot up to cover her mouth, her lovely eyes glittered fiercely above that hand.

“It started on our wedding night. It ended the night he killed himself. And he only did that because he thought he had killed me. He called his parents before he shot himself though.

“Knowing Blaine, he was too vain to allow our bodies to lay there undiscovered possibly for days. So, he called his parents who always took care of everything for him. And they came running. The police were not to know that he had tried to smother me with a pillow, of course. So, they concocted this story about him mistakenly thinking I was going to leave him. And, as a result, he shot himself while I was asleep. I was in shock, and traumatized to find myself covered in blood after regaining consciousness. Numb and confused…it was simpler to sit back and allow Sandra and Paul to dictate the narrative.