I’ve probably just spoken more consecutive words to Lance than I have in the past three years he’s been on the team. And my newfound understanding isn’t helping me out much, considering yesterday’s brief Facetime conversation with Charlene is the only one we’ve had in the past week.

“So, uh, based on the way you seem like you’re either trying to murder that treadmill or yourself, I’m guessing things aren’t all that good with Charlene right now.”

I grit my teeth, annoyed that I’m so transparent, and that he’s calling me out on it.

He nods, as if he understands my silence. “I don’t know how things went down for you as a kid—like, when you went to live with your grandparents or what—but I was fifteen when the beatings finally stopped. From what I know, Charlene was a teenager when she went from one fucked up situation to another. I’m not saying it’s the same thing.”

He runs both hands down his face. “Fuck. Poppy should be the one having this conversation with you. She’s a fuckton better at this. Look, what I’m trying to say is that I spent a lot of years trying to forget all the bad shit by keeping it locked up here.” He taps his temple. “I’m pretty sure some of it is blocked out, at least that’s what my therapist says, like my brain is trying to protect itself from the worst of it.”

He exhales a long breath. “Look. I know I’m rambling, but maybe it’s the same for Charlene? Or maybe it isn’t.” He rests a hand on my shoulder, his eyebrows pinched, a heavy swallow making his throat bob. “All I’m saying is that sometimes we shut ourselves off from the things we need when we’re afraid to lose them the most. We’re all kind of broken, and we all need a little saving sometimes, aye? Poppy seems to think you two are meant to save each other.” He rolls his eyes. “I sound like a fuckin’ asshole, but Poppy’s usually right about this kind of thing.” He nods, more to himself than me. “All right. Good talk, Westinghouse. I’m gonna get outta yer face now before you give me a beatdown.”

He drops his hand and walks away, leaving me to ponder what he’s said, and how much I want him to be right. Part of the reason I haven’t been pushing myself on Charlene is my uncertainty about whether I’m all that good for her. But maybe Poppy’s right and all of our broken parts do fit together.

It’s with that thought in mind that I drive to Charlene’s after my workout, with a quick stop on the way. When I arrive, Luther is posted outside the front door. He has a twin brother named Damien, and they’ve been trading off shifts this week at her house.

It’s the middle of the afternoon, and Charlene should technically be at work, but I know from Alex that she’s taken the week off. I’m also aware she hasn’t left her house since her birthday party.

Luther nods his acknowledgement as I knock.

“Charlene?”

Her muffled voice comes through the door after a long minute. “Darren?”

I press my palm against the warm steel, aware she’s almost close enough to touch. “Can I see you?”

It takes a minute before the door opens the three inches the chain latch allows. Her eye appears in the crack and darts down and back up, shooting around my face.

I hold up the bag. “I brought some things for you.”

She stares at me for a few seconds before she bows her head and closes the door. The lock clicks, and she steps back as she opens it so I can come inside. She looks exhausted. Her eyes are red rimmed, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun. She’s wearing a pair of the leggings I bought her and a shirt. I try not to think about whether or not she’s wearing cotton cheekies under those leggings.

Charlene’s fingers go to her throat, but drop right away when she doesn’t find her pearls.

“I wasn’t expecting you.”

“I know.” I’d apologize for coming unannounced, but it would be insincere.

I set the bag on the counter and start emptying it so I have something to do with my hands that doesn’t include hugging Charlene, which is what I want more than anything. That and to kiss her.

Charlene frowns as I set the bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on the counter. “What is this?”

“I picked up a few things I thought you might like.”

“Oh.” She seems genuinely shocked, which is odd.

“I also picked up some takeout in case you wanted something aside from snacks.” I pull out the Styrofoam and Saran-wrapped box containing her favorite penne alfredo from the restaurant we frequent close to my place.

“You came here to feed me?”