She beats him there, which isn't really a surprise, because Violet's place is definitely less than a half hour out. She contemplates waiting in the parking lot, but she's not sure if he'll look for her there or out front, and what if he finds a place to park somewhere else? So she gives herself a once over in the mirror, swipes on a coat of Chapstick from her glove compartment, locks up her car, and walks through the narrow driveway to Santa Monica Blvd. It's late, but Millions of Milkshakes is open until two, and there's still a few people in line. She fiddles with her phone, checks the time – one fifteen – then busies herself by answering some of the emails she's let pile up.
She glances up every once in a while, but he still manages to catch her off-guard, scuffed sneakers and worn denim stepping into her peripheral as he clears his throat a little. She looks up and he's right there, in hi-def, smiling a little anxiously and tucking his hands into his pockets. "Hey."
She smiles a little, fights the flutter in her chest at the sight of him, and says, "Hi." He grins then, and she feels herself do the same, feeling a little silly, but her belly's all twisted up in knots. He's rockin' that five o-clock shadow again, and were his eyes always that blue? Neither says anything for a few moments, and before it gets too awkward, she blurts the only thing she can think of: "You got a haircut."
It's true – he's had it trimmed since the weekend and it's not curling so much at his ears anymore – but she feels her cheeks flame red immediately as he runs a hand through it, then pauses and tilts his head, looking a little bewildered. "Yeah," he says slowly. "How'd you know?"
Busted. "Oh, God. I – You – I wanted – Shit." She's humiliated, and feels hot all the way from her cheeks to her chest, and she's not sure if it makes it better or worse when he laughs out loud at her, and relaxes, propping himself against the wall behind her with one hand. He raises his brows expectantly, and Charlotte wants to sink into the pavement and straight through to Hell because it would be so much better than this. Someone needs to invent a brain-to-mouth filter for when exes are around, that's for damned sure. "Jen ran into Todd, he told her you were playing with Eddie Hutton, I might have, y'know-"
"Stalked me a little?"
"Shut up." He laughs again and she buries her face in her hands and shakes her head back and forth. Sweet Holy Jesus, this is awful. Just awful.
"Well, did we at least pass muster?"
Charlotte peeks at him through her fingers, and nods. "Yeah, you were great," she mutters into her palms, and he chuckles again before she feels his fingers wrap around her wrist, warm and just a little damp (so hell, at least he's nervous too) as he draws her hands down.
"Well, thank you kindly," he tells her, embellishing his drawl and nodding at her. "Now let me buy you a milkshake."
"Oh, I'm buying," she insists, falling into step with him as he heads for the door. She still feels like an idiot, but if he's willing to overlook it, she's sure as hell not going to dwell on her humiliation.
He holds the door for her, brows lifting again. "Is that so?"
"Yes, sir," she nods, hanging back from the register and nodding his attention up to the menu wall. "I was about five minutes from knockin' myself unconscious just to get some shut-eye, and you saved me. So this is my treat."
"The Southern gentleman in me takes issue with that," he tells her, before adding, "But the guy who was married to you thinks it's best not to fight you over milkshakes."
Charlotte smiles up at him, and says, "Listen to that guy." She skims the menu, but she already knows what she's getting. They do a mean root beer float, and it always seems a shame to get that instead of some decadent shake, but the last thing she needs is a full belly to keep her awake when she gets home. She sneaks a glance at Travis, and finds him looking at her. "What?"
He shrugs, and the corners of his mouth twitch a little as he tells her, "Nothin. Pink's just a good color for you, that's all."
Charlotte frowns and glances down. There's not a stitch of pink on her. "I'm wearing black." He taps her cheek where her embarrassed blush is still fading, and she feels it flare back a little. Sonofabitch. She whaps him hard on the arm and he damn near giggles at her. "Will you just pick yourself a damned shake?"
"Yes, ma'am," he laughs, squinting a little to read the list of shakes and mix-ins.
"Honestly," she mutters under her breath, shaking her head and crossing her arms over her chest. He's still smiling, and she thinks it's a good thing he's so damned good looking, or she might have to stay mad at him. As it is, she finds she's a bit too distracted by reacquainting herself with the angle of his jaw to hold onto her ire.
He opts for a vanilla shake with peanut butter cups and chocolate sauce mixed in, and then ribs her for getting her float as she's paying. She tells him to stuff it, and that she's always had a fondness for root beer, doesn't he remember?
"I do, but at a place with a name like Millions of Milkshakes, it seems like you oughtta actually get yourself a shake."
Charlotte just shrugs, taking a sip from her straw as they wait for his shake to finish blending.
Just as they're heading for seats at the counter, a cluster of twenty-somethings pile in, rowdy and in various stages of intoxication, looking for their sugar fix. "Looks like we beat the rush," Travis tells her, and Charlotte makes a face and nods him toward the door.
Once they're outside, she says, "It is way too late for me to deal with that, especially after the day I've had."
She heads back toward the parking lot, and Travis follows dutifully, sucking hard at his straw before asking, "Rough one?"
"Mm," she says around her own straw, swallowing before telling him, "Awful. Running a hospital isn't all it's cracked up to be, let me tell you."
"Running a hospital, huh? Look at you, all important. Charlotte King, Queen Bee."
She's not sure whether or not she should bristle at that, so she glances sideways at him and says, "I worked hard to be that important."
"I bet," he tells her, and she realizes then that he means it, that he hadn't so much been ribbing her as maybe genuinely impressed by her success. "You always did."
She doesn't really know what to say to that, so she just forces a little smile and leads him toward her car. She fishes her keys out with one hand, deactivates her alarm, then leans against the bumper. Travis settles next to her.
"I see I've offended you."
"No. No, I just..." Charlotte sighs, shakes her head. "You didn't, I just wasn't sure how you meant that – me 'being all important, queen bee.' Sounded a little like you thought I was feelin' a little big for my britches."
"Nah," he assures her. "Just proud of you. Good to hear you're doin' well out here."
She smiles then, genuinely, and tells him, "I'm doin' alright for myself. Got the hospital, and workin' at a practice. Keeps me busy."
He chuckles a little, stirs his straw around his milkshake, and smirks. "Right. Imagine my surprise when I entered my ex-wife's name into a search engine and came up with 'Charlotte King, Sexologist.'"
"It's a legitimate medical specialty," she insists, several months past sick of this particular issue.
"I believe it," he says, holding up his free hand innocently. "Just unexpected. Although maybe it shouldn't be; you never were shy about the bedroom."
"I was never shy about much of anything," she points out.
"No," he chuckles a little. "You never were that." They're smiling at each other again, and she's marveling just a little bit at how awkward this is not. He's just... Travis. And she's just her. And it's... nice. "So tell me about this bad day."
"Ugh," she groans, face falling into a frown. "Tainted cafeteria food. Cost me enough of my staff to be a damned mess, especially once the visitors started takin' ill as well. Spent half the damned day trying to make sure it wasn't something airborne or contagious, and then trying to pinpoint exactly what had gone bad, plus findin' extra beds for all the people puking their guts up or otherwise sick as dogs from the whole thing. It was ridiculous. Had to cancel appointments at the practice, and then when I finally got there, I got in a big ol' fight with my ex, diagnosed two UTIs, and went home. Took a handful of Excedrin and laid there for hours, and then called you."
"That sucks," he tells her, and she can tell he means it, but she laughs out loud.
"Yeah." She sips from her drink again. "It did. But enough about my problems. How about you? How's work?"
She doesn't realize she's given him an opening until he grins again, and teases, "I don't know, you tell me. You were there, after all."
"Travis!" she scolds, but it's a little less embarrassing now that she's beginning to feel more comfortable with him. "Stop it. I mean the other work – the studio stuff."
"Ah. That."
"Yes, that."
"It's good. A friend of Luke Seever's – you remember him?" She nods, slurping up root beer. "Needed a guitarist for an album, and Luke recommended me. Figured I as long as I was gonna be out here, he should make it worth my while and lined up another album gig for me next month."
"Kind of him," Charlotte says, scooping up a bit of ice cream from her cup.
"Yeah, Luke's done well for himself. I'm stayin' in this apartment over his garage – you should see his house. It's nothing to scoff at, that's for damned sure."
"Huge?"
"Well, I suppose not compared to where you grew up, but it holds it's own. Nice neighborhood."
"How long you playin' with Hutton?"
"Eddie's guitarist is laid up for a bit, so I'll be here until he's back." He shrugs a little. "It's good work, the guys are mostly great, nice to be on stage."
"You still playin' back home?"
"Yep. Steady gigs, can't complain. I teach guitar still, help dad out with the dogs." He shrugs. "Life's pretty much the same as always, I guess."
The same as always, she thinks. It's a concept that's totally foreign to her – life being the same as it always was. She gets stuck in her ruts like everyone else, but life in LA is nothing like life in Georgia, which was nothing like college, which was nothing like Monroeville. But Travis is a Georgia boy, born and raised. And a musician, born and raised. He's still in jeans and a goddamned Georgia Bulldogs t-shirt, and she's sitting here against her Mercedes in a Juicy Couture tracksuit. She suddenly feels like they're worlds apart, and she wonders what he sees when he looks at her. She looks at him and sees the man she married, but her? She's not that girl anymore.
"This milkshake is not messin' around," he tells her, pulling her out of her thoughts as she watches him wrangle his straw through the thick drink.
"Yeah, it's, uh... it's kind of a spoon-and-straw deal sometimes." She digs her own spoon into her ice cream for another bite. "But you like it?"
"Definitely. Thank you for buyin'." He smiles at her then, and she nods, looks back to her drink. She can feel him watching her, and she suddenly wishes he wouldn't. He breaks the silence a moment later, telling her, "You look worn out."
"Yeah. Well." She musters up a smile for him. "It's gettin' on two AM, and I've been up since six. And have to be up at six again tomorrow." A little shrug. "I'm beat."
"And yet you're here, havin' milkshakes with me." He tsks her a little, and gives her that worried look he always did when he thought she was workin' herself to the bone and not takin' care of herself. "You should be in bed."
"I was. Couldn't sleep," she reminds.
"Right. Didn't you used to have somethin' for that? Ambien?"
"Yeah."
"What happened to that?"
She shifts a little uncomfortably, shrugs a shoulder. "Stopped takin' it."
"Why? You were never really a good sleeper; if I recall, that pill was a godsend when you got it. I thought you were gonna erect monuments or somethin'."
He's going for levity, but she's not feeling all that light, so she just answers, "Momma."
Travis gives her a look somewhere between sympathy and an eye roll. "You're not your Momma, Charlotte. Nothing like her, and never were."
"More so than you might think." He lifts one brow curiously, works his straw around in his milkshake, and just waits for her to elaborate. Charlotte thinks about lying, but hell, it's Travis. He'd probably see through it anyway. "Had a little problem, for a while. After we, uh… Right before I left Georgia." She sips a mouthful of root beer, memorizes the license plate of the car across from her, and adds, "Couldn't sleep. Didn't feel like being awake. Realized I was taking it too far, and haven't touched a sleeping pill since." She glances up and tries to ignore the guilt on his face – doesn't do anyone any favors to call attention to it. "Sucks on nights like this."
"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and she shrugs again, waves a hand at him.
"You didn't force the pills down my throat."
"No, but I'd wager I gave you a good reason for takin' 'em."
"Stop it," she orders, making sure to meet his eyes this time. "I'm responsible for my actions, not you. I took the pills; I let myself take it too far knowing full well my family's tendency toward that sort of thing. It's not your responsibility, so stop kickin' yourself over it."
He cracks a little bit of a smile, shifts a little against the bumper and asks, "So what gets you to sleep now? I mean, it can't be milkshakes every time, right?"
"Nah." Charlotte shakes her head, grins at him. "Sex."
He laughs outright at that, and she chuckles with him just a little. "Should I be worried about my virtue then?" he asks, still smiling at her, and she shakes her head.
"No, you're safe. I'm, ah… I'm having a little bit of forced celibacy right now, I guess you could say."
"Forced celibacy, huh? That doesn't sound like much fun."
"It's not," she chuckles. "But I've got some wounds that need lickin'. Don't need to drag anyone down with me while I wallow." She fiddles with her spoon again, ice cream melting into her root beer, fingers icy now against the plastic cup.
"Oh? Do tell."
"That ex I mentioned… You know I said I cheated?" He nods. "Well, we worked things out, after that. Were okay for a while, then broke up a couple months ago." She figures Sheldon's not even worth mentioning – that was just a Band-Aid that wouldn't stick.
"Mind if I ask why?"
"Huh?"
"Why the break-up? I mean, you worked through infidelity. Gotta wonder what could, uh, top that."
"I neglected to tell him I'd been married until, y'know, now," she mutters around her straw.
Travis blows out a breath, shakes his head, but he's still got that damned charming smile on his face. "You'd been together how long?"
"Two years, just about."
"And it just, what? Slipped your mind?"
"I didn't want to talk about it," she answers with a shrug, bristling just a little. She's so done fighting over this. If she never argued over her divorce again, it would be too soon. "Wasn't any of his damned business. Besides, he'd want to know everything, all the dirty details, and then he'd look at me like I was some poor, hurt girl that needed to be tended to, and I didn't want to be… that. He's one of those guys who likes to fix things, be the big man. I didn't need him to try to fix what happened – or me, for that matter, although he seemed to be workin' on that anyway."
"Oh, please tell me you were not trying to make it work with some guy who thought you needed fixing."
"Well, I can be a bit of a challenge," Charlotte cedes, because she knows in the end that she's not exactly easy to love. That she doesn't make herself easy to love.
Travis scoffs, screws his face up a little. "So can everyone. It's part of what makes love interesting. And believe me, you take a little finessing, but you're not that hard to be with."
Charlotte feels the words in her mouth, rolls them over her tongue while she debates whether or not to let them out, then just finally says it: "We've been divorced for six years, Trav. Pretty sure you're not the authority on Charlotte King anymore."
He gives her a sideways glance, manages to look a little sheepish. "Right. Sorry. So, what did this ex of yours think was so wrong with you?"
"I had… trust issues, and I didn't… connect. Didn't open up and confide and all that."
"And he fixed all that?"
"Well, no. As soon as I trusted the bastard, opened up and confided like he wanted, he went and broke my heart."
Travis sucks on his straw and makes a face that pretty clearly reads "See?"
"But he reminded me love's not so scary. That it's worth getting your heart broken now and then. So, I guess I owe him that." She sips too, murmurs, "Selfish bastard" around her straw, then sips again.
Travis smiles a little. "He didn't deserve you anyway."
"Now, how do you know that? You don't even know so much as his name, and you've been good and gone from my life for years."
Travis just shrugs. "He let you go."
She feels that stupid little flutter in her chest again – Travis always was good with the sweet words. She can't help the little smile, even when she reminds him, "So did you."
"Yeah, but he gave you up. I just didn't fight hard enough to keep you." He reaches over, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear, and Charlotte has to fight not to shiver at the feel of chilly fingertips against her skin. "Lesser sin, if you ask me."
"Ah."
"And besides, I never said I deserved you."
She nods slowly, sucks the last of the root beer from her cup and stirs her spoon through the glob of ice cream left in the bottom. Finally, she lifts her head, smiles a little at him, and says, "You did. Mistakes were made, but… you did."
Travis doesn't say anything for a minute, just swirls his straw through his melting milkshake, tugs a few sips from it, and studies the cars across from them. Then, he looks at her, gives her this smile that she can tell is a little forced, and says, "Have I told you yet how damned pretty you are? I mean, you always were, but… you're looking real good, Lola."
"Alright, you," she tells him, nudging his arm with hers. "I didn't say you had a license to flirt."
"I'm not flirting, just being honest."
"Mmhmm."
"I am."
"Sure you are."
"Uh huh."
They're both grinning now, and it feels good, so she decides to let it go. Fifteen minutes later, both their cups are empty, and forty-five after that, she's letting herself back into Violet's place, her body finally feeling heavy with fatigue. Seeing him was good – better than good – and he managed not to let her get away without agreeing to lunch next week. She climbs the stairs and heads for the bathroom, catches herself smiling as she brushes her teeth. She shakes her head at herself and wonders what she's doing, getting all messed up with Travis again. Then she tells herself it's just lunch and not to be silly, spits toothpaste into the sink, and heads for bed. Five minutes later, she's watching moonlight blur and fade over her ceiling as her eyes droop shut.
