My Year of Casual Acquaintances: A Novel (The South Bay Series Book 1) by Ruth F. Stevens

Author:Ruth F. Stevens [Stevens, Ruth F.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Rose Writing
Published: 2024-09-26T00:00:00+00:00

18.

Everything is spinning, spinning, spinning out of control. I’m strapped into one of those Tilt-A-Whirl rides you see at traveling carnivals. But it’s turning much too fast, and I can’t get it to stop. Charlie is seated directly across from me, but his face is a blur. Then, moments later, he’s standing nearby, hands in his pockets. How did he get out? I’m too dizzy to undo my strap. For a moment, the woman on the ride is not me but Charlie’s late wife Bet, and I’m witnessing an episode of her vertigo. But then the rider is me again, and it’s not only Charlie on the sidelines. Henry has joined him at the perimeter of the ride and watches me, laughing. I try shouting to them for help, but my voice comes out in an incoherent squeak no one can hear. When I awaken from this nightmare, my gut is clenched with anxiety.

I try to shake off the dream and attribute my unease to the Monday morning blues that sometimes descend when I face a challenging work week ahead. But the feeling persists even after my early phone conference. The call is routine, even upbeat. The editorial plans for the next issue are ahead of schedule, advertising revenue is up, and the workload is slackening as we head into summer, when we only publish two issues instead of three.

Clearly, the anxiety has nothing to do with my job.

I decide to take my beach walk right away instead of waiting until late afternoon. The daily walk remains my favorite vehicle for clearing my head and thinking through personal issues, and that needs to take priority right now. Besides, I don’t want to run into Charlie at the club yet. First, I need to figure out why I’m anxious. It’ll be better when I sort myself out. But as I maintain a brisk walking pace along the shore, I concede I’m growing worse, not better. The more I try to identify what’s nagging at me, the more I despair over the indisputable source of my anxiety.

It’s Charlie. Dear, funny, smart, sexy Charlie. Why did he have to go and spoil everything by falling in love with me?

Granted, he didn’t use the “l” word last night, but he might as well have said it. I harken back to those trembling shoulders and the whispered words about what’s happening between us. Maybe I shouldn’t be so rattled by his display of emotion. I guess a guy like Charlie is way more into feelings than the average American male. I once read a study concluding that devotees of literary fiction are more empathetic and attuned to emotions. I reason that a writer of literary fiction should be exponentially more sensitive.

But though Charlie may want to take things to the next level, I can’t go down that path. Not this soon. Not when I’m still settling into my own space after Henry’s departure. Even when Charlie revealed his innermost feelings about his wife’s death, I refused to discuss my own marriage, keeping him at bay with my flippant “sore subject” excuse.

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