AN: Early update. Guys, I need powerstones lol. It's way too low than I expected.
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Charlie slowed the car as they turned onto his street and spotted it immediately... A white sedan parked crookedly in his driveway like a middle finger wrapped in rust and cigarette smoke. He didn't even bother pulling in. Just narrowed his eyes, jaw tightening.
None of them spoke the whole way...
Ten minutes later, they pulled into a Taco Bell parking lot.
Charlie turned off the engine and got out without a word. Alan followed, dragging his feet like a kid being forced to get vaccinated.
"Ah! My toe feels kinda clammy," Alan complained.
Inside, the place was quiet. Just a couple of teenagers in a booth and a guy in flip-flops sleeping against the window with a Baja Blast in his lap.
Charlie walked straight to the counter.
He leaned against the counter with one hand jammed in his pocket, sunglasses still on, the other holding the menu. The fluorescent lights above buzzed softly. Alan stood next to him, squinting at the digital menu like it was a legal contract.
"Okay… I don't know if I want the Chalupa Combo or the Power Bowl. Is the Power Bowl gluten-free? Wait, maybe the Veggie..."
Charlie calmly stepped sideways and brought the heel of his foot down on Alan's sneaker with practiced precision.
Alan flinched. "Ow! Ow! Ow! Please let go."
"Pick," Charlie said, voice quiet but sharp. "Before you lose two toenails and the rest of my patience."
Alan looked at him. Charlie didn't smile. He didn't blink. Just stared at him like a man who'd walked in on a fire, left, then calmly returned with gasoline.
"Chalupa Combo," Alan muttered quickly to the cashier, who looked more amused than surprised.
Charlie nodded and turned to order his own food. The spicy taco combo. Ten seconds later, he stepped back, receipt in hand, and gave Alan a look that said: See? It's not that hard.
They grabbed their cups, filled them at the soda fountain, and sat by the window. Outside, the parking lot shimmered under the afternoon heat. Charlie stirred his straw through the ice, staring through the glass.
Alan popped the lid off his cup and dumped in three lemon slices from the condiment counter, because of course he did.
Charlie didn't say anything at first. Just stared at the skyline. Then:
"She's parked out front. You saw that, right?"
Alan nodded. "Yeah. Mom."
Charlie took a sip of soda and looked away like the name alone gave him heartburn.
"Berta let her in."
"She probably bribed her with pie or blackmail. Probably, money."
Charlie leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a second. "You realize what happens if we go back?"
Alan nodded slowly. "She critiques the house, the fridge, our choices, then drops some passive-aggressive advice wrapped in a smile, you disappointment and me pre-matured born, and finally leaves a trail of perfume strong enough to kill a bird."
Charlie opened one eye. "She's like a heat-seeking missile for unresolved trauma."
There was a moment of pause.
"Think she'll still be there when we get back?" Alan asked after a few minutes.
Charlie didn't look up from his tray. "Depends. Berta might've tranquilized her by now."
Alan snorted. "That'd be... humane."
[A few minutes later...]
The food arrived with a soft plastic thud, greasy paper bags, two trays, and a faint smell of spicy sauce wafting through the air. Charlie unwrapped his taco slowly, while Alan popped the lid off his drink again and stirred in ice like he was brewing witchcraft.
They ate in silence for a few minutes. Alan munched loudly. Charlie chewed like he was punishing the food for being in front of him.
Then the bell above the door chimed.
Charlie didn't look up at first. Not until he caught a flash of familiar black hair in the reflection of the napkin dispenser. His chewing slowed. His fingers froze on the paper wrapper. He glanced up just enough to confirm it.
Rose.
Wearing black jeans, a loose beige sweater, and hair in a low ponytail. No red lips, no dramatic coat, no stalker-level intensity. Just... casual. Like she'd walked off a magazine page labeled "Relaxed and Dangerous."
She walked up to the counter and placed an order like she wasn't the biggest hurricane in his personal forecast. Her voice was quiet, polite. No flirtation, no chaos. Just a woman ordering food.
Charlie ducked his head slightly and shifted in his seat.
Alan followed his gaze. "No. Rose?"
Charlie didn't answer.
Alan blinked at him. "No. You've gotta be kidding me. Here?"
"Shhh," Charlie hissed.
Alan leaned in. "You think she followed us?"
"I don't know."
"Well, what are the odds she just walks into the same Taco Bell we're hiding in while Mom is in our driveway like a landmine?"
"Low."
Alan stared. "Charlie. Is she holding a taser? Do you see any syringes or super glues?"
Charlie didn't look. "No. But this is Rose we're talking about. She doesn't need weapons. She is the weapon."
Rose turned while her order was still being processed and scanned the restaurant. Charlie kept his head down, chewing quietly and pretending to study the ingredients in his tortilla as if it were hiding secrets.
Then her eyes landed on him.
There was a moment of connection. Charlie felt it... the flicker of their contact. But nothing happened. She didn't smile, didn't wave, and didn't even raise an eyebrow. She simply... looked.
Then she turned away and sat at a table near the window, pulling out her phone as if this were just another stop on a regular Tuesday. Charlie watched her for a few seconds.
Alan, still chewing, finally asked, "She didn't come over."
Charlie nodded slowly. "Yeah."
"That's new."
Charlie sipped his drink. "Yeah."
Alan leaned back in the booth. "So what now?"
"I don't know."
And that was the part that unsettled Charlie more than anything else. He didn't know what to think. Rose had mentioned not interfering with his life anymore, but this was Rose we were talking about.
Rose not reacting? Not acknowledging him? Not pulling a twisted metaphor about fate and tacos out of nowhere? That wasn't like her.
And maybe that made her even more dangerous. Or perhaps it made the situation worse, or maybe she really had moved on.
Charlie glanced at her again. She was scrolling through her phone, typing something. She wasn't watching him.
It should have been a relief.
But it wasn't.
Alan kept watching Rose like she might suddenly leap onto the counter and start reciting poetry about Charlie's chest hair. When she didn't, he turned back, eyes narrowed.
"You going to talk to her?"
Charlie didn't answer right away. He just picked up his taco and bit into it like it had wronged him.
Alan waited.
"Charlie."
"No," Charlie said flatly.
"Why not?"
"Because I'm not insane enough to axe my own legs and then ask someone else to drive me to the hospital."
Alan blinked. "What?"
Charlie wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Talking to her is like asking a volcano how it feels. Sure, it looks calm for now, but one wrong sentence and you're halfway into Pompeii with no pants."
Alan shifted in his seat. "But she saw you. She looked right at you."
Charlie nodded. "Yep. And then she looked away. Which means she's either fine, or she's planning to mail me a box of scorpions. I'm not flipping that coin."
"So, what now?" Alan gestured at their trays.
Charlie stood, grabbing his tacos, drink, and paper bag. "Now, we eat in the car. Far from potential landmines and exes with photographic memory and a high tolerance for chloroform."
Alan sighed, picking up his tray and trailing behind him. "I don't know. She seemed… normal."
Charlie didn't even glance back. "That's what they always say. Right before they find their cat in the oven and their name carved into a melon."
As they stepped outside into the thick afternoon air, Charlie glanced once over his shoulder, just long enough to see Rose still sitting there, back to the window now, her phone still in her hand.
She didn't turn around.
Charlie didn't stop.
And they kept walking.
Back to the car. Back to safety.
...
[After Charlie and Alan Leave]
Rose sat alone by the window, her tray mostly untouched. The condensation on her drink pooled slowly around the base of the cup. One of her fries had wilted in the corner of its sleeve. She didn't seem to notice.
She was humming. Barely audible. Just under her breath.
"She laughs like trouble in a Sunday dress… hair up high, heart a holy mess…"
A slow, raw melody.
It was Charlie's song.
"Midnight Kind of Love."
She hadn't planned it. The tune had just crept in, subtle as breath, soft as memory. The kind of song that doesn't let go once it's heard. Her fingers tapped it out gently against the table, the rhythm easy, familiar. Her lips moved with the words, unspoken but still present, like they were living just beneath the surface.
How did she get the song?
She kinda bought the Firelight studio after finding out that Charlie is trying to get a break. She thought she'd lend a hand and help out from the shadows, like a little angel.
She glanced toward the door they'd exited a few minutes ago.
Her smile was small.
Lonely.
Not bitter or calculating.
Just... distant.
Like someone watching a dream from the outside of a locked window.
She knew he saw her. She'd felt it the second their eyes met. The hesitation in his body. The flicker of memory in his stare. She saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his hand paused above the straw.
She didn't move. Didn't wave. Didn't go to him.
She meant what she said: she wouldn't interfere anymore.
And she wouldn't, for now. But there's always a chance that Lisa will leave him, and that's the point she'd jump back into his life again.
Now, she sat there humming it like a lullaby, letting it fill the spaces she didn't show anyone.
The lines stuck with her more than she wanted. Especially the quiet ones.
"It doesn't shout, it doesn't shove... it just shows up and calls your bluff…"
After a while...
Rose stood up after finishing her meal, picked up her cardboard tray, and dumped it neatly in the trash.
As she pushed open the door and stepped into the bright afternoon light, she didn't look back.
But in her mind, she was still humming the chorus. Still hearing his voice.
Still wondering what it would have sounded like if he'd sung it to her.
"…Just me and her… and this midnight kind of love."
...
[5:04 PM – Charlie's House – Living Room]
Charlie and Alan walked in, keys jangling as the front door clicked shut behind them. The AC was on, the curtains slightly drawn, and the unmistakable sound of bodies slamming into each other echoed from the TV, Berta's favorite low-rent wrestling channel.
She was sprawled out on the living room couch in her usual faded tee and sweats, a big bowl of popcorn balanced dangerously on her belly. She didn't look up when they walked in.
But the moment the door clicked, she paused the TV. Mid-slam. Mid-yell. The silence was sharp.
Charlie froze, instinctively taking half a step back. Alan blinked like a man realizing he just walked into the wrong courtroom.
Berta didn't say anything for a beat. "Do I look like a maid to you?"
Charlie gave her a cautious glance. "I mean, that depends on the day."
She slowly turned her head toward them.
"Wrong answer, Harper."
Alan whispered, "Oh no."
Berta sat up, grabbed a handful of popcorn, and flung it at Alan. It hit his shirt and stuck to the collar.
"Where the hell were you two?" she demanded. "Because while you were off getting whatever sad excuse for a nervous breakdown you were working through, guess who decided this house is her new damn office-slash-brothel?"
Charlie sighed and dropped his keys into the bowl by the door. "Let me guess. Mom."
Berta stood now, popping her back with a loud crack. She grabbed the remote and pointed it like a weapon.
"She came in with her real estate smile, her overpriced perfume, and four guys in suits calling her 'darling' and 'champagne with legs.' Said they were buyers who came to look at the house next door. Said she needed 'a tasteful space' to 'close the deal.'"
Alan winced. "Oh no…"
"Oh yes," Berta said. "She used your room, Alan."
Alan turned to Charlie, eyes wide. "My room?"
Charlie nodded slowly. "You live rent-free. This is on you."
Berta kept going.
"She poured them wine. Played classical music. Smoked one of your Cuban cigars. And let's be real, I'm pretty sure she banged all four of them."
Alan raised an eyebrow. "All four?"
"Wow! Wow! Wow! I don't need any details on that. That's gross," Charlie said as he walked over to the fridge to get some water.
Berta didn't flinch. "I'm not speculating. I saw the second guy come out sweating and mumbling something about refinancing his soul."
Alan turned pale. "In my bed?"
"On your mattress, in your chair, and definitely on the spare desk you use for your foot cream."
Alan actually gagged. "Please tell me she cleaned up."
"She said," Berta mimicked, pitching her voice into an overly prim tone, "'I'm not a cleaning lady, darling. I'm a negotiator of square footage and orgasms.' Then she got into her car and drove off like she didn't just desecrate a small portion of this house."
Charlie dragged a hand down his face. "Jesus, stop it."
Berta gave him a hard look. "Charlie, I ain't cleaning any of that shit."
Alan groaned. "What if there's, like… residue?"
Charlie stood. "Don't say residue. Not in this house."
Berta crossed her arms. "So here's the deal: I'm off-duty tonight. I'm not scrubbing your mother's real estate fantasies off the furniture. If you want that room sanitized, get gloves, get bleach, and maybe get a priest."
'Fuck that bitch,' Charlie sighed as he reached his pocket and pulled out his usual cash wad. He pulled out two $100 bills and gave them to Berta. She still gave him that look. "Ok. Fine." He pulled out another hundred and gave her.
"Now, you are talking my language," Berta said with a smile.
"Next time, don't let her enter my house. No matter how grave it is or even if she's dying," Charlie walked up the stairs grumbling on about his ruined day. "That bitch is gonna pay."
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