100:A Walk in the Woods

October 17

Charlie threw her hairbrush into the sink with a lusty, “God...dammit!”

Plastic bounced against the marble vanity of The Clement Hotel’s bathroom before rolling into the sink with a clatter.  The room was the same as their last trip to Stanford, and the shower behind her the very one Jon tried to stage romantic sex - until she told him nice was overrated. They still hadn’t gotten around to having that slow and sweet kind of sex, but she had no complaints about their love life.

What she did have a complaint about was her usually effortless ponytail that wouldn’t go together today for some reason.  Too high, too low, too tight, too loose… After five attempts her patience was frayed.

“Problem?”

Eyes flicking up at the quiet question, she found Jon in the mirror a beat before brawny arms slid around her waist.  His chin tucked into her shoulder as their gazes met in the glass, and she saw the question still lingering on his face.

“My hair isn’t cooperating,” Charlie grumbled, instinctively leaning back against the familiar black t-shirt and jeans-clad frame of her boyfriend.  He looked great in black, but she’d really like to see him wear color a little more often. “I got toothpaste on my t-shirt, and my ass looks huge in these pants.”

“Your hair is perfect.  Nobody gives a shit about the toothpaste and…”  His palms slid along the stretchy gray fabric that clung unforgivingly to her derriere.  “I love your ass almost as much as I love you.”

“Jesus.  You must really be concerned about my mental health if you’re throwing around the romantic shit.”

It simultaneously warmed and calmed her, though.  Jon had said the words a few times now, but she’d quickly discovered that he wasn’t the type to offer it at the end of each phone call or every time he walked out the door.  When those three words crossed his lips, there was meaning behind them.  Always.

Up until now.  Now, she presumed that he was simply trying to soothe frazzled nerves before she saw the boys.

Charlie had considered driving up to San Francisco and visiting the wharf with them, but had ultimately decided if her sons wanted to lash out that it was better that they had the freedom to do so.  So she'd opted for a hike in the California redwoods forest.  Ancient trees were much less judgmental than the average tourist population.

“Not romantic,” the man in the mirror corrected.  “Just strategically placed truth.  How long before you leave?”

“Fifteen minutes, maybe.”

“Good.  I’ve got something to show you.”

One hand skated down Charlie’s forearm to tangle his fingers with hers, and Jon used the grip to pull her along to the suite’s living room.  She immediately noticed his guitar lying on the couch, although she couldn’t recall having heard him playing this morning.  He’d been plunking around after they arrived last night, supposedly trying to get something off his mind and onto paper, but it wasn’t something he had shared with her.

“Sit.”  The command was issued gently, and Charlie mindlessly obeyed.  Her backside dropped into the indicated armchair while he claimed the center of the sofa and pulled the scuffed black guitar into his lap.

“You’re gonna sing me a calming lullaby?”

“No, smartass.  You asked me to write you a song and I did.  Kinda.”

“How do you kinda write a song?”

Brilliant blue eyes rolled back in his head and the hand holding the guitar’s neck flipped her the bird.  “I kinda wrote it for you, kinda for me.  We’re bothing doing some moving on, so…  Anyway, the first verse is a bunch of flowery symbolism.  This one is yours, along with the chorus.”

Rather than strumming a delicate melody that would suit "flowery symbolism", Jon scrubbed them vigorously.  Whatever he'd decided was for her had an upbeat tempo, and he preferred to look toward the window rather than at Charlie while he sang.

“I set my sails over wheat fields

Rode waves of amber, let a new sun shine on my face

I dropped the sword, put down my shield

I left your scars for the stars, guiding my way

I traded hurting for healing

I must admit that I was reeling

Now I'm feeling just fine

Traded nightmares for dream-ing

Go tell your shadows that IIII… got out aliive

I ain't living with the ghost

No future living in the past

I've seen what hurt has done to hope

I found the tree I cut the rope

Tomorrow wasn't built to last

I ain't living with the ghost

How can I scream, I'm scared to breathe

I wrote each word, you gave the toast

But we were fire and gasoline

I ain't living with the ghost”

The end was abrupt and brought his eyes back to hers.  It wasn’t a ballad by any stretch of the imagination, which was good, because Charlie was too emotionally fraught right now.  Even as an upbeat song, it affected her emotionally.  A ballad would have her blubbering instead of wiping away only a handful of tears.

“After today, there are no more ghosts, Counselor.  You’ll have slain them all.”

With a watery smile, she stood and sniffled, “Put down the guitar and hold me.”

He did so with a grin, rising to fold Charlie into his chest and squeeze the breath from her.  She clutched at his back and absorbed both the warmth and strength he emitted, grateful for the weird circumstances that brought them to this point.

“For every argumentative word that comes out of my mouth, I love you twice that much, Jon Bongiovi.  Thank you for loving me.”

Relaxing his grip, he leaned back and peered at her with one eyebrow arched high.  “Did you just quote my own lyrics to me?”

“I might’ve,” she laughed, bussing his lips with a kiss.  “You got a problem with that?”

“Nah.  Unlike some people, I appreciate the universal applicability of my songs to everyday life.”

Playfully pushing him away, her head shook with laughing disbelief.  Damn him for being cute.  “I’m leaving now, before you give yourself an award of some kind.”

“Hey.”  First, determined fingers locked around her wrist, and then solemn blue irises locked her gaze.  “I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks.”  Laying a soft palm against his cheek, she realized aloud, “So am I.”

😊 😊 😊 😊 😊

“It’s beautiful out here,” Charlie enthused, pausing with hands on hips to tip her head back to the sky.  Even so, she still couldn’t see tops of the giant redwoods.  “So serene and…”

“Not Brooklyn,” Noah noted dryly, coming up beside her.  “No taxis, no noise.”

Throwing a lopsided smile at him, she asked her eldest, “Getting a little homesick?”

“Sometimes.  There’s no good pizza out here.”

She rubbed an affectionate hand over his back and promised, “Uncle Dom will make all the pizza you want over Thanksgiving break.”

The day was a pleasant one so far, even with her underlying sense of foreboding.  Her boys were comfortingly familiar, bickering at each other and talking a mile a minute about college life, and it made Charlie realize how much she missed having them at home.  Maybe it was because of all this therapy and getting in touch with her inner feelings, but she’d compartmentalized their absence as completely as Joey’s death and Owen’s… actions.

Actions was the best word she could come up with, because she sure as hell wasn't going to label it what Sue, her therapist, did.

Upon finding out the vaguest details about Owen’s threats, Sue had gently labeled her an abuse victim, but that title didn’t work for Charlie.  She was too strong to be abused, and only did what was necessary to protect her boys.  That justification worked in her mind, butSue had only given her a sympathetic smile and remarked that the human mind justified whatever it had to in order to survive.

Charlie still couldn’t paint that picture about herself, but was starting to slowly see how his actions might be considered as abuse by some people.  She just thought he was an ass.

“Caleb!  Wait up!”  Her cross-country running son had continued on ahead when she and Noah stopped, putting him a good hundred feet down the trail from them.

“Slackers!” he called back with a laugh, but did as she asked.  Climbing on top of a nearby picnic table, he plunked his lanky frame down to wait.

“He’s such a putz.”

“Maybe so, but he’s still your brother and you're required to love him.”  Sliding an arm around his waist, she added, “Your mother, too, for that matter.”

Brown eyes so much like Charlie’s own peered narrowly down at her as they approached Caleb, who was sprawled on his back and picking apart a dead leaf.

“Yeah, but you’re not a putz.  Is there some other reason I wouldn’t love my mother?”

That was her cue.  It was time.

“Maybe.”  Pushing Caleb’s thighs until he twirled into a seated position on the tabletop and put his feet on the bench, Charlie climbed up next to him and used her hip to issue a light bump.  He took the hint to scoot over, and she did the same, patting the space on her right.  “Come sit with us.  I have some things to tell you guys.”

“Oh, Jesus,” the boy sighed even as he lumbered onto the picnic table and   “I was afraid of this.  There was no way you came across country just to spend the day.  Who’s dead?”

She patted his thigh with a tight laugh, assuring them both, “Nobody’s dead or dying, so get that out of your head.”

Caleb’s long arm stretched around Charlie to smack his brother in the back of the head and knock his baseball cap to the ground.  “Moron.”

“Douchemonger.”

“Okay, two you.  Can it with the insults,” she ordered testily as Noah swept down to get his hat and put it on as his butt once again hit the table.  This was hard enough without having to play referee, too.  “I need your undivided attention.”

Charlie knew there were three critical bullet points to get through – the past, the divorce and Jon.  While logic easily dictated that Jon would be the last subject to bring up, she’d been struggling with which of the others to lead with.  Did she tell them about the divorce and supplement that with details why it had taken so long?  Or lead gradually into it by going chronologically? 

Taking a deep breath, she started with the simplest basic truth.  “I love both of you unconditionally and without limit, and I have since the very beginning.  It’s more important to me that you know that than anything else.  Do you?  Do you know that, without question, I’d slay dragons for you with my last dying breath?”

“Jeez, Mom.  And I thought Noah was being the drama queen.”

“Dramatic or not, I still want an answer,” she told her youngest, pushing hair that could use a cut back from his forehead.

“It’s a stupid question,” her eldest informed her with an air of impatient contempt.  “Of course we do.”

“Good.  I’m glad.” 

God.  Could she do this?  Could she really do this?

Picking up one son’s hand in each of hers, she squeezed them hard because Charlie had no choice but to do this.