Page 75 of Face Off

“Why did you keep learning Spanish?”

Charm’s fingers stilled against her glass. She looked at me before glancing toward the plate in front of her.

“At first, it made me feel connected to you,” she admitted. “Everything had ended, and I still had the notes you wrote, the dictionary, and about a million memories I didn’t want to lose. I could hear your voice correcting my pronunciation whenever I practiced.”

The answer reached deeper than anything tonight had permission to touch.

“Eventually, it became mine,” she continued. “I love the language. It opens more of the world. I can help customers who aren’t comfortable speaking English, understand Bad Bunny songs without looking up translations, and eavesdrop when couples fight in restaurants.”

A laugh escaped me. “It does have its benefits.”

“I heard an entire argument in a coffee shop last month about a man liking his ex-girlfriend’s thirst traps.”

“Who won?”

“The ex-girlfriend. Apparently, she looked incredible.”

“Reasonable verdict.”

“I thought so.” Charm ran her fingertip through the condensation on her water glass. “Your mom always told you that speaking two languages would open more doors.”

My hand tightened around the whiskey. My mother’s old dictionary belonged to Charm now. I remembered laying it between us at her apartment and guiding her through words while she laughed at my impatience and deliberately exaggerated every mistake.

“I recall telling you that.”

“You told me she wanted you to know both languages.”

“She said it every time I complained about studying.”

“She was right.”

“She usually was.”

Charm’s fingers brushed mine beside the silverware. The contact could’ve been accidental, though neither of us moved away.

“Thank you for the books,” she said.

I turned toward her, already knowing which ones she meant. “Briggs gave them to you?”

She nodded. “After I left treatment. He brought the antique velvet-bound copy of Wuthering Heights first, then Lowell, Dickinson, Austen, the journal with the CH on it, and the French pen.”

“The same kind you always stole from me.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t give them to you myself.” The explanation scraped across my throat as I remembered unpacking every gift inside the master suite I’d reserved for us, then hiding them because the weekend they belonged to had disappeared. “I still wanted you to have them.”

“I read every book.”

“Which one first?”

“Wuthering Heights.”

“Predictable.”

“You bought me an expensive copy of your favorite novel. You knew what you were doing.”

“I wanted you to stop threatening to steal mine.”