Beautiful Days by Anna Godbersen Page B

angry and so light that she almost thought she might break free of the earth and go swinging up toward the pretty lights in the sky. It was not until she reached the top of the Beaumonts’ big steps that she realized she had no idea where she was going and stopped. Very slowly, she turned around, panting, her clothes and hair askew, and looked back toward the water, wishing she were anywhere in the world but here.
    Charlie had already reached the base of the steps and was standing still with his brown eyes on her. A moment ago she would have liked to yell all manner of invective at him, but now she found she could not remember exactly what it was she had wanted to say. She stared at him and narrowed her eyes and tried to conjure her anger—but he simply didn’t seem like the picture of someone who had just done her wrong. For one thing, he was holding her shoes sweetly and carefully against his chest and smiling in a goofy way, his light hair greased back from his forehead, his shoulders broad under his white shirt. Behind him there were colorful eruptions high in the sky, but they seemed more distant and paler now.
    â€œGet me out of here,” she said crossly as she began to descend the steps in his direction.
    â€œHere?”
    â€œYes, you big oaf, here.”
    â€œI’ll take you—” A hiccup interrupted Charlie’s sentence.
    â€œYou’ll take me—where?”
    â€œI’ll take you—”
    There was another hiccup and Astrid—who found hiccups appalling, especially in men, but was nonetheless becoming less and less inclined to linger at the Beaumonts’—grabbed for his hand and pulled him in the direction of the driveway.
    â€œYou’ll take me home? Indeed you will. But not in a car. Not the way you’re slurring. We’ll just have to walk.”
    Charlie agreed affably, throwing his arm around her and humming a few bars of “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Astrid, who had selected her shoes more for the flattering way they revealed her ankles and exaggerated her height than for walking, was less ebullient. The gravel drive cut against the tender soles of her feet. The humming did not make her happy, either, and she found that being face-to-face with Charlie only led her to reimagine the scene of him leaping off Gracie Northrup, and how soon after that his proposal had come, and what a crummy thing a proposal without a ring was. But those kinds of thoughts caused her to furrow her brow, which could only result in permanent lines, which were also no good. So she was forced to hum along, ensconced in Charlie’s embrace, as they shuffled past the big stone gates and out onto Plum Tree Lane.
    As they walked—somewhat lurchingly and not at all fast—a few stars emerged in the darkening cloak of purple above them. The air was fragrant and quiet, and there were no silly girls trying to get attention with their antics. By the time they reached Dogwood, Astrid had almost forgotten what it was that had made her run from the Beaumonts’ party in such a hurry. As they moved up the hill between the twin rows of lindens, she extracted herself from Charlie’s heavy embrace. She walked ahead of him for a few minutes, listening to his feet crunch against the grass, and instead of climbing the stone steps to the entryway, she continued on into the shadow of the house. There she paused, leaning her shoulders against the cool bricks of the south wall, trying to see if she had ever loved him.
    As she stared at him, his eyes grew large—there was something murky and different behind them—and then, to her utter shock, he lowered himself onto one knee.
    Her first thought was that he might ruin his silly suit and what a blessing that would be. But then she realized he was going to give her something, and she experienced a lovely swelling of the heart.
    â€œOh, Charlie,” she said faintly as he took her hands in his.
    The very act of