Molly
Charles is pacing.
Not the casual kind where someone walks a few circles and calls it thinking. This is full predator pacing. Back and forth across the living room, fingers raking through his hair, jaw tight, hand pressing against his face. He has been like this since we got back from the fun fare.
Since he ran off to hunt down the mysterious restroom lady.
I’m sitting on the couch watching him, arms crossed, confusion slowly turning into irritation. After he stormed off earlier, I followed him, completely lost, only for us to reach the restroom and find nothing. No woman. No explanation. Just Charles vibrating with barely contained fury.
And now this.
“Are you going to keep walking holes into the floor,” I ask lightly, “or are you planning to tell me what the hell is going on
