It hadn't.
The silence afterward had been deafening.
Still, he pushed forward. Love could grow, people said. Desire could be learned. History was full of marriages built on duty that blossomed into affection. He told himself that often. Rehearsed it. They could learn to be more. They could learn to be a couple.
Or they could learn to tolerate each other beautifully.
As the car came to a stop, Charles opened the door and stepped out. He turned to his parents.
"Go on ahead," he said. "I just need a moment. Clear my head."
His mother squeezed his arm before following her husband toward the front doors.
He walked around the side of the house. There, half-hidden beneath a tree, sat a bench.
He sank onto it heavily. His shoulders slumped.
"Get it together," he muttered under his breath. "You're not a child."
He inhaled slowly, gathering strength, gathering resolve, gathering the will to walk back inside.
Forever waited inside.
