17. Sienna
SEVENTEEN
Sienna
I lost you to the lies he told
8:52 AM
I sit on the couch, staring at the closed door as if Callum might walk back through it. My hands are still curled around my mug, the coffee lukewarm by now, but I can’t bring myself to move.
His words replay in my head on a loop: " I ’ m not giving up, Sienna. Not this time."
I hate how much I want to believe him. I hate how badly I want to trust that this time will be different, that he won’t disappear the second something, or someone, shiny lures him away. But the truth is, I don’t know if I can.
A knock at the door pulls me out of my spiral. I blink, setting the mug down as I stand and I glance at the Ring app on my phone. Emma texted last night that she would swing by to pick up the watercolor set I borrowed for Ollie’s school project, and I told her I’d be home all morning.
I certainly didn't expect her during the school day.
When I open the door, she’s standing there with her coat buttoned up tight and a coffee an empty cup in one hand. "Morning," she says, stepping inside before I can offer. "You’ve got the heat on too high. I nearly melted just walking through the door."
"Good morning to you, too," I say, shutting the door behind her. "Why aren't you at school."
"Conference day," she says, dropping her bag on the floor and unbuttoning her coat. "I’m technically working, but I needed a break from talking to parents about why little Timmy refuses to draw anything other than stick figures and sunshines with eyes and a smile."
I laugh despite myself, motioning toward the kitchen. "Coffee’s on if you need it."
"Thanks, but I’m good. Already finished my cup and I'm jittery," she says, setting her cup on the counter. Her gaze flicks to me, and her expression softens. "Okay, you look upset. Is everything okay? Are you still going down rabbit holes about Finley James?"
I blink, caught off guard. "I'm fine."
Emma raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms. "Don’t ‘I'm fine’ me. You’ve got that face. I've known you almost a decade. You’ve had a lot of shit going on lately, Si. It’s okay not to be fine.”
”You’re right. I’m not really fine," I admit, stepping aside to let her in. "I'm a stage four mess if I'm being completely honest."
She shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the back of a chair before flopping onto the couch like she owns the place. "Is it still the Callum-Finley thing, or something else?"
"Callum was here," I say, sitting beside her. "You actually just missed him. I'm surprised y'all didn't bump into each other on the sidewalk."
Emma’s brows shoot up. "Oh. Okay. I didn’t expect you to say that. So, how did it go?"
"We talked." I sigh, running a hand through my hair. "He said he wants to figure things out, that he’s not giving up. But then I brought up Finley, and it went nowhere."
I can see Emma’s brow furrow as she processes that, and I brace myself for her reaction. I’d told her everything a few days ago. I texted her a few of the articles and the photos of Callum and Finley. I told her the way it made my stomach drop and how it felt like a punch to the gut to see him with her, even though deep down, I knew I had no claim to him. Not anymore.
I probably never did.
Like the good friend she is, she was incensed right along with me. But, in the way only Emma can do it without it feeling like a slap in the face, she reminded me that I have no say in what he does or who he sees. It’s not like we are dating or are exclusive.
"So, that's good, right? That you talked, I mean,” she asks, her voice softening. “I’m assuming they aren’t a couple anymore, right, if he is trying to hook up with you?”
”They aren’t a couple. But, still, I don’t know." I lean back, closing my eyes for a moment. "He explained everything. He said the stuff with Finley is all PR, that there’s nothing between them. And part of me believes him, but... what if he’s just saying what I want to hear?"
Emma snorts. "Callum doesn’t strike me as the kind of guy who says what people want to hear. If anything, he says the opposite."
I let out a small laugh, despite myself. "Fair point."
"So what’s the real issue?" she asks, turning to face me fully. "Because it sounds like he told you the truth."
I bite my lip, hesitating. "It’s just... if we do this, if I let myself trust him again, what happens when he leaves? He lives in Nashville. My life is here. Ollie’s life is here. How does that even work?"
Emma leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "Okay, first of all, you’re jumping way ahead. Nobody’s talking about moving or making huge decisions right now."
"But—"
"But nothing," she cuts me off. "Sienna, you’re trying to figure out the entire future before you’ve even figured out the present. He’s telling you he wants to try, and from the sound of it, you want that, too. So why not take it slow right now? You may not even want him like that anymore. You guys need to get to know each other again, first."
I frown, my arms crossing over my chest. "And Ollie?"
"What about him?" she asks. "You don’t have to involve him right now. See Callum when Ollie’s with Marcus or at school, or whatever. This doesn’t have to be an all-or-nothing thing. You’re focusing on the big picture when all you really need to do is decide if you’re willing to take the first step."
Her words are refreshing and I sit here, turning them over in my mind. "What if it doesn’t work?" I ask quietly.
Emma shrugs. "Then it doesn’t work. Happens every day. People date and then they move on. You won’t die, I promise."
"I know, but…"
"But nothing. If you want to know, you have to really try. And honestly, Sienna? It sounds like you’d regret not trying a hell of a lot more than you’d regret taking a chance."
I glance at her, and her words soften the edges of my doubt. She’s right. I’m too caught up in what-ifs and worst-case scenarios to see what’s right in front of me. I'm looking for red flags and reasons to push him away. What I should do is chill the fuck out and let the chips fall where they may.
I exhale slowly, leaning back against the couch. "When did you get so wise?"
Emma grins, nudging me with her elbow. "I’ve always been wise. You just don’t listen."
This time, my laugh is real. "Thanks, Em. I’ve always known you were wise."
"Anytime," she says, grabbing her coat as she stands. "Now, go figure your shit out. But don’t overthink it. Just take the next step. Stop being so dramatic."
1:41 PM
The apartment feels too quiet. I’m done with my design work, reorganized my files on my desktop twice and vacuumed the house. Now I’m eyeing the books on my shelf and considering organizing them alphabetically. Anything to keep my hands busy and my mind off him.
But no matter what I do, his words keep circling back, like a song I can’t stop humming. " I ’ m not giving up, Sienna. Not this time."
My phone buzzes on the counter, startling me. I glance at the screen, my stomach twisting when I see his name.
Hey. Like I said, I'm not giving up. I won't crowd you too much, but I want you to know I mean it. No pressure to respond.
I stare at the message, my thumb hovering over the screen. I don’t reply. Not yet.
A few minutes later, it buzzes again.
Okay, I’m lying. A little pressure. There’s this cocktail at the Mercer I’ve been dying to try—rosemary something-or-other. Any chance I can talk you into meeting me there? Neutral territory, no funny business. Just a drink.
He remembers my favorite herb to add to my cocktails is rosemary.
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding as I re-read the text. Neutral territory. No funny business. He’s trying, and he's charming.
Getting out of here tonight could be good for me. Marcus is picking Ollie up from school and he will be there tonight and tomorrow night. We’re still trying to iron out our schedule, but he asked for Monday and Tuesday this week and then the weekend.
A drink at a hotel bar feels safe enough. Low stakes. No expectations. An escape.
Still, my thumb hesitates over the keyboard. What am I doing? I should say no. Tell him I’m busy. But instead, I start typing.
What’s the drink called?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Rosemary Clover Club. Bartender swears by it. You’ll love it.
I’ll think about it.
Even as I send it, I know I’m going.
Mercer Hotel
6:16 PM
The posh, bespoke hotel is exactly what I expected—dark, sleek, and polished, with an air of understated exclusivity. The bar is small but elegant, with a marble counter and leather stools. The kind of place where every drink costs more than a decent lunch, but no one bats an eye.
Callum is already there, sitting at the end of the bar. He has one leg propped casually against the stool and his leather jacket draped over the back. He looks... good. Too good. Like he knows exactly how to blend in here but somehow still stand out.
He spots me the second I walk in and stands as I approach. "You came," he says, his lips curving into that familiar grin that makes my chest tighten.
"You’re lucky I was curious about this drink," I say, sliding onto the stool beside him. "I'm a sucker for rosemary."
"Curiosity’s good," he says, nodding to the bartender. "Two Rosemary Clover Clubs, please."
"You’re already ordering for me?" I ask, raising an eyebrow.
"Trust me," he says, his grin widening. "I already did a taste test and you can thank me later."
I let out a soft laugh, shaking my head. "We’ll see."
The drinks arrive and my mouth waters. They are a soft pink hue with a sprig of rosemary perched delicately on the rim. I lift the glass, studying it like it might give me an answer to why I’m here. Callum watches me, his grin easy, but there’s something behind it—like he’s waiting to see if I’ll bolt.
"Cheers," he says, holding up his glass.
I clink mine against his. "To what?"
"To curiosity," he says, his voice low and teasing. "And rosemary."
I roll my eyes, but the smile tugging at my lips betrays me. "And as they say in the furniture business, 'chairs!'"
"Oh, that's funny. I might have to steal that one. Chairs!"
The first sip surprises me—smooth, herbal, with just enough citrus to keep it from being too heavy. "Okay," I admit, setting the glass down. "It’s good."
"Better than good," he says, taking a sip of his own. "Told you."
"You’ve had one before," I accuse, narrowing my eyes at him.
He shrugs, the corner of his mouth twitching. "Maybe. Wanted to impress you. I knew rosemary would draw you out."
"Clever," I say, raising an eyebrow.
"Chairs," he says, grinning again. "Anyway, it worked. You’re here."
"Don’t push your luck," I warn, but there’s no heat in my voice. The truth is, it’s hard to stay guarded when he’s like this—easy, light, the Callum I remember.
My gaze shifts to his arm, where the bold letters of his tattoo peek out from under his rolled-up sleeve. "I love it," I say, nodding toward it. "Legend."
He glances down, smirking. "Working on it."
"That’s... bold," I say, leaning back. "Tell me the story again. I think I need to hear it."
He laughs. The baritone laugh is low and warm, and for a moment, I forget why I was ever mad at him. "Okay, but you’re not allowed to judge."
"I’m definitely judging," I say, smiling behind my glass.
He sets his drink down, leaning in slightly. "So, it was right after our first big gig in Nashville—this dive bar packed to the walls, people actually singing our songs back to us. It felt... huge. Like we’d made it. I was a little drunk, feeling invincible, and someone dared me to get a tattoo that night. I said no way, but then Luke goes, ‘What, you don’t think you’re gonna be a legend one day?’"
I laugh, shaking my head. "And that was all it took?"
"Pretty much," he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. "Didn’t hurt that the tattoo artist was giving us free drinks."
"It’s really unique," I say, tilting my head. "Though I can’t believe you got tattoos at all. You always swore you’d never get one."
"That was a long time ago," he says, his voice softer now.
I nod, the memory surfacing easily. "You said your dad’s sleeves made his failure as a musician stand out more. Like they were proof he thought he’d make it, and then he didn’t."
He exhales, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. Guess I’m finally relaxing that rule. Maybe it’s because... I don’t know, things feel different now. Like I’m not chasing it anymore. I’m just... doing it."
I study him for a moment, the weight of his words settling between us. "You’re making it," I say quietly. "I'm really happy for you. I know your dad is smiling down on you and proud, too.”
"Maybe," he says, his grin returning. "I’ve got another," he deflects. He's always wanted to change the subject when his dad comes up.
"Where?"
"Here." He gestures toward his waist, just above his hip, and for a second, my stomach flips at the memory of my hands there. "Geometric designs. They’re all connected—kind of like a puzzle. I got it a couple of years ago after we finished our first album. It’s about figuring out how the pieces fit. It's on the inside of our cover jacket."
I nod, intrigued. "Cool. I guess it will always be a part of who you are."
"Yeah, well," he says, shrugging. "It hurt like hell."
I laugh, shaking my head. "I still can’t believe it. The Callum I knew would’ve never sat for a tattoo, let alone two. They “suit you, though.
"The Sienna I knew didn’t have hair this long," he says, smirking. "Guess we both evolved somewhat."
I roll my eyes, brushing my fingers through my hair. "This threw me off, by the way. At the gala. You with short hair? Your ponytail was your trademark. It would be like Willy Nelson cutting his."
"You like it?" he asks, running a hand through it self-consciously. "It’s lighter. Easier to deal with."
"It suits you," I say, teasing. "But I’ll always have a soft spot for your eighties throwback, wannabe rockstar look."
He grins. "Funny. I was just thinking how we switched roles. I chopped mine off, and you grew yours out."
I laugh, and the sound feels good, easy. "Life is funny, isn't it?"
"Funny is one way to put it."